THE SAVIOUR IN THE THRONG OF BY JOHN STERLING. AMID the gay and noisy throng Around me fluttering, wheeling, shining, My ears are filled with shout and song; But yet my soul is still repining. In every face around I see Some heart-felt curse in silence working; Each eye reflects my sins on me, And shows me all within me lurking. 'Mid bounding joy and passion's glow, Where boils a secret gulf of madness. A quivering cheek, a faltering glance, I see a world of shipwreck reeling. And while I fain would pause and think, In vain I strive, in vain I shrink; My breast the hour's vague fiend possesses. THE SAVIOUR IN THE THRONG. 73 'Mid wreaths and gems,'mid masks and crowns, 'Mid brows austere, or smooth from sorrow, On all alike one ruin frowns, And bodes for all one fearful morrow. And 't is the worst despair to know, How many a heart is slowly breaking. But while my sad, bewildered view Among the false and loveless faces. Like yon blue sky, when first it shows The storm-tost ship how Heaven hath pity; Or some pure mountain breeze that blows Its healing o'er a plague-struck city. A voice not loud, like wind or wave, A look made low by conscious greatness, Where all is calm, and deep, and grave, With a full soul's mature sedateness. By Him subdued to thought and peace, And hearts high swollen devoutly ponder. By his mild glance and sober power And learns his spirit's pure elation. To thee, O God! a man redeemed, So, 'mid our stormy griefs and joys, And clear and deepen all emotion. SONNET. SACRED OFFERING. John, Chapter xi. "I AM the resurrection and the life, - To the cold grave where Lazarus is laid. LAZARUS AND MARY. 75 I see thy tears, and Mary asks thine aid, The aid is present. "That thou hearedst me, Father, I thank thee "; and thou criest aloud To Lazarus, "Come forth!" He lives, he breathes, The funeral garb is rent, the many wreaths Of death are torn away, and the pale shroud; Whilst wondering forms around the Saviour move, And own the presence of Almighty Love. LAZARUS AND MARY. TENNYSON." IN MEMORIAM." WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave, "Where wert thou, brother, those four days?" There lives no record of reply, Which, telling what it is to die, Had surely added praise to praise. From every house the neighbors met, The streets were filled with joyful sound; A solemn gladness even crowned The purple brows of Olivet. Behold a man raised up by Christ! He told it not; or something sealed HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, Then one deep love doth supersede All subtle thought, all curious fears, Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs? |