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To rule and feed the flock of Christ,

To fight, of faith, the strife, And to the host of God's Elect,

To break the Bread of Life.

Here rises, with the rising morn,

Their incense unto Thee, Their bold confession, Catholic,

And high doxology: Soul-melting litany is here,

And here—each holy feast,
Up to the altar, duly spread,

Ascends each stoled priest.
Then with the message of our King,

The herald stands on high :
How beautiful the feet of them

That on the mountain cry!
And then—as when the doors were shut,

With Jesus left alone,
The faithful sup with Christ—and He

In breaking bread is known.
The peace of God is on their heads;

And so they wend away,
To homes all cheerful with the light

Of love's inspiring ray:
And through the churchyard and the graves,

With kindly tears they fare,
Where every turf was decent laid,

And hallow'd by a prayer.
The dead in Christ—they rest in hope;

And o'er their sleep sublime,
The shadow of the steeple moves,
From morn to vesper

chime : On every mound, in solemn shade,

Its imaged cross doth lie, As

goes the sunlight to the west,
Or rides the moon on high.
I love the Church—the holy Church,

That o'er our life presides,
The birth, the bridal, and the grave,

And many an hour besides !

Be mine, through life, to live in her;

And, when the Lord shall call,
To die in her—the spouse of Christ,

The Mother of us all.

JEALOUSY.

By Sir E. BULWER LYTTON : contributed to one of the Annuals.

I HAVE thy love I know no fear

Of that divine possession ;
Yet draw more close, and thou shalt hear

A jealous heart's confession.

I nurse no pang lest fairer youth

Of loftier hopes should win thee;
There blows no wind to chill the truth,

Whose amaranth blooms within thee.

Unworthier thee if I could grow

(The love that lured thee perish'd), Thy woman heart could ne'er forego

The earliest dream it cherish'd.

I do not think that doubt and love

Are one- -whate'er they tell us ;
Yet-nay-lift not thy looks above-

A star can make me jealous.

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If thou art mine, all mine at last,

I covet so the treasure,
No glance that thou canst elsewhere cast,

But robs me of a pleasure.

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I am so much a miser grown,

That I could wish to hide thee,
Where never breath but mine alone

Could drink delight beside thee.

Then say not, with that soothing air,

I have no rival nigh thee;
The sunbeam lingering in thy hair-

The breeze that trembles by thee

The very herb beneath thy feet

The rose whose odours woo thee In all things, rivals he must meet,

Who would be all things to thee !

If sunlight from the dial be

But for one moment banish’d, Turn to the silenced plate and see

The hours themselves are vanish'd.

In aught that from me lures thine eyes,

My jealousy has trial ;
The lightest cloud across the skies

Has darkness for the dial.

THE PEARL WEARER.

By BARRY CORNWALL.

WIThin the midnight of her hair,
Half-bidden in its deepest deeps,
A single peerless, priceless pearl
(All filmy-eyed) for ever sleeps.
Without the diamond's sparkling eyes,
The ruby's blushes—there it lies,
Modest as the tender dawn,
When her purple veil's withdrawn,
The flower of gems, a lily, cold and pale!
Yet-what doth all avail ?
All its beauty, all its grace ?
All the honours of its place ?
He who pluck'd it from its bed
In the far blue Indian ocean,
Lieth, without life or motion,
In his earthly dwelling--dead !

Be mine, through life, to live in her;

And, when the Lord shall call,
To die in her--the spouse of Christ,

The Mother of us all.

JEALOUSY.

By Sir E. BULWER LYTTON : contributed to one of the A

I have thy love—I know no fear

Of that divine possession;
Yet draw more close, and thou shalt hear

A jealous heart's confession.

I nurse no pang lest fairer youth

Of loftier hopes should win thee;
There blows no wind to chill the truth,

Whose amaranth blooms within thee.

Unworthier thee if I could grow

(The love that lured thee perish’d), Thy woman heart could ne'er forego

The earliest dream it cherish'd.

I do not think that doubt and love

Are one-whate'er they tell us ;
Yet-nay-lift not thy looks above-

A star can make me jealous.

If thou art mine, all mine at last,

I covet so the treasure,
No glance that thou canst elsewhere

But robs me of a pleasure.

I am so much a miser grown,

That I could wish to hide thee,
Where never breath but mine alon.

Could drink delight beside thee.

MIDNIGHT.

All things are calm, and fair, and passive. Earth
Looks as if lulled upon an angel's Iap
Into a breathless, dewy sleep; so still

, That we can only say of things, they be. The lakelet now,

longer vexed with gusts, Replaces on her breast the pictured moon, Pearled round with stars. Sweet imaged scene of time To come, percbance, when this vain life o'erpast, Earth may some purer being's presence bear; Maybap e'en God may walk among his saints In eminence and brightness like yon moon, Mildly outbeaming all the beads of night Strung o'er night's proud, dark brow.

BAILEY.

A NIGHT SCENE.

Remember you the clear moonlight
That whitened all the eastern ridge,
When o'er the water dancing white
I stepp'd upon the old mill-bridge ? ?
I heard you whisper from above,
A lute-toned wbisper, I am here!
I murmur'd, Speak again, my love,
The stream is loud : I cannot hear!

I heard, as I have seem'd to hear
When all the under air was still,
The low voice of the glad new year
Call to the freshly-flower'd hill.
I heard, as I have often heard,
The nightingale in leafy woods
Call to its mate when nothing stirr'd
To left or right, but falling floods !

TENNYSON.

BEAUTIFUL EYES.

Oh! those persuasive yet denying eyes,
All eloquent with language of their own-
See Venus there, the fickle deities,
And pleasure seated on her azure throne.

LOCKE.

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