But only Luke is with him now: Alas! that e'en the martyr's cell, Heaven's very gate, should scope allow For the false world's seducing spell.

'Tis sad-but yet 'tis well, be sure, We on the sight should muse awhile, Nor deem our shelter all secure E'en in the Church's holiest aisle.

Vainly before the shrine he bends, Who knows not the true pilgrim's part: The martyr's cell no safety lends To him who wants the martyr's heart.

But if there be, who follows Paul As Paul his Lord, in life and death, Where'er an aching heart may call, Ready to speed and take no breath;

Whose joy is, to the wandering sheep To tell of the great Shepherd's love; To learn of mourners while they weep The music that makes mirth above;

Who makes the Saviour all his theme, The Gospel all his pride and praise- Approach: for thou canst feel the gleam That round the martyr's death-bed plays:

Thou hast an ear for angels' songs, A breath the gospel trump to fill, And taught by thee the Church prolongs Her hymns of high thanksgiving still.

Ah! dearest mother, since too oft The world yet wins some Demas frail E'en from thine arms, so kind and soft, May thy tried comforts never fail!

When faithless ones forsake thy wing, Be it vouchsafed thee still to see Thy true, fond nurslings closer cling, Cling closer to their Lord and thee.

St. Simon and St. Jude.

That ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints. _St. Jude_ 3.

SEEST thou, how tearful and alone, And drooping like a wounded dove, The Cross in sight, but Jesus gone, The widowed Church is fain to rove?

Who is at hand that loves the Lord?

Make haste, and take her home, and bring Thine household choir, in true accord Their soothing hymns for her to sing.

Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe The fragrance of that genial isle, There she may weave her funeral wreath, And to her own sad music smile.

The Spirit of the dying Son Is there, and fills the holy place With records sweet of duties done, Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace.

And as of old by two and two His herald saints the Saviour sent To soften hearts like morning dew, Where he to shine in mercy meant;

So evermore He deems His name Best honoured and his way prepared, When watching by his altar-flame He sees His servants duly paired.

He loves when age and youth are met, Fervent old age and youth serene, Their high and low in concord set For sacred song, Joy's golden mean.

He loves when some clear soaring mind Is drawn by mutual piety To simple souls and unrefined, Who in life's shadiest covert lie.

Or if perchance a saddened heart That once was gay and felt the spring, Cons slowly o'er its altered part, In sorrow and remorse to sing,

Thy gracious care will send that way Some spirit full of glee, yet taught To bear the sight of dull decay, And nurse it with all-pitying thought;

Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild As evening blackbird's full-toned lay, When the relenting sun has smiled Bright through a whole December day.

These are the tones to brace and cheer The lonely watcher of the fold, When nights are dark, and foeman near, When visions fade and hearts grow cold.

How timely then a comrade's song Comes floating on the mountain air, And bids thee yet be bold and strong- Fancy may die, but Faith is there.

All Saints' Day.

Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our G.o.d in their foreheads. _Revelation_ vii.

3.

WHY blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind, Now every leaf is brown and sere, And idly droops, to thee resigned, The fading chaplet of the year?

Yet wears the pure aerial sky Her summer veil, half drawn on high, Of silvery haze, and dark and still The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.

How quiet shows the woodland scene!

Each flower and tree, its duty done, Reposing in decay serene, Like weary men when age is won, Such calm old age as conscience pure And self-commanding hearts ensure, Waiting their summons to the sky, Content to live, but not afraid to die.

Sure if our eyes were purged to trace G.o.d's unseen armies hovering round, We should behold by angels' grace The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, Their downward sweep a moment stayed On ocean cove and forest glade, Till the last flower of autumn shed Her funeral odours on her dying bed.

So in Thine awful armoury, Lord, The lightnings of the judgment-day Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored, Till willing hearts wear quite away Their earthly stains; and spotless shine On every brow in light divine The Cross by angel hands impressed, The seal of glory won and pledge of promised

Little they dream, those haughty souls Whom empires own with bended knee, What lowly fate their own controls, Together linked by Heaven's decree;- As bloodhounds hush their baying wild To wanton with some fearless child, So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes, Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies.

Think ye the spires that glow so bright In front of yonder setting sun, Stand by their own unshaken might?

No-where th' upholding grace is won, We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell, But sure from many a hidden dell, From many a rural nook unthought of there, Rises for that proud world the saints' prevailing prayer.

On, Champions blest, in Jesus' name, Short be your strife, your triumph full, Till every heart have caught your flame, And, lightened of the world's misrule, Ye soar those elder saints to meet Gathered long since at Jesus' feet, No world of pa.s.sions to destroy, Your prayers and struggles o'er, your task all praise and joy.

Holy Communion.

O G.o.d of Mercy, G.o.d of Might, How should pale sinners bear the sight, If, as Thy power in surely here, Thine open glory should appear?

For now Thy people are allowed To scale the mount and pierce the cloud, And Faith may feed her eager view With wonders Sinai never knew.

Fresh from th' atoning sacrifice The world's Creator bleeding lies.

That man, His foe, by whom He bled, May take Him for his daily bread.

O agony of wavering thought When sinners first so near are brought!

"It is my Maker-dare I stay?

My Saviour-dare I turn away?"

Thus while the storm is high within 'Twixt love of Christ and fear of sin, Who can express the soothing charm, To feel Thy kind upholding arm,

My mother Church? and hear thee tell Of a world lost, yet loved so well, That He, by whom the angels live, His only Son for her would give?

And doubt we yet? Thou call'st again; A lower still, a sweeter strain; A voice from Mercy's inmost shrine, This very breath of Love divine.