He sat by the dusty way-side, With weary, hopeless mien, On his furrowed brow the traces Of care and want were seen; With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head He asked the pa.s.sers-by for bread.

The palm-tree's feathery foliage Around him thickly grew, And the smiling sky above him Wore Syria's sun-bright hue; But dark alike to that helpless one Was murky midnight or noon-tide sun.

But voices breaking the silence Are heard, fast drawing nigh, And falls on his ear the clamor Of vast crowds moving by: "What is it?" he asks, with panting breath; They answer: "Jesus of Nazareth."

What a spell lay in that t.i.tle, Linked with such mem'ries high Of miracles of mercy, Wrought 'neath Judaea's sky!

Loud calls he, with pleading voice and brow, "Oh! Jesus, on me have mercy now!"

How often had he listened To wond'rous tales of love-- Of the Galilean's mercy, Of power from above, To none other given of mortal birth To heal the afflicted sons of earth.

With faith that never wavered Still louder rose his cry, Despite the stern rebuking Of many standing nigh, Who bade him stifle his grief or joy, Nor "the Master rudely thus annoy."

But, soon that voice imploring Struck on the Saviour's ear, He stopped, and to His followers He said "Go bring him here!"

And, turning towards him that G.o.d like brow, He asked the suppliant, "What wouldest thou?"

Though with awe and hope all trembling, Yet courage gaineth he, And imploringly he murmurs: "Oh Lord! I fain would see!"

The Saviour says in accents low: "Thy faith hath saved thee--be it so!"

Then on those darkened eye-b.a.l.l.s A wondrous radiance beamed, And they drank in the glorious beauty That through all nature gleamed; But the fairest sight they rested on Was the Saviour, David's royal Son.

O rapture past all telling!

The bliss that vision brought!

Could a whole life's praises thank _Him_ For the wonder He had wrought?

Yet is Jesus the same to-day as then, Bringing light and joy to the souls of men.

THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.

The place is fair and tranquil, Judaea's cloudless sky Smiles down on distant mountain, on glade and valley nigh, And odorous winds bring fragrance from palm-tops darkly green, And olive trees whose branches wave softly o'er the scene.

Whence comes the awe-struck feeling that fills the gazer's breast, The breath, quick-drawn and panting, the awe, the solemn rest?

What strange and holy magic seems earth and air to fill, That worldly thoughts and feelings are now all hushed and still?

Ah! here, one solemn evening, in ages long gone by, A mourner knelt and sorrowed beneath the starlit sky, And He whose drops of anguish bedewed the sacred sod Was Lord of earth and heaven, our Saviour and our G.o.d!

Hark to the mournful whispers from olive leaf and bough!

They fanned His aching temples, His damp and grief-struck brow; Hark! how the soft winds murmur with low and grieving tone!

They heard His words of anguish, they heard each sigh and moan.

Alone in deepest agony, while tired apostles slept; No one to share His vigil--weep with Him as He wept; Before Him, clearly rising, the Cross, the dying pain, And sins of hosts unnumbered whose souls He dies to gain.

O Garden of Gethsemane! the G.o.d-like lesson, then Left as a precious token to suff'ring, sorrowing men, Has breaking hearts oft strengthened, that else, so sharply tried, Had sunk beneath sin's burden and in despair had died.

O Garden of Gethsemane! "when pressed and sore afraid,"

May I in spirit enter beneath thine olive shade, And, great though be my anguish, still, like that G.o.d-like One, Submissive say: "Oh Father! Thy will, not mine, be done!"

MYSTICAL ROSE, PRAY FOR US!

O aptly named, Ill.u.s.trious One!

Thou art that flower fair That filled this vast and changeful world With mystic perfume rare-- Shedding on all the balmy breath Of countless virtues high, Rising like fragrant odours rich, To G.o.d's far, beauteous sky.

Mystical Rose! O aptly named!

For, as 'mid brightest flowers The lovely Rose unquestioned reigns The Queen of Nature's bowers, So 'mid the daughters fair of Eve Art thou the peerless One!

The chosen handmaid of the Lord!

The Mother of His Son!

Yes, He endowed thee with all gifts Which could thy beauty grace; And ne'er did sin, e'en for one hour, Thy spotless soul deface, For from the first thou had'st the power G.o.d's fav'ring love to win; It was His will that thou should'st be Conceived devoid of sin.

Oh, Mother dear, obtain for us That we from evil flee; Throughout this, fleeting life's career Mayst thou our model be!

Seek we to imitate the gifts That thy pure soul adorn-- Sweet flower of beauty and of grace!

Fair Rose without a thorn!

MATER CHRISTIANORUM, ORA PRO n.o.bIS!

In the hour of grief and sorrow, When my heart is full of care, Seeking sadly hope to borrow From heaven's promises and prayer; When around me roll the waters Of affliction's stormy sea, Mary, gentle Queen of Mercy, In that hour, oh! pray for me!

When life's pulses high are bounding With the tide of earthly joy, And when in mine ears are sounding Strains of mirth without alloy; When the whirl of giddy pleasure Leaves no thought or feeling free, And I slight my heavenly treasure, Watchful Mother, pray for me!

When the soft voice of Temptation Lures my listening soul to sin, And, with baleful fascination, Strives my vain, weak heart to win; With the combat faint and weary, If I call not then on thee-- In that time of peril dreary, Tender Mother, pray for me!

If, in some unguarded hour Of dark pa.s.sion or of pride, Evil thoughts, with serpent power To my inmost bosom glide-- Ah! while I from bonds unholy, Vainly seek myself to free-- Mary, pure and meek and lowly, Pray, oh! Mary, pray for me!

When with Heaven high communing In the solemn hour of prayer-- To its strains my soul attuning, I forget all worldly care; When earth's voices for a season My vex'd spirit have left free-- Still, dear Mother, near me hover!

Still, sweet Mary, pray for me!

And in that supremest hour, When life's end is drawing nigh-- When earth's scenes and pomps and power Fade before my tear-dimmed eye-- When I on the sh.o.r.e am lying Of eternity's wide sea-- Then, O Refuge of the dying, Tender Mother, pray for me!

THE MAGDALEN AT THE MADONNA'S SHRINE.

O Madonna, pure and holy, From sin's dark stain ever free, Refuge of the sinner lowly, I come--I come to thee!

Now with wreaths of sinful pleasure Yet my tresses twined among; From the dance's giddy measure, From the idle jest and song.