And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word. St. Matthew xxviii. 8.
To the snowdrop.
Thou first-born of the year’s delight,
Pride of the dewy glade,
In vernal green and virgin white,
Thy vestal robes, arrayed:
’Tis not because thy drooping form
Sinks graceful on its nest,
When chilly shades from gathering storm
Affright thy tender breast;
Nor for yon river islet wild
Beneath the willow spray,
Where, like the ringlets of a child,
Thou weav’st thy circle gay;
’Tis not for these I love thee dear —
Thy shy averted smiles
To Fancy bode a joyous year,
One of Life’s fairy isles.
They twinkle to the wintry moon,
And cheer th’ ungenial day,
And tell us, all will glisten soon
As green and bright as they.
Is there a heart that loves the spring,
Their witness can refuse?
Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring
From Heaven their Easter news:
When holy maids and matrons speak
Of Christ’s forsaken bed,
And voices, that forbid to seek
The hiving ’mid the dead,
And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart,
Thy Lord is ris’n indeed,
Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,
And to His presence speed;”
We smile in scorn: and yet we know
They early sought the tomb,
Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,
Lost in desponding gloom.
They who have sought, nor hope to find,
Wear not so bright a glance:
They, who have won their earthly mind,
Lees reverently advance.
But where in gentle spirits, fear
And joy so duly meet,
These sure have seen the angels near,
And kissed the Saviour’s feet.
Nor let the Pastor’s thankful eye
Their faltering tale disdain,
As on their lowly couch they lie,
Prisoners of want and pain.
O guide us, when our faithless hearts
From Thee would start aloof,
Where Patience her sweet skill imparts
Beneath some cottage roof:
Revive our dying fires, to burn
High as her anthems soar,
And of our scholars let us learn
Our own forgotten lore.
Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? Numbers xvi. 9.
First Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invoked in hour of need,
Thou count me for Thine own
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joy’st in miracles of love),
Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!
Upon Thine altar’s horn of gold
Help me to lay my trembling hold,
Though stained with Christian gore; —
The blood of souls by Thee redeemed,
But, while I roved or idly dreamed,
Lost to be found no more.