THE CHILDREN OF THE LORD'S SUPPER. 101 Purified forth from the flames; in a word, mankind by Atonement Breaketh Atonement's bread, and drinketh Atonement's wine cup. But he who cometh up hither, unworthy, with hate in his bosom, Scoffing at men and at God, is guilty of Christ's blessed body, And the Redeemer's blood! To himself he eateth and drinketh Death and doom! And from this, preserve us, thou heavenly Father! Are ye ready, ye children, to eat of the bread of Atonement?" Thus with emotion he asked, and together answered the children Yes! with deep sobs interrupted. Then read he the due suppli cations, Read the Form of Communion, and in chimed the organ and anthem; O! Holy Lamb of God, who takest away our transgressions, Hear us! give us thy peace! have mercy, have mercy upon us! Th' old man, with trembling hand, and heavenly pearls on his eyelids, Filled now the chalice and paten, and dealt round the mystical symbols. O! then seemed it to me, as if God, with the broad eye of mid-day, Clearer looked in at the windows, and all the trees in the churchyard Bowed down their summits of green, and the grass on the graves 'gan to shiver. But in the children, (I noted it well; I knew it) there ran a Tremor of holy rapture along through their icy-cold members. Decked like an altar before them, there stood the green earth, and above it Heaven opened itself, as of old before Stephen; they saw there Radiant in glory the Father, and on his right hand the Redeemer. Under them hear they the clang of harpstrings, and angels from gold clouds Beckon to them like brothers, and fan with their pinions of purple. Closed was the Teacher's task, and with heaven in their hearts and their faces, Up rose the children all, and each bowed him, weeping full sorely, Downward to kiss that reverend hand, but all of them pressed he Moved to his bosom, and laid, with a prayer, his hands full of blessing, Now on the holy breast, and now on the innocent tresses. MISCELLANEOUS. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Something attempted, something done, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Thus at the flaming forge of life ENDYMION. THE rising moon has hid the stars; And silver white the river gleams, Had dropt her silver bow On such a tranquil night as this, Like Dian's kiss, unasked, unsought, It lifts the boughs, whose shadows deep, Are Life's oblivion, the soul's sleep, And kisses the closed eyes Of him, who slumbering lies. O, weary hearts! O, slumbering eyes! No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds, as if with unseen wings, An angel touched its quivering strings; And whispers, in its song, "Where hast thou stayed so long!" |