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The sailor tossed on stormy seas,

Though far his bark may roam;
Still hears a voice in every breeze,

That wakens thoughts of home:
He thinks upon his distant friends,
His wife, his humble cot;
And from his inmost heart ascends
The prayer-"Forget me not!"

The sculptor, painter, while they trace
On canvass or in stone,
Another's figure, form, or face,

Our motto's spirit own;

Each thus would like to leave behind
His semblance-and for what?

But that the thought which fills his mind
Is this "Forget me not!"

The poet, too, when borne along
In thought to distant time,
Pours forth his inmost soul in song,
Holds fast this hope sublime!
He would a glorious name bequeath,
Oblivion shall not blot,

And round that name his thoughts enwreath
The words "Forget me not!"

Our motto is in truth; the voice
Of nature in the heart;

For who from mortal life, by choice,
Forgotten would depart?

Nor is the wish by grace abhorred,
Or counted as a spot;

Even the language of our Lord
Is still-"Forget me not!"

Within the heart his spirit speaks
The words of truth divine,

And by its heavenly teaching seeks

To make that heart his shrine.

This is "the still small voice” which all

In city or in grot,

May hear and live; its gentle call
Is "Man, forget me not!"

HENRY HART MILMAN

RECEIVED his education at Oxford, and became Professor of Poetry in that University. He is now rector of St. Margaret's, Westminster, and is the author of Belshazzar, The Siege of Jerusalem, and other poems, which are formed upon classical models, and abound in passages of great truth and beauty.

A FUNERAL ANTHEM.

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown:

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and fear released,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er,
And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode;

Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,

Upon his Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,

Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail:

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou loved'st best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

THE NATIVITY.

THOU wast born of woman, Thou didst come,
O Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom,
Not in thy dread omnipotent array;

And not by thunders strewed,

Was thy tempestuous road;

Nor indignation burnt before Thee on thy way.

But Thee, a soft and naked child,

Thy mother, undefiled,

In the rude manger laid to rest,

From off her virgin breast.

The heavens were not commanded to prepare

A gorgeous canopy of golden air!

Nor stooped their lamps th' enthroned fires on high; A single silent star

Came wandering from afar,

Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky;

The Eastern Sages leading on,

As at a kingly throne,

To lay their gold and odours sweet

Before thy infant feet.

The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear
Bright harmony from every starry sphere;
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song
From all the cherub-choirs,

And seraphs' burning lyres,

Poured through the host of heaven the charmed clouds along ; One angel-troop the strain began.

Of all the race of man

By simple shepherds heard alone

That soft Hosanna's tone.

And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame

To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came;

Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes;
Nor didst Thou mount on high,

From fatal Calvary,

With all thine own redeemed out-bursting from their tombs.

For Thou didst bear away from earth

But one of human birth,

The dying felon by thy side, to be

In Paradise with Thee.

Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance break;

A little while the conscious earth did shake

At that foul deed by her fierce children done;

A few dim hours of day

The world in darkness lay,

Then basked in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun:
While Thou didst sleep beneath the tomb,

Consenting to thy doom,

Ere yet the white-robed angel shone

Upon the sealed stone.

And when Thou didst arise Thou didst not stand

With devastation in thy red right hand,

Plaguing the guilty sinners' murtherous crew;
But Thou didst haste to meet

Thy mother's coming feet,

And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few:

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Then calmly, slowly didst Thou rise
Into thy native skies ;

Thy human form dissolved on high

Into its own radiancy.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

BOUND upon the accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is He?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing limb,
By the flesh with scourges torn,
By the crown of twisted thorn,
By the side so deeply pierced,

By the baffled burning thirst,
By the drooping death-dewed brow,
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the sun at noonday pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,

By earth that trembled at His doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died

To the felon at his side;

Lord! our suppliant knees we bow!
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!

Bound upon the accursed tree,

Sad and dying, who is He?

By the last and bitter cry,
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chambers of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep:
Crucified! we know Thee now;
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!

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