The hand of murder spared the Virgin's Ah, no, a sorer ill than chains child! O Jesu, virgin-born! all praise to thee, By saints on earth and by the heavenly host! THE INNOCENTS' DAY. "In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning."- MATT. ii. 18. BETHLEHEM, above all cities blest! 'T is ever thus: who Christ would win, 737 Snatched from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven. GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D. 47 CHRIST BETRAYED. MRS. ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA was born in Bennington, Vt., and in 1845 published "Leaves from the Diary of a Recluse," which was followed in 1849 by a volume of poems. In 1855 she became the wife of Prof. Vincenzo Botta, of the University of the City of New York (formerly of Turin, Italy), and in 1860 she published a "Handbook of Universal Literature." EIGHTEEN hundred years agone SIR JOHN BOWRING. Hate and anger and disdain, When he trod the Holy Land If to-day thou turn'st aside, In thy luxury and pride, Wrapped within thyself, and blind To the sorrows of thy kind, Thou a faithless watch dost keep, Thou art one of those who sleep: THE CRUCIFIXION. Or, if waking, thou dost see In our fallen struggling race, ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA. THE PASSION. WITH the soldiers, straitly bound, Bleeding wounds he beareth; And each one, with bended knee, Fresher taunts prepareth. They thy mild and tender flesh, To the column bind thee fast, Cruel stripes are tearing, As the streams that flow therefrom After passed he through the street, Bare he on his shoulder: Him, in open sight of men To the wind and cold they bare, Utmost insults framing; Guiltless, on the cross they lift, With transgressors naming, Him, as midmost of the three, Chief of all proclaiming. On the wood his arms are stretched, In like wise his blessed feet Are to torture given, As the hands that had so oft Streams of blood are trickling down And renew thy forces; This the medicine that shall cure This the writing that for us Calling on thy Father's name Thy last breath was spended; And thy spirit in his hands Gently was commended; With a loud and mighty cry Then thy head was bended, 739 And the work that brought thee down, Of salvation, ended. But by heart and thought of man That is past conceiving, How the virgin mother's soul Inmostly was grieving, When the soldier's bitter lance Of its passage leaving. That blest form could feel no more, 'T was the mother's anguished soul Wherefore, sinner, haste to these Life thou mayest draw therefrom, Cure thou mayest find for sin, Strength to meet temptation, Refuge mayst thou gain against Satan's condemnation. A hymn of the twelfth century. Translated by JOHN MASON NEALE. THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE. Moves the majestic queen of night, All but the children of distress, bless, These leave the couch of restlessness, To breathe the cool, calm air. For those who shun the glare of day 'Tis a religious hour; for he, O Holy Father, when the light May hope in Christ grow strong and bright, JOHN PIERPONT. JESUS PASSING OVER KEDRON. THOU Soft flowing Kedron, by thy silver stream Our Saviour at midnight, when Cynthia's pale beam Shone bright on the waters, would oftentimes stray, And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day! How damp were the vapors that fell on his head! How hard was his pillow! how humble his bed! The angels, astonished, grew sad at the sight, And followed their Master with solemn delight! O garden of Olivet, - dear, honored spot! The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot! The theme most transporting to seraphs above, The triumph of sorrow, the triumph of love! Come, saints, and adore him, come, bow at his feet; Oh, give him the glory, the praise that is meet! Let joyful hosannas unceasing arise, And join the full chorus that gladdens the skies. MARIA DE FLEURY. GETHSEMANE. MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS, cousin of Miss Amelia Blandford Edwards, the novelist, was born at Westerfield, Suffolk, England, in 1836, and has contributed to Punch, Fraser's Magazine, and other periodicals LIKE Him, whilst friends and lovers slept, We knew not how the day had run, Our mothers slumbered in the tomb, Not with us was our true helpmeet, Not with us might the friend abide, We were alone. The world was still, Prone on the ground our limbs were spread, But late there broke a little light Then Christ himself said, standing near, 66 I weep with thee, and God is here." Gethsemane! M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. THE CRUCIFIXION. This hymn was composed by Dr. Hedge for a confirmation service in his church at Bangor, Me, on Good Friday, 1843In some collections it has been marked “Anonymous." 'T WAS the day when God's Anointed Bleeding on the guilty cross; Nature's fall, and Eden's loss. THE CRUCIFIXION. 741 Haste, prepare the bitter chalice! Gentile hate and Jewish malice Lift the royal victim high, Like the serpent, wonder-gifted, Which the Prophet once uplifted, For a sinful world to die! Conscious of the deed unholy, And the sun his light denied ; It is finished, Man of sorrows! Not in vain for us uplifted, May it guide us still to thee! Oh, what sorrow, deep, unbounded, Laboring in his guiltless breast! Who could witness without weeping Scorn and bruises, stripes and death ; Far beyond our humble lays ; Deeply on my soul imprest! SAMUEL WOODWORTH. Good Friday, 1843. 1818. THE CRUCIFIXION. The author of the " Old Oaken Bucket" was born in Scituate, Mass., Jan 13, 1785. He had desires for a liberal education, but was unable to obtain it, and became an apprentice to a printer. He was employed on the Columbian Centinel, in Boston. but occupied his leisure time in writing poetry that was published under the name "Selim." Some of his pieces were collected in a volume in 1818, prefixed to which was a somewhat remarkable preface, in which the trials and troubles of the author up to that time were delineated with the view of encouraging the sale of the book. Little of its contents were of a nature (looking at it from the present time) to encourage the reader to become a buyer, and little that the author wrote has been remembered, excepting the poem mentioned above He died in New York City, Dec. 9. 1842. The following is a free reproduction of the "Stabat Mater Dolorosa," relieved of Mariolatry. WEEPING Mary, bathed in sorrow, Floated o'er his fevered tongue. THE CRUCIFIXION. SUNLIGHT upon Judæa's hills! That feed the dead and sleeping sea! A few more hours, a change hath come! And proud knees unto earth are bowel |