AT THE VESPERS.

These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they were strangers and pilgrims upon the earth.-HEB. xi.

"Vos ante Christi tempora."

YE patriarchal saints and sires,
And Christ's prophetic seers,
Ye of just men the solemn choirs,
Studding the heav'ns with your dim fires,

Ere yet the dawn appears!

And who can paint Faith's earnest guise,
Which on the unopened door
Bent eager its inquiring eyes?

And who can speak hope's heart-sick sighs

Strangers were ye, and sojourners,

Your sylvan homes among;

The world to you truth's figure bears;
And 'neath the word's dead characters

Ye hear the Spirit's tongue.

Thus promised good in time's dark womb

Did ye divinely weigh:

Grant we o'er this ethereal dome

May ever turn to our true home,

And look before as they.

To God the Father let us sing,
To praise Him is most meet;
To God the Son we touch the string,
To God the Spirit we worship bring,

To praise Him is most sweet.

IN THE SEASON OF LENT.

AT MIDNIGHT.

Cast away from you all your transgressions; and make you a new heart, and a new spirit. For I have no pleasure in the death of him that dieth, saith the Lord God: wherefore turn yourselves, and live ye.-EZEK. Xviii.

"Quod lex adumbravit vetus."

It is the holy fast,

Which Christ hath sanctified,

Shadow'd of ages past

For them who to the world have died.

Let there be holy guard

O'er word, and food, and sleep,

That in her widow'd ward,

The soul her strictest watch may keep.

That so she best within

Her rebel lusts may quell,
Lest the dark foe, unseen,

Steal in and seize the citadel.

Let us bow down and weep,
Ere yet it be too late,

His path with tears to steep
Before the Judge be at the gate.

Tremendous Judge, e'en now
Our crimes like mountains rise,
But yet a Father Thou,

And mightier are Thy clemencies.

Frail as the potter's clay,

But yet Thy work are we :

O leave us not a prey

For whom Christ paid the penalty.

Heal us from all our sin,

Restore us to our place,

With contrite hearts to win

Thine all-abounding pitying grace.

This boon on us confer,

Our Father and our Lord, And Thou, sole Comforter, Of godly woe the fruits afford.

L

AT THE MATTINS.

Cry aloud, spare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet, and shew My people their transgressions, and the house of Jacob their sins.-ISAIAH lviii,

"Solemne nos jejunii."

AND now the season grave and deep
Unto the solemn temple calls,

The priest laments, and sounds that weep,

With prayers for mercy fill the walls.

But vainly penitential cries

To our offended God would rise,

Unless the sounds that speak of sin

But echo the deep voice that doth lament within.

Nought ashes on the forehead spread,
Nor garments profit rent and torn;
But hearts awak'ning from the dead,
And torn and rent by sighs that mourn,
And tears upon the pallid cheek,
Which the deep labouring spirit speak,
May turn away His hand e'en now,

When He hath ta'en His shafts and bent the deadly bow.