Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
Bowed thee, unmurm'ring, beneath sorrow's rod;
Spirit of purity ever indwelling
Made thee the Temple and Mother of God.

These are the gifts that thy children implore,
With hearts warmly beating, and low bended knee;
Oh! ask of thy Son, whom we humbly adore,
To grant us the prayers that we whisper to thee.




THE PURIFICATION.


Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high--
Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky--
Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil--from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.

Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and
bright:
Agate and porphyry--precious gems--cedar and ivory white,
Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare,
With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.

But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high,
A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye;--
A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face--