CORPUS CHRISTI.
Not lilies here, their vesture is too pale,
Nor will they crush to fragrance ’neath the tread
Where every step must rapturous thought exhale
Of the triumphant King whose thorn-crowned head
Dripped crimson life-drops but a while ago.
Not lilies here, to-day the roses know
It is Love’s feast, and sacred banquet-hall
And holy table should be decked and strewn
With Love’s bright flowers, the perfumed gifts of June.
Oh! that our hearts might lie beneath his feet
Even as the drifting petals, pure and sweet!
Joy, drooping soul! His peace is over all.
Gethsemane is past, Golgotha’s darkness fled:
To-day the guests are bidden, the heavenly banquet spread.