Easter Day. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

Who comes (my soul no longer doubt),
Rising from earth's wormy sod,
And whilst ten thousand angels sing,
Ascends - ascends to heaven, a God?

Saviour, Lord, I know thee now!
Mighty to redeem and save,
Such glory blazes on thy brow,
Which lights the darkness of the grave.

Saviour, Lord, the human soul,
Forgotten every sorrow here,
Shall thus, aspiring to its goal,
Triumph in its native sphere.

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

The Caged Bird. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

On A Beautiful Landscape

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The Bells, Ostend.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

Inscribed To The Rev. W. Howley.[1]

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

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Easter.

When dawns on earth the Easter sun
The dear saints feel an answering thrill.
With whitest flowers their hands they fill;
And, singing all in unison,

Unto the battlements they press--
The very marge of heaven--how near!
And bend, and look upon us here
With eyes that rain down tenderness.

Their roses, brimmed with fragrant dew,
Their lilies fair they raise on high;
"Rejoice! The Lord is risen!" they cry;
"Christ is arisen; we prove it true!

"Rejoice, and dry those faithless tears
With which your Easter flowers are stained;
Share in our bliss, who have attained
The rapture of the eternal years;

"Have proved the promise which endures,
The Love that deigned, the Love that died;
Have reached our haven by His side--
Are Christ's...

Susan Coolidge

Easter Sunday, 1916

The sun shone white and fair,
This Eastertide,
Yet all its sweetness seemed but to deride
Our souls' despair;
For stricken hearts, and loss and pain,
Were everywhere.
We sang our Alleluias,--
We said, "The Christ is risen!
                From this His earthly prison,
                The Christ indeed is risen.
                He is gone up on high,
                To the perfect peace of heaven."

Then, with a sigh,
We wondered...
Our minds evolved grim hordes of huns,
Our bruised hearts sank beneath the guns,
On our very souls they thundered.
Can you wonder?--Can you wonder,
That we wondered,
As we heard the huns' guns thunder?
That we looked in one another's eyes
And wondered,--

"Is Christ indeed then risen from the ...

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

An Easter Hymn

Spake the Lord Christ - "I will arise."
    It seemed a saying void and vain -
    How shall a dead man rise again! -
Vain as our tears, vain as our cries.
    Not one of all the little band
    That loved Him this might understand.

"I will arise" - Lord Jesus said.
    Hearken, amid the morning dew,
    Mary, a voice that calleth you, -
Then Mary turned her golden head,
    And lo! all shining at her side
    Her Master they had crucified.

At dawn to his dim sepulchre,
    Mary, remembering that far day,
    When at his feet the spikenard lay,
Came, bringing balm and spice and myrrh;
    To her the grave had made reply:
    "He is not here - He cannot die."

Praetor and priest in vain conspire,
    Jerusalem and Rome in vain

Richard Le Gallienne

Sunrise. (From The Villager's Verse-Book.)

When from my humble bed I rise,
And see the morning sun,
That, glorious in the eastern skies,
Its journey has begun,

I think of the Almighty Power
Which called this orb from night;
I think how many at this hour
Rejoice beneath its light.

And then I pray, in every land,
Where'er this light is shed,
That all who live may bless the Hand
Which gives their daily bread.

William Lisle Bowles

An Easter Hymn

        The Sun has come again and fed
            The lily's lamp with light,
        And raised from dust a rose, rich red,
            And a little star-flower, white;
        He also guards the Pleiades
            And holds his planets true:
        But we--we know not which of these
            The easier task to do.

        But, since from heaven he stoops to breathe
            A flower to balmy air,
        Surely our lives are not beneath
            The kindness of his care;
        And, as he guides the blade that gropes
            Up from the barren sod,
        So, from the ashes of our hopes,
            Will beauty grow toward God.

        Whate'er thy name, O Soul of Life,--
            We know but that thou art,--
     ...

John Charles McNeill

Easter Morn

A truth that has long lain buried
    At Superstition's door,
I see, in the dawn uprising
    In all its strength once more.

Hidden away in the darkness,
    By Ignorance crucified,
Crushed under stones of dogmas -
    Yet lo! it has not died.

It stands in the light transfigured,
    It speaks from the heights above,
"EACH SOUL IS ITS OWN REDEEMER;
    THERE IS NO LAW BUT LOVE."

And the spirits of men are gladdened
    As they welcome this Truth re-born
With its feet on the grave of Error
    And its eyes to the Easter Morn.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox