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THE BOOK OF FAMILIAR QUOTATIONS. 
 CHOICE POEMS AND LYRICS. 
 
 CHOICE THOUGHTS FROM SHAKSPERE. 
 
 Printed on toned paper, price 5s. each. 
 
 LONDON: WHITTAKER & CO. 
 
(JoliiFtt Gj-lraninp 
 
 BEING A 
 
 Selection from the Poets 
 Devotional & Mora/ 
 
 LONDON 
 WHITTAKER & CO., AVE MARIA LANE 
 
 1863 
 
Printed by R. <5° R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 £_* 
 
 HE constantly increasing taste for 
 devotional poetry of a high order of 
 merit has suggested the compilation 
 of this Volume, the contents of which, it is hoped, 
 will insure for it many readers. The selections 
 are for the most part of a strictly sacred character, 
 but occasionally they are interspersed with others 
 having a religious tendency, if they do not abso- 
 lutely come under the denomination of Sacred 
 Poems. 
 
 The object has not been to confine the ex- 
 tracts to any particular period, consequently some 
 of our living poets will be found side by side with 
 the illustrious dead. 
 
vi Preface. 
 
 The earnest thanks of the Compiler are due 
 to those authors and publishers who have so 
 courteously authorised the insertion of their copy- 
 right pieces. To Messrs. Blackwood and Sons 
 he desires to offer his acknowledgments for their 
 assent to the publication of several extracts from 
 the works of Mrs. Hemans, Professor Wilson, 
 and Pollok; and to Messrs. Strahan and Co., for 
 permission to print Gerald Massey's charming 
 poem, t{ Albert's Tomb/' from their interesting 
 publication " Good Words." 
 
^Sft^/^s^'^Mj) Sf 
 
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 Mgr£J0^^ 
 
 
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS QUOTED. 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Addison, Joseph . 
 
 161 
 
 Dryden, John 
 
 190 
 
 
 
 Dyer, John . 
 
 182 
 
 Barbauld, Anna Letitia 
 
 283 
 
 
 
 Baxter, Richard 
 
 215 
 
 Flatman, Thomas 
 
 303 
 
 Beattie, James 
 
 47 
 
 
 
 Blair, Robert 
 
 15° 
 
 Grahame, James . 
 
 109 
 
 Bloomfield, Robert 
 
 79 
 
 Gray, Thomas 
 
 82 
 
 Browne, Sir Thomas 
 
 213 
 
 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen 
 
 256 
 
 Habington, William . 
 
 159 
 
 Burns, Robert 
 
 95 
 
 Hale, Sir Matthew 
 
 222 
 
 Byron, Lord 
 
 49 
 
 Hawkesworth, John 
 
 20I 
 
 
 
 Heber, Reginald . 
 
 229 
 
 Campbell, Thomas 
 
 7i 
 
 Hemans, Felicia Dorothea 
 
 I 24 
 
 Cotton, Nathaniel 
 
 278 
 
 Herbert, George . 
 
 152 
 
 Cowper, William . 
 
 133 
 
 
 
 Crabbe, Rev. George . 
 
 293 
 
 Ken, Thomas 
 
 168 
 
 Crashaw, Richard 
 
 291 
 
 Kingsley, Rev. Charles 
 
 239 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 
 
 146 
 
 
 
 
 
 Logan, John 
 
 112 
 
 Dale, Rev. Thomas 
 
 233 
 
 Longfellow, H. Wadsworth 9 
 
 Davies, Sir John . 
 
 173 
 
 Lowell, James Russell . 
 
 264 
 
 Doddridge, Philip 
 
 192 
 
 
 
 Donne, John 
 
 176 
 
 Mason, John 
 
 220 
 
 Drummond, William 
 
 177 
 
 Mason, William . 
 
 227 
 
viii List of Authors Quoted. 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Massey, Gerald 
 
 I 
 
 Southey, Robert . 
 
 66 
 
 Merrick, James 
 
 1 88 
 
 Southwell, Robert 
 
 211 
 
 Milton, John 
 
 91 
 
 Swain, Charles 
 
 240 
 
 Moir, David Macbeth 
 
 100 
 
 
 
 Montgomery, James 
 
 35 
 
 Thomson, James . 
 
 129 
 
 Moore, Thomas . 
 
 59 
 
 Toplady, Augustus M. 
 
 204 
 
 More, Hannah 
 
 32 
 
 
 
 Moultrie, Rev. John 
 
 18 
 
 Vaughan, Henry 
 
 297 
 
 Ogilvie, John 
 
 280 
 
 Waller, Edmund 
 
 165 
 
 Parnell, Thomas 
 
 193 
 
 Wastell, Simon 
 
 289 
 
 Peabody, William 0. 
 
 274 
 
 Watts, Isaac 
 
 223 
 
 Percival, James Gates 
 
 276 
 
 Waugh, Edwin 
 
 244 
 
 Pollok, Robert . 
 
 118 
 
 Wesley, Charles . 
 
 184 
 
 Pomfret, John 
 
 179 
 
 Wesley, Samuel, Jun. 
 
 218 
 
 Pope, Alexander . 
 
 84 
 
 White, Henry Kirke 
 
 75 
 
 
 
 Whittier, John G. 
 
 263 
 
 Quarles, Francis 
 
 198 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel Parkei 
 
 247 
 
 
 
 Wilson, Alexander 
 
 126 
 
 Randolph, Thomas . 
 
 209 
 
 Wilson, Professor . 
 
 105 
 
 Rowe, Elizabeth . 
 
 186 
 
 Wither, George 
 
 301 
 
 
 
 Wolfe, Rev. Charles 
 
 288 
 
 Sandys, George . 
 
 . 166 
 
 Wordsworth, William 
 
 H3 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter . 
 
 122 
 
 Wotton, Sir Henry 
 
 208 
 
 Sigourney, Mrs. L. H. 
 
 267 
 
 
 
 Smart, Christopher 
 
 Index 
 
 292 
 
 Young, Edward . 
 
 148 
 
 305 
 
Gerald Massey. 
 
 ALBERT'S TOMB. 
 
 Some two-and-twenty golden years ago, 
 A noble Wooer to our England came; 
 
 To-day he has won her! but lies pale and low. 
 Albert the Good we write his royal name. 
 
 The Power that sits enthroned by open graves 
 Hath risen to rule the air. His death-bell tolls, 
 
 And rolls upon us in dull heavy waves, 
 Sepulchral shadows over living souls. 
 
 On every loaded wind the sound is borne, 
 Invisibly swift the sparks electric slide; 
 
 Till, under archways of full many a morn, 
 The darkness of our loss will visibly glide. 
 
 The meanest doorway darkens at this cloud, 
 The poorest poor have lost a personal friend; 
 
 Down to one level are the loftiest bowed; 
 In the large clasp of nature all hearts blend. 
 
 B 
 
Gerald Massey. 
 
 And dark in His extinguished light we stand, 
 In every face we read how much bereft ! 
 
 A sterner pressure of the grasping hand 
 
 Tells of our loss, and clings to what is left. 
 
 For he was one of those we never know 
 
 Till they have left us, nor how great the love 
 
 We bore them ; they are all too meek to show 
 Their dearness, till they stand our praise above. 
 
 We met him coldly, and we look back now 
 To see how naturally he kindled mist 
 
 And murk into a glory for his brow; 
 
 And all our dimness into splendour kiss'd. 
 
 At last our clouds of earth are cleared away: 
 Albert the Good and patient goes to God, 
 
 Smiling back to us with his clear blue day; 
 And leaving shining footprints where he trod. 
 
 How could we mirror truly when a breadi 
 Sets all the surface in a blurring strife ? 
 
 We are calmer now ! — touch'd by the hand of Death! 
 To hold the lustrous image of his life. 
 
 We know that when our mortal work is done, 
 Few to the Master's keeping will return 
 
 A fairer copy of the life His Son 
 
 Once left us, or a warmer " well done " earn. 
 
Alberts Tomb. 3 
 
 Down goes the scaffolding; the work is crown'd; 
 
 Much that was hidden from us may be read, 
 And for the first time we can look all round 
 
 The Statue of his life now perfected. 
 
 In the cold hand we fain would place the palm ; 
 
 Tried in the fire our love comes forth pure gold ! 
 We loved more than we knew. We would embalm 
 
 Our Dead with honey, as they did of old. 
 
 We see the glory in the goodness veiled ; 
 
 The greatness that in bounds so narrow moved: 
 Our peaceful Hero — King who reign'd unhail'd, 
 
 And ruled by loving, and by being loved. 
 
 The Flower of Chivalry upon the height, 
 He could as featly bend to lowliest place; 
 
 With something in him of the lofty light 
 That shone in Philip Sydney's cordial face. 
 
 His natural kingliness made crowns look wan, 
 
 Whom God had set amongst the Lords of Earth, 
 
 To shew them how the majesty of Man 
 
 May shine above the starriest badge of Birth. 
 
 He made the Palace fragrant with fresh health ; 
 
 He strove to set his jewels in God's light; 
 He was a light 'twixt Poverty and Wealth ; 
 
 He wrought for all and reverenced only Right. 
 
Gerald Massey. 
 
 The broad daylight of truth was on his face, 
 That made the silence golden with its smile; 
 
 He tempered our harsh judgments with his grace, 
 And kept his covenant without gloss or guile. 
 
 He held for ever hallowed the dear breasts 
 
 Where nestling Love and its sweet babes had lain ; 
 
 For ever sacred kept Home's secret nest 
 Of purest pleasure and of proudest pain. 
 
 His life, cut down, smells sweet as hay new mown ; 
 
 In England's heart we find our throne for him; 
 His memory shall add to England's crown 
 
 One of the precious gems Time cannot dim. 
 
 A calm, high life, crown'd with a quiet death: 
 His robe of pain around him folding, he 
 
 Was not the man to waste his dying breath ; 
 Who nobly lives, can die with dignity. 
 
 The gentle spirit did not wish to hear 
 
 The women moaning through the house for him, 
 But only sought to feel its darlings near 
 
 Enough to bless them when 't was getting dim ! 
 
 No need of courtly lies for comforting ; 
 
 For he can face the truth, though stern and wild : 
 Through spiritual rehearsal, he can wring 
 
 The victory! and his soul within him smiled. 
 
Albert's Tomb. 5 
 
 And 't is not near so hard for one to bow 
 And enter the dark door- way of the tomb, 
 
 Who has learn'd to meet Death kneeling with bent 
 brow; 
 Whose inner light can pierce that inner gloom. 
 
 And while in sorrow here we dimly sit, 
 We lift the head, to ease an aching breast, 
 
 And, looking up, behold the Stars are lit ; 
 And there 's another in the realms of Rest. 
 
 Rest, happy soul, in thy salvation deep ; 
 
 The top of life, and endless day for thee ; 
 While in the valley here we sit and weep 
 
 Among the shadows of Eternity. 
 
 We can but kneel, and grope, and kiss His feet 
 Who takes thee to His infinite embrace; 
 
 We feel transfigured if our touch may meet 
 
 His garment's hem ; but thou dost see His face. 
 
 Poor widowed Queen ! we see her as she trod 
 The Aisle where Music's mellow thunders roll'd, 
 
 And Heaven open'd, and the smile of God 
 
 In sunbeams crown'd her head with saintly gold. 
 
 And how we listened — knowing she was bless'd — 
 To the proud murmurs of the brooding dove; 
 
 Home-pleasures round the royal Mother pressed, 
 And God gave many voices to her love. 
 
Gerald Massey. 
 
 And now the cloud of this calamity 
 
 Darkens the crown we set on her young brow : 
 Ah, look up to the side next heaven, and see 
 
 'T is God Himself that crowns our lady now ! 
 
 With all hearts aching for the dear bow'd face, 
 We can but grasp His hand in prayer for her ! 
 
 So lonely in her desolate, high place; 
 
 And leave her with the Eternal Comforter. 
 
 Though two be parted in that shadow drear, 
 Where one must walk alone, yet is it given 
 
 For the dear blessed spirit to be near ; 
 
 The human vision with the voice in heaven. 
 
 It is my faith they tend us in our need ; 
 
 With tender chords they draw us where they 
 move ; 
 And often at the noon of night they feed 
 
 With dews of Heaven the lilies of their love. 
 
 Warm whispers will come stealing like a glow 
 Of God, to kiss the spirit's inner eyes 
 
 Till they be open'd, and true love doth know 
 Its marriage garden blooms in Paradise. 
 
 Here hearts may beat so close that two lives make 
 
 Only one shadow in the sun we see, 
 But, in the light we see not, these shall wake 
 
 One angel — wedded for eternity. 
 
Albert's Tomb. 7 
 
 This morning shall be made majestic mirth ; 
 
 This grief shall be a glory otherwhere ; 
 The music that we hear no more on earth 
 
 Will help to make up Heaven when we are there. 
 
 And Thou, Young Prince, whose Pilot saw thee tide 
 Safe o'er the reefs beyond the harbour-bar, 
 
 Then left thee, o'er the waters as ye ride, 
 
 This Star of morn shall rise, thy evening Star. 
 
 Think of the dear face dark beneath the mould, 
 And be thou to us what he would have been 
 
 So shall the secret springs of sorrows old 
 Give to thy future paths a gladder green. 
 
 May thy life flourish, ripen hour by hour, 
 
 And heavenward draw the virtues of thy root ; 
 
 Our eyes have seen the beauty of the flower, — 
 Do thou unfold the glory of the fruit. 
 
 We build his Monument, but men may see 
 His steady lustre live in thee and thine ; 
 
 And thou mayest bear, to Empires yet to be, 
 The goodness and the glories of thy line. 
 
 This is a waiting hour of wonder for 
 
 A world; our England looks across her waves! 
 Will the Dove seek her bosom, or red War, 
 
 Whose footprints stamp deep pits for bloody 
 graves ? 
 
Gerald Massey. 
 
 Is it the kiss of Peace and Righteousness, 
 
 That softly thrills the husht, grim silence through, 
 
 Or Battle's bugle-cry that makes us press 
 All sail — send up our brave old bit of blue ? 
 
 We know not. But, if foot to foot we stand, 
 On slippery boarding-plank, or ruddied sward, 
 
 'T will be the sturdier stroke for this dear Land 
 That holds another noble grave to guard. 
 
 And all is well that makes a People one, 
 
 Even though the meeting-place be Albert's tomb: 
 
 We gather grapes of joy up in the sun, 
 
 But God's best wine must ripen in the gloom. 
 
 Many true hearts have moulder'd down to enrich 
 The roots of England's greatness underground ; 
 
 Until, below, as wide and strong they stretch, 
 As overhead the branches reach around. 
 
 And so our England's glory ever grows, 
 
 And so her stature rises ever higher, 
 Until the faces of her farthest foes 
 
 Darken with envy, overshadow'd by her. 
 
 So climb the heavens, Old Tree, until the gold 
 Stars glisten as thy fruitage — heave thy breast 
 
 Yet broader, till the fiercest storms shall fold 
 Their wings within thy shelter and find rest. 
 
Resignation. 
 
 H. Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 There is no flock, however watch'd and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapours ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps, 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
io H. Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems so is transition : 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day, we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child ; 
 
A Psalm of Life. II 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppress'd, 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 
 " Life is but an empty dream!" 
 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
12 H. Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living Present ! 
 
 Heart within and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; — 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
Flowers. 1 3 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labour and to wait. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
 One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
 
 When he call'd the flowers, so blue and golden, 
 Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine ; — 
 
 Stars they are, wherein we read our history, 
 
 As astrologers and seers of eld ; 
 Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery, 
 
 Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 
 
 Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
 God hath written in those stars above ; 
 
 But not less in the bright flowerets under us 
 Stands the revelation of his love. 
 
 Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
 
 Written all over this great world of ours ; 
 
 Making evident our own creation, 
 
 In these stars of earth, — these golden flowers. 
 
14 H. Wads worth Longfellow. 
 
 And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
 Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 
 
 Of the self-same, universal being, 
 
 Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 
 
 Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
 Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 
 
 Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining, 
 Buds that open only to decay ; 
 
 Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 
 Flaunting gayly in the golden light ; 
 
 Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 
 Tender wishes, blossoming at night ! 
 
 These in flowers and men are more than seeming, 
 Workings are they of the self-same powers, 
 
 Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
 Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 
 
 Everywhere about us are they glowing, 
 Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born ; 
 
 Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 
 Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn ; 
 
 Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 
 And in Summer's green-emblazon'd field, 
 
 But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 
 In the centre of his brazen shield; 
 
Flowers. i 5 
 
 Not alone in meadows and green alleys, 
 On the mountain-top, and by the brink 
 
 Of sequester'd pools in woodland valleys, 
 Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink ; 
 
 Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 
 Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
 
 But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 
 On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone ; 
 
 In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 
 In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
 
 Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 
 
 Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; 
 
 In all places, then, and in all seasons, 
 
 Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
 
 Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 
 How akin they are to human things. 
 
 And with childlike, credulous affection 
 We behold their tender buds expand ; 
 
 Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
 Emblems of the bright and better land. 
 
1 6 H. Wadsworth Longfellow. 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast, 
 As through an Alpine village pass'd 
 A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
 A banner, with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
 Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath, 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warn and bright ; 
 Above the spectral glaciers shone, 
 And from his lips escaped a groan, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Try not the pass !" the old man said ; 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" 
 And loud that clarion voice replied 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " O stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weaiy head upon this breast !" 
 
Excelsior. I J 
 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
 But still he answered with a sigh, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
 Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
 This was the peasant's last good-night ! 
 A voice replied far up the height, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled air, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
 Half-buried in the snow was found, 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 That banner, with the strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
The Three Sons. 
 
 Rev. yohn Moultrie. 
 
 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, 
 
 With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle 
 mould. 
 
 They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, 
 
 That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his 
 childish years. 
 
 I cannot say how this may be : I know his face is fair, 
 
 And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious 
 air ; 
 
 I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth 
 me, 
 
 But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 
 
 But that which others most admire is the thought 
 which fills his mind, 
 
 The food for grave, inquiring speech he everywhere 
 doth find. 
 
 Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together 
 walk ; 
 
 He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as child- 
 ren talk. 
 
 
The Three Sons. 19 
 
 Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat 
 
 or ball, 
 But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly 
 
 mimicks all. 
 His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per- 
 
 plex'd 
 With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts 
 
 about the next. 
 He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she teacheth him 
 
 to pray, 
 And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words 
 
 which he will say. 
 Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's 
 
 years, like me, 
 A holier and a wiser man, I trust, that he will be ; 
 And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thought- 
 ful brow, 
 I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him 
 
 now. 
 
 I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three, 
 I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features 
 
 be; 
 How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles 
 
 on my knee ; 
 I do not think his light-blue eye is like his brother's 
 
 keen, 
 Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath 
 
 ever been : 
 
20 Rev. John Moultrie. 
 
 But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender 
 
 feeling, 
 And his every look's a gleam of light rich depths of 
 
 love revealing. 
 When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us 
 
 in the street, 
 Will shout for joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild 
 
 and sweet. 
 A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone 
 Will sing his little song of love when left to sport alone. 
 His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and 
 
 hearth, 
 To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. 
 Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart 
 
 may prove 
 As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly 
 
 love : 
 And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must 
 
 dim, 
 God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in 
 
 him. 
 
 I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, 
 For they reckon not by years and months where he is 
 
 gone to dwell. 
 To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles 
 
 were given, 
 And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live 
 
 in heaven. 
 
The Three Sons. 2 i 
 
 I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, 
 Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph 
 
 brow. 
 The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which 
 
 he doth feel, 
 Are number'd with the secret things which God will 
 
 not reveal. 
 But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now 
 
 at rest, 
 Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving 
 
 breast. 
 I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, 
 But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for 
 
 ever fresh. 
 I know the angels fold him close beneath their glitter- 
 ing wings, 
 And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's 
 
 divinest things. 
 I knowthatwe shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I), 
 Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from 
 
 every eye. 
 Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never 
 
 cease ; 
 Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain 
 
 peace. 
 It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss 
 
 may sever ; 
 But if our own poor hearts fail not, he must be ours for 
 
 ever. 
 
22 Rev. John Moultrie. 
 
 
 When we think of what our darling is, and what 
 
 we 
 
 still must be, — 
 
 
 When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and 
 
 this 
 
 world's misery, — 
 
 
 When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this 
 
 grief and pain, 
 
 
 Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have 
 
 him 
 
 here again. 
 
 
 THE CURATE AT HOME. 
 
 
 There's something in a cloister's bound, 
 
 
 And something in a convent cell ; 
 
 
 If not in sense, at least in sound, 
 
 
 The words ring clear and jingle well ; 
 
 
 But nought exists so pure, so sweet, 
 
 
 Within the wide expanse of earth, 
 
 
 As love and learning's joint retreat — 
 
 
 The English pastor's home and hearth. 
 
 
 The dear constraint of household ties, 
 
 
 The daily kiss of wife and child, 
 
 
 The love which gushes to the eyes 
 
 
 From springs of feeling undefiled ; — 
 
 
 The round of duties blithely run, 
 
 
 Where each and all their parts fulfil, 
 
 
The Curate at Home. 23 
 
 Like stars revolving round the sun 
 In their appointed orbits still ; — 
 
 The frugal, yet convivial meal, 
 
 At which familiar faces throng, — 
 
 The health which looks and limbs reveal, — 
 The morning task, the evening song ; — 
 
 The prayer and praise at morn and night, 
 For blessings shared, for sins forgiven — 
 
 These make the pastor's dwelling bright 
 With gleams as of approaching Heaven. 
 
 Thus in the curate's home I felt, 
 
 When, from the shrine where Christians pray 
 Return'd, with him and his I dwelt, 
 
 And shared their meals that pleasant day. 
 
 The kindness of the home-bred heart, 
 The natural manners, frank and free, 
 
 The simple tastes unspoilt by art, 
 The true old English courtesy, — 
 
 The evening walk with sire and child, 
 
 By river bank, o'er hill and dale, 
 Through which her song, abrupt and wild, 
 
 Trill'd out the unwearied nightingale, — 
 
 The after melody more high, 
 
 And scarce less sweet, of household hymn, 
 
24 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 And anthems soaring to the sky 
 As on the wings of seraphim ; — 
 
 Such pleasures that sweet Sunday crown'd,- 
 A Sunday such as Christians love 
 
 Whose hearts on earth by faith have found 
 The key-note of the songs above. 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 BRING FLOWERS. 
 
 Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board, 
 
 To wreath the cup ere the wine is pour'd ! 
 
 Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale : 
 
 Their breath floats out on the southern gale, 
 
 And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, 
 
 To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. 
 
 Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path ! 
 He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath : 
 He comes with the spoils of nations back, 
 The vines lie crush'd in his chariot's track, 
 The turf looks red where he won the day. 
 Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way ! 
 
Bring Flowers. 2 5 
 
 Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell ! 
 They have tales of the joyous woods to tell — 
 Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky, 
 And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; 
 They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours, 
 And the dream of his youth. Bring him flowers, wild 
 flowers ! 
 
 Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ! 
 They were born to blush in her shining hair. 
 She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, 
 She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth, 
 Her place is now by another's side. 
 Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride ! 
 
 Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, 
 A crown for the brow of the early dead ! 
 For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, 
 For this in the woods was the violet nursed ! 
 Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, 
 They are love's last gift. Bring ye flowers, pale 
 flowers ! 
 
 Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer — 
 They are nature's offering, their place is there ! 
 They speak of hope to the fainting heart, 
 With a voice of promise they come and part, 
 They sleep in dust through the wintry hours, 
 They break forth in glory. Bring flowers, bright 
 flowers ! 
 
Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 THE BETTER LAND. 
 
 I hear thee speak of the better land, 
 Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
 Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? 
 Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 And the fire-flies glance through the myrde boughs ? 
 Not there ; not there, my child. 
 
 Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
 Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
 Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
 And strange bright birds on their starry wings, 
 Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? 
 Not there ; not there, my child. 
 
 Is it far away in some region old, 
 Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? 
 Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
 And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
 And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand — 
 Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? 
 Not there ; not there, my child. 
 
 Eye hath not seen it, my gende boy, 
 Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
 
Casabianca. 2 7 
 
 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; 
 For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
 It is there ; it is there, my child. 
 
 CASABIANCA* 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 
 Whence all but he had fled ; 
 The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 
 Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 
 
 As born to rule the storm ; 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A brave though childlike form. 
 
 The flames roll'd on — he would not go 
 
 Without his father's word ; 
 That father, faint in death below, 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 
 * Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the 
 Admiral of the " Orient," remained at his post (in the battle of 
 the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been 
 abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the 
 flames had reached the powder. 
 
Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 He call'd aloud — " Say, father, say 
 
 If yet my task is done ! " 
 He knew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
 Speak, father !" once again he cried, 
 
 " If I may yet be gone ;" 
 And but the booming shots replied, 
 
 And fast the flames roll'd on. 
 
 Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
 
 And in his waving hair, 
 And look'd from that lone post of death 
 
 In still yet brave despair. 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " My father, must I stay ?" 
 While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild, 
 
 They caught the flag on high, 
 And stream'd above the gallant child, 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a burst of thunder-sound — 
 The boy ! — oh, where was he ? 
 
 Ask of the winds, that far around 
 With fragments strewed the sea ! — 
 
The Hour of Prayer. 29 
 
 With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
 
 That well had borne their part ; 
 But the noblest thing that perish'd there 
 
 Was that young faithful heart. 
 
 THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 
 
 Child, amidst the flowers at play, 
 While the red light fades away ; 
 Mother, with thine earnest eye, 
 Ever following silently; 
 Father, by the breeze of eve 
 Called thy harvest-work to leave — 
 Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee. 
 
 Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
 Far from thine own household band ; 
 Mourner, haunted by the tone 
 Of a voice from this world gone ; 
 Captive, in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; 
 Sailor, on the darkening sea — 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee. 
 
 Warrior that, from battle won, 
 Breathest now at set of sun ; 
 
30 Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 
 
 Woman, o'er the lowly slain, 
 Weeping on his burial-plain; 
 Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
 Kindred by one holy tie, 
 Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee. 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 It is written on the rose, 
 
 In its glory's full array ; 
 Read what those buds disclose — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 It is written on the skies 
 
 Of the soft blue summer day ; 
 It is traced on sunset's dyes — 
 " Passing away. " 
 
 It is written on the trees, 
 
 As their young leaves glistening play, 
 And on brighter things than these — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 It is written on the brow, 
 
 Where the spirit's ardent ray 
 Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 
 " Passing away." 
 
Passing A way. 3 1 
 
 It is written on the heart, 
 Alas ! that there Decay 
 Should claim from Love a part — 
 " Passing away." 
 
 Friends, friends ! — oh ! shall we meet 
 
 In a land of purer day, 
 Where lovely things and sweet 
 Pass not away ? 
 
 Shall we know each other's eyes, 
 
 And the thoughts that in them lay 
 When we mingled sympathies 
 " Passing away ?" 
 
 Oh ! if this may be so, 
 
 Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
 How blest from earth's vain show 
 To pass away ! 
 
 + 
 
32 Hannah More. 
 
 Hannah More. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 O how wondrous is the story 
 Of our blest Redeemer's birth ! 
 
 See the mighty Lord of glory 
 Leaves his heaven to visit earth ! 
 
 Hear with transport, every creature, 
 Hear the gospel's joyful sound ; 
 
 Christ appears in human nature, 
 In our sinful world is found ; 
 
 Comes to pardon our transgression, 
 Like a cloud our sins to blot ; 
 
 Comes to his own favour'd nation, 
 But his own receive him not. 
 
 If the angels who attended 
 
 To declare the Saviour's birth, 
 
 Who from heaven with songs descended 
 To proclaim good-will on earth ; 
 
A Christmas Hymn. 33 
 
 If, in pity to our blindness, 
 
 They had brought the pardon needed, 
 Still Jehovah's wondrous kindness 
 
 Had our warmest hopes exceeded : 
 
 If some prophet had been sent 
 
 With salvation's joyful news, 
 Who, that heard the blest event, 
 
 Could their warmest love refuse ! 
 
 But 't was He to whom in heaven 
 
 Hallelujahs never cease ; 
 He, the mighty God, was given, 
 
 Given to us a Prince of peace. 
 
 None but He who did create us 
 Could redeem from sin and hell ; 
 
 None but He could re-instate us 
 In the rank from which we fell. 
 
 Had he come, the glorious stranger, 
 Deck'd with all the world calls great ; 
 
 Had he lived in pomp and grandeur, 
 Crown'd with more than royal state; 
 
 Still our tongues with praise o'erflowing, 
 On such boundless love would dwell ; 
 
 Still our hearts, with rapture glowing, 
 Feel what words could never tell. 
 
34 Hannah More. 
 
 But what wonder should it raise 
 Thus our lowest state to borrow ! 
 
 O the high mysterious ways, 
 
 God's own Son a child of sorrow ! 
 
 'T was to bring us endless pleasure, 
 He our suffering nature bore ; 
 
 'T was to give us heavenly treasure, 
 He was willing to be poor. 
 
 Come, ye rich, survey the stable 
 Where your infant Saviour lies ; 
 
 From your full o'erflowing table 
 Send the hungry good supplies. 
 
 Boast not your ennobled stations, 
 Boast not that you 're highly fed ; 
 
 Jesus, hear it, all ye nations, 
 
 Had not where to lay his head. 
 
 Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour, 
 If my kingdom you'd inherit ; 
 
 Sinner, quit your proud behaviour, 
 Learn my meek and lowly spirit. 
 
 Come, ye servants, see your station, 
 Freed from all reproach and shame 
 
 He who purchased your salvation, 
 Bore a servant's humble name. 
 
The Death of the Righteous. 3 5 
 
 Come, ye poor, some comfort gather ! 
 
 Faint not in the race you run ; 
 Hard the lot your gracious Father 
 
 Gave his dear, his only Son. 
 
 Think, that if your humbler stations 
 
 Less of worldly good bestow, 
 You escape those strong temptations 
 
 Which from wealth and grandeur flow. 
 
 See your Saviour is ascended ! 
 
 See He looks with pity down ! 
 Trust Him, all will soon be mended, 
 
 Bear His cross, you'll share His crown. 
 
 y antes Montgomery. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS. 
 
 This place is holy ground ; 
 
 World, with thy cares, away ! 
 Silence and darkness reign around, 
 But, lo ! the break of day : 
 What bright and sudden dawn appears, 
 To shine upon this scene of tears ? 
 
36 James Montgomery. 
 
 'Tis not the morning light, 
 
 That wakes the lark to sing ; 
 'T is not a meteor of the night, 
 Nor track of angel's wing: 
 It is an uncreated beam, 
 Like that which shone on Jacob's dream. 
 
 Eternity and Time 
 
 Met for a moment here ; 
 From earth to heaven, a scale sublime 
 Rested on either sphere, 
 Whose steps a saintly figure trod, 
 By Death's cold hand led home to God. 
 
 He landed in our view, 
 
 'Midst flaming hosts above ; 
 Whose ranks stood silent, while he drew 
 Nigh to the throne of love, 
 And meekly took the lowest seat, 
 Yet nearest his Redeemer's feet. 
 
 Thrill'd with ecstatic awe, 
 
 Entranced our spirits fell, 
 And saw — yet wist not what they saw, 
 And heard — no tongue can tell 
 What sounds the ear of rapture caught, 
 What glory fill'd the eye of thought. 
 
 Thus far above the pole, 
 On wings of mountain fire, 
 
The Death of the Rig] it eons. 37 
 
 Faith may pursue the enfranchised soul, 
 But soon her pinions tire ; 
 It is not given to mortal man 
 Eternal mysteries to scan. 
 
 — Behold the bed of death ; 
 This pale and lovely clay ; 
 Heard ye the sob of parting breath ? 
 Mark'd ye the eye's last ray ? 
 No ; — life so sweetly ceased to be, 
 It lapsed in immortality. 
 
 Could tears revive the dead, 
 
 Rivers should swell our eyes ! 
 Could sighs recall the spirit fled, 
 We would not quench our sighs, 
 Till love relumed this alter'd mien, 
 And all the embodied soul were seen. 
 
 Bury the dead ; — and weep 
 In stillness o'er the loss ; 
 Bury the dead ; — in Christ they sleep, 
 Who bore on earth his cross, 
 And from the grave their dust shall rise, 
 In his own image to the skies. 
 
3 8 James Montgomery. 
 
 THE GRAVE. 
 
 There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found, 
 They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
 
 Low in the ground. 
 
 The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
 No more disturbs their deep repose, 
 Than summer evening's latest sigh 
 
 That shuts the rose. 
 
 I long to lay this painful head 
 And aching heart beneath the soil, 
 To slumber in that dreamless bed 
 
 From all my toil. 
 
 For misery stole me at my birth, 
 And cast me helpless on the wild : 
 I perish ; — O my mother Earth ! 
 
 Take home thy Child. 
 
 On thy dear lap these limbs reclined 
 Shall gently moulder into thee ; 
 Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
 Resembling me. 
 
 
The Grave. 39 
 
 Hark ! — a strange sound affrights mine ear ; 
 My pulse, — my brain runs wild, — I rave; 
 — Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? 
 
 " I am The Grave ! 
 
 " The Grave, that never spake before, 
 Hath found at length a tongue to chide ; 
 O listen ! — I will speak no more : — 
 Be silent, Pride ! 
 
 " Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn, 
 The victim of consuming care ? 
 Is thy distracted conscience torn 
 
 By fell despair ? 
 
 " Do foul misdeeds of former times 
 Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? 
 And ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
 
 Murder thy rest ? 
 
 " Lash'd by the furies of the mind, 
 From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee ? 
 Ah ! think not, hope not, fool, to find 
 A friend in me. 
 
 " By all the terrors of the tomb, 
 Beyond the power of tongue to tell ; 
 By the dread secrets of my womb ; 
 
 By Death and Hell ; 
 
40 James Montgomery. 
 
 " I charge thee, Live ! — repent and pray ; 
 In dust thine infamy deplore ; 
 There yet is mercy; — go thy way, 
 
 And sin no more. 
 
 " Art thou a Mourner ? — Hast thou known 
 The joy of innocent delights, 
 Endearing days for ever flown, 
 
 And tranquil nights ? 
 
 " O Live ! — and deeply cherish still 
 The sweet remembrance of the past : 
 Rely on Heaven's unchanging will 
 
 For peace at last. 
 
 " Art thou a Wanderer ? — Hast thou seen 
 O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? 
 A shipwreck'd sufferer hast thou been, 
 
 Misfortune's mark ? 
 
 " Though long of winds and waves the sport, 
 Condemn'd in wretchedness to roam, 
 Live ! — though shalt reach a sheltering port, 
 A quiet home. 
 
 " To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame, 
 And was thy friend a deadly foe, 
 Who stole into thy breast to aim 
 A surer blow ? 
 
The Grave, 41 
 
 " Live ! — and repine not o'er his loss, 
 A loss unworthy to be told : 
 Thou hast mistaken sordid dross 
 
 For friendship's gold. 
 
 " Seek the true treasure, seldom found, 
 Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, 
 And soothe the bosom's deepest wound 
 With heavenly balm. 
 
 " Did Woman's charms thy youth beguile, 
 And did the Fair One faithless prove ? 
 Hath she betray'd thee with a smile, 
 
 And sold thy love ? 
 
 " Live ! — 'T was a false bewildering fire : 
 Too often Love's insidious dart 
 Thrills the fond soul with wild desire, 
 But kills the heart. 
 
 " Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear, 
 To gaze on listening Beauty's eye ; 
 To ask 3 — and pause in hope and fear 
 Till she reply. 
 
 " A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
 A brighter maiden faithful prove ! 
 Thy youth, thine age, shall yet be blest 
 In woman's love. 
 
42 James Montgomery. 
 
 -Whate'er thy lot, — whoe'er thou be,- 
 
 Confess thy folly, — kiss the rod, 
 And in thy chastening sorrows see 
 
 The hand of God. 
 
 " A bruised reed He will not break ; 
 Afflictions all his children feel : 
 He wounds them for his mercy's sake, 
 He wounds to heal. 
 
 " Humbled beneath his mighty hand, 
 Prostrate his Providence adore : 
 'T is done ! — Arise ! He bids thee stand, 
 To fall no more. 
 
 " Now, traveller in the vale of tears, 
 To realms of everlasting light, 
 Through Time's dark wilderness of years, 
 Pursue thy flight. 
 
 " There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
 And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
 Low in the ground, 
 
 " The Soul, of origin divine, 
 God's glorious image, freed from clay, 
 In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine 
 A star of day. 
 
The Common Lot. 43 
 
 " The Sun is but a spark of fire, 
 A transient meteor in the sky ; 
 The Soul, immortal as its Sire, 
 
 Shall never die." 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past, 
 There lived a man : — and who was he ?- 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 That man resembled thee. 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth, 
 The land in which he died unknown : 
 His name hath perish'd from the earth ; 
 This truth survives alone : — 
 
 That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
 Alternate triumph'd in his breast ; 
 His bliss and woe, — -a smile, a tear ! — 
 Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 
 The changing spirits' rise and fall ; 
 We know that these were felt by him, 
 For these are felt by all. 
 
44 James Montgomery. 
 
 He suffered, — but his pangs are o'er ; 
 Enjoy'd, — but his delights are fled ; 
 Had friends, — his friends are now no more ; 
 And foes, — his foes are dead. 
 
 He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave 
 Hath lost in its unconscious womb : 
 O, she was fair ! — but nought could save 
 Her beauty from the tomb. 
 
 He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 
 Encounter'd all that troubles thee : 
 He was — whatever thou hast been ; 
 He is — what thou shalt be. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 
 Erewhile his portion, life and light, 
 To him exist in vain. 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
 That once their shades and glory threw, 
 Have left in yonder silent sky 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 The annals of the human race, 
 Their ruins, since the world began, 
 Of him afford no other trace 
 Than this, — There lived a man ! 
 
The Soul's Aspiration. 45 
 
 AN EPITAPH. 
 
 Art thou a man of honest mould, 
 
 With fervent heart, and soul sincere ? 
 
 A husband, father, friend ? — Behold, 
 Thy brother slumbers here. 
 
 The sun that wakes yon violet's bloom, 
 Once cheer'd his eye, now dark in death 
 
 The wind that wanders o'er his tomb 
 Was once his vital breath. 
 
 The roving wind shall pass away, 
 The warming sun forsake the sky ; 
 
 Thy brother, in that dreadful day, 
 Shall live and never die. 
 
 THE SOUL'S ASPIRATION. 
 
 Father of all our mercies, Thou 
 In whom we move and live, 
 
 Hear us, in heaven, Thy dwelling, now, 
 And answer and forgive. 
 
 When bound with sins and trespasses, 
 From wrath we fain would flee, 
 
46 James Montgomery. 
 
 Lord, cancel our unrighteousness, 
 And set the captives free. 
 
 When harass'd by ten thousand foes, 
 Our helplessness we feel ; 
 
 Oh, give the weary soul repose, 
 The wounded spirit heal. 
 
 When dire temptations gather round, 
 And threaten or allure, 
 
 By storm or calm, in Thee be found 
 A refuge strong and sure. 
 
 When age advances, may we grow 
 In faith, and hope, and love ; 
 
 And walk in holiness below, 
 To holiness above. 
 
 When earthly joys and cares depart, 
 
 Desire and envy cease, 
 Be Thou the portion of our heart, 
 
 In Thee may we have peace. 
 
 When flames these elements destroy, 
 And worlds in judgment stand, 
 
 May we lift up our heads with joy, 
 And meet at Thy right hand. 
 
Elegy. . 47 
 
 yames Beattie. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Tired with the busy crowds, that all the day- 
 Impatient throng where Folly's altars flame, 
 
 My languid powers dissolve with quick decay, 
 'Till genial Sleep repair the sinking frame. 
 
 Hail, kind reviver ! that canst lull the cares, 
 And every weary sense compose to rest, 
 
 Lighten the oppressive load which anguish bears, 
 And warm with hope the cold desponding breast. 
 
 Touch'd by thy rod, from Power's majestic brow 
 Drops the gay plume ; he pines a lowly clown ; 
 
 And on the cold earth stretch'd, the son of Woe, 
 Quaffs Pleasure's draught, and wears a fancied crown. 
 
 When roused by thee, on boundless pinions borne, 
 
 Fancy to fairy scenes exults to rove, 
 Now scales the cliff gay-gleaming on the morn, 
 
 Now sad and silent treads the deepening grove ; 
 
4 8 James Beattie. 
 
 Or skims the main, and listens to the 6torms, 
 Marks the long waves roll far remote away ; 
 
 Or mingling with ten thousand glittering forms, 
 Floats on the gale, and basks in purest day. 
 
 Haply, ere long, pierced by the howling blast, 
 Through dark and pathless deserts I shall roam, 
 
 Plunge down the unfathom'd deep, or shrink aghast 
 Where bursts the shrieking spectre from the tomb : 
 
 Perhaps loose Luxury's enchanting smile 
 Shall lure my steps to some romantic dale, 
 
 Where Mirth's light freaks the unheeded hours beguile, 
 And airs of rapture warble in the gale. 
 
 Instructive emblem of this mortal state ! 
 
 Where scenes as various every hour arise 
 In swift succession, which the hand of Fate 
 
 Presents, then snatches from our wondering eyes. 
 
 Be taught, vain man, how fleeting all thy joys, 
 Thy boasted grandeur, and thy glittering store ; 
 
 Death comes, and all thy fancied bliss destroys, 
 Quick as a dream it fades, and is no more. 
 
 And, sons of Sorrow ! though the threatening storm 
 
 Of angry Fortune overhang awhile, 
 Let not her frowns your inward peace deform ; 
 
 Soon happier days in happier climes shall smile. 
 
 
The Destruction of Sennacherib. 49 
 
 Through Earth's throng'd visions while we toss forlorn, 
 'Tis tumult all, and rage, and restless strife ; 
 
 But these shall vanish like the dreams of morn, 
 When Death awakes us to immortal life. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Dike the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
 Like the, leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew 
 still ! 
 
50 Lord Byron. 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; 
 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail : 
 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 The King was on his throne, 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall : 
 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 
 A thousand cups of gold, 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless heathen's wine! 
 
Vision of Belshazzar. 5 1 
 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 " Let the men of lore appear, 
 
 The wisest of the earth, 
 And expound the words of fear, 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good, 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage, 
 
 They saw — but knew no more. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 A stranger and a youth, 
 
52 Lord Byron. 
 
 He heard the king's command, 
 He saw that writing's truth. 
 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 The prophecy in view; 
 
 He read it on that night, — 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away, 
 He, in the balance weigh'd 
 
 Is light and worthless clay; 
 The shroud his robe of state, 
 
 His canopy the stone ; 
 The Mede is at his gate! 
 
 The Persian on his throne!" 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Since our country, our God — Oh, my Sire ! 
 Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
 Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
 Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now! 
 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And the mountains behold me no more : 
 If the hand that I love lay me low, 
 There cannot be pain in the blow ! 
 
To Belshazzar. 5 3 
 
 And of this, oh, my father ! be sure — 
 That the blood of thy child is as pure 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
 And the last thought that soothes me below. 
 
 Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
 Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
 I have won the great battle for thee, 
 And my father and country are free ! 
 
 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
 When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride, 
 And forget not I smiled as I died ! 
 
 TO BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
 Behold! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing wall, 
 Many a despot men miscall 
 
 Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die? 
 
5 4 Lord Byron. 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 
 
 More than thy very diadem, 
 Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
 Which, worn by thee, even slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die ! 
 
 Oh! early in the balance weigh'd, 
 
 And ever light of word and worth, 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 
 
 And left thee but a mass of earth. 
 To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ! 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 
 On earth thou wert all but divine, 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 
Bright be the Place of thy Soul. 5 5 
 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
 
 When we know that thy God is with thee. 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 May its verdure like emeralds be : 
 There should not be the shadow of gloom 
 
 In aught that reminds us of thee. 
 
 Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
 May spring from the spot of thy rest: 
 
 But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the blest! 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS 
 SUFFERING CLAY. 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
 
 Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay, 
 
 But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 
56 Lord Byron. 
 
 AH, all in earth or skies displayed, 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 And all, that was, at once appears. 
 
 Before Creation peopled earth, 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
 And where the farthest heaven had birth, 
 
 The spirit trace its rising track. 
 And where the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 While sun is querich'd or system breaks, 
 
 Fix'd in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 And age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing, 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly, 
 A nameless and eternal thing, 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 «g» 
 
Night in Switzerland. 5 7 
 
 NIGHT IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
 moved. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 Precipitously steep; and drawing near, 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more : 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 
5 8 Lord Byron. 
 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill, 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven ! 
 If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven, 
 That in our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar, 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves 
 a star. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — 
 All heaven and earth are still: From the high host 
 Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
 All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone: 
 
Miriam's Song. 59 
 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 
 And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
 The soul and source of music, which makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty ; — 't would disarm 
 The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 MIRIAM'S SONG. 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph'd — his people are free. 
 Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 
 
 His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, 
 How vain was their boasting ! — the Lord hath but 
 spoken, 
 
 And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumph'd — his people are free. 
 
 Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord, 
 
 His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword ! — 
 
60 Thomas Moore. 
 
 Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
 
 Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
 
 For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory, 
 And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide. 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 
 Jehovah has triumph' d, his people are free. 
 
 GOD'S GLORY IN THE CREATION. 
 
 Thou art, O God ! the life and light 
 Of all this wondrous world we see ; 
 
 Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
 Are but reflections caught from thee. 
 
 Where'er we turn thy glories shine, 
 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 When day, with farewell beam, delays 
 Among the opening clouds of even, 
 
 And we can almost think we gaze 
 Through golden vistas into heaven ; 
 
 Those hues, that make the sun's decline 
 
 So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are thine. 
 
 When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
 O'ershadows all the earth and skies, 
 
 Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
 Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes ; — 
 
The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine. 6 1 
 
 That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 
 So grand, so countless, Lord ! are thine. 
 
 When youthful spring around us breathes, 
 Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 
 And every flower the summer wreathes, 
 
 Is born beneath that kindling eye. 
 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT 
 SHRINE. 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
 My temple, Lord ! that arch of thine ; 
 My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
 And silent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
 My choir shall be the moonlight waves, 
 When murm'ring homeward to their caves, 
 Or, when the stillness of the sea, 
 E'en more than music, breathes of Thee. 
 
 I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown, 
 All light and silence, like thy Throne ! 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night, 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
62 Thomas Moore. 
 
 Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look, 
 Shall be my pure and shining book, 
 Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
 The glories of thy wondrous name. 
 
 I'll read thy anger in the rack 
 
 That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; 
 
 Thy mercy in the azure hue 
 
 Of sunny brightness, breaking through ! 
 
 There's nothing bright, above, below, 
 From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
 But in its light my soul can see 
 Some feature of thy Deity ! 
 
 There's nothing dark, below, above, 
 But in its gloom I trace thy Love, 
 And meekly wait that moment, when 
 Thy touch shall turn all bright again ! 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show, 
 
 For man's illusion given ; 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
 Deceitful shine, deceitful flow ; 
 
 There's nothing true but Heaven ! 
 
Jerusalem. 63 
 
 And false the light on glory's plume, 
 
 As fading hues of even ; 
 And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom, 
 Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — 
 
 There's nothing bright but Heaven ! 
 
 Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 
 
 From wave to wave we're driven ; 
 And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, 
 Serve but to light the troubled way, — 
 There's nothing calm but Heaven ! 
 
 JERUSALEM. 
 
 Fall'n is thy throne, O Israel ! 
 
 Silence is o'er thy plains ; 
 Thy dwellings all lie desolate, 
 
 Thy children weep in chains. 
 Where are the dews that fed thee 
 
 On Etham's barren shore ? 
 That fire from heaven which led thee, 
 
 Now lights thy path no more. 
 
 Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem — 
 Once she was all thine own : 
 
 Her love thy fairest heritage, 
 Her power thy glory's throne. 
 
64 Thomas Moore. 
 
 Till evil came, and blighted 
 Thy long-loved olive tree ; 
 
 And Salem's shrines were lighted 
 For other gods than thee. 
 
 Then sank the star of Solyma, 
 
 Then pass'd her glory's day, 
 Like heath that, in the wilderness, 
 
 The wild wind whirls away. 
 Silent and waste her bowers, 
 
 Where once the mighty trod, 
 And sunk those guilty towers, 
 
 Where Baal reign'd as God. 
 
 Go," said the Lord, " Ye Conquerors ! 
 
 Steep in her blood your swords, 
 And raze to earth her battlements, 
 
 For they are not the Lord's. 
 Till Zion's mournful daughter 
 
 O'er kindred bones shall tread, 
 And Hinnom's vale of slaughter 
 
 Shall hide but half her dead." 
 
 But soon shall other pictured scenes 
 
 In brighter vision rise, 
 When Zion's sun shall sevenfold shine 
 
 On all her mourners' eyes : 
 
The A Imighty Comforter. 6 5 
 
 And on her mountains beauteous stand 
 
 The messengers of peace ; 
 " Salvation by the Lord's right hand," 
 
 They shout and never cease. 
 
 THE ALMIGHTY COMFORTER. 
 
 O, Thou ! who driest the mourner's tear, 
 How dark this world would be, 
 
 If, when deceived and wounded here, 
 We could not fly to Thee ! 
 
 The friends, who in our sunshine live, 
 When winter comes, are flown ; 
 
 And he who has but tears to give, 
 Must weep those tears alone. 
 
 But thou wilt heal that broken heart, 
 Which, like the plants that throw 
 
 Their fragrance from the wounded part, 
 Breathes sweetness out of woe. 
 
 When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 
 And even the hope that threw 
 
 A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 
 Is dimm'd and vanish'd too ! 
 
 F 
 
66 Robert S out hey. 
 
 Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom, 
 
 Did not thy Wing of Love 
 Come, brightly wafting through the gloom, 
 
 Our Peace branch from above ? 
 
 Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright 
 With more than rapture's ray ; 
 
 As darkness shews us worlds of light 
 We never saw by day. 
 
 
 Robert S out key. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 With cheerful step the traveller 
 
 Pursues his early way, 
 When first the dimly-dawning east 
 
 Reveals the rising day. 
 
 He bounds along his craggy road, 
 He hastens up the height, 
 
 And all he sees and all he hears 
 Administer delight. 
 
Youth and Age. 67 
 
 And if the mist, retiring slow, 
 
 Roll round its wavy white, 
 He thinks the morning vapours hide, 
 
 Some beauty from his sight. 
 
 But when behind the western clouds 
 
 Departs the fading day, 
 How wearily the traveller 
 
 Pursues his evening way! 
 
 Sorely along the craggy road 
 
 His painful footsteps creep, 
 And slow, with many a feeble pause, 
 
 He labours up the steep. 
 
 And if the mists of night close round, 
 
 They fill his soul with fear ; 
 He dreads some unseen precipice, 
 
 Some hidden danger near. 
 
 So cheerfully does youth begin 
 
 Life's pleasant morning stage ; 
 Alas! the evening traveller feels 
 
 The fears of wary age ! 
 
 ? 
 
68 Robert Southey. 
 
 THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR. 
 
 And wherefore do the poor complain ? 
 
 The rich man ask'd of me ; . . . 
 Come walk abroad with me, I said, 
 
 And I will answer thee. 
 
 'T was evening, and the frozen streets 
 
 Were cheerless to behold, 
 And we were wrapt and coated well, 
 
 And yet we were a-cold. 
 
 We met an old bare-headed man, 
 His locks were thin and white ; 
 
 I ask'd him what he did abroad 
 In that cold winter's night ; 
 
 The cold was keen indeed, he said, 
 
 But at home no fire had he, 
 And therefore he had come abroad 
 
 To ask for charity. 
 
 We met a young bare-footed child, 
 And she begg'd loud and bold ; 
 
 I ask'd her what she did abroad 
 When the wind it blew so cold ; 
 
The Complaints of the Poor. 69 
 
 She said her father was at home, 
 
 And he lay sick a-bed, 
 And therefore was it she was sent 
 
 Abroad to beg for bread. 
 
 We saw a woman sitting down 
 
 Upon a stone to rest, 
 She had a baby at her back 
 
 And another at her breast ; 
 
 I ask'd her why she loiter'd there 
 When the night-wind was so chill ; 
 
 She turn'd her head and bade the child 
 That scream'd behind, be still ; 
 
 Then told us that her husband served, 
 
 A soldier, far away, 
 And therefore to her parish she 
 
 Was begging back her way. 
 
 We met a girl, her dress was loose, 
 
 And sunken was her eye, 
 Who with a wanton's hollow voice 
 
 Address' d the passers-by ; 
 
 I ask'd her what there was in guilt 
 
 That could her heart allure 
 To shame, disease, and late remorse ; 
 
 She answer'd she was poor. 
 
jo Robert Southey. 
 
 I turn'd me to the rich man then, 
 For silently stood he, . . . 
 
 You ask'd me why the poor complain, 
 And these have answer'd thee ! 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS. 
 
 t( You are old, Father William," the young man cried, 
 " The few locks that are left you are gray ; 
 You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ; 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray." 
 
 " In the days of my youth," Father William replied, 
 " I remember'd that youth would fly fast, 
 And abused not my health and my vigour at first, 
 That I never might need them at last." 
 
 " You are old, Father William," the young man cried, 
 " And pleasures with youth pass away ; 
 And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray." 
 
 " In the days of my youth," Father William replied, 
 " I remember'd that youth could not last ; 
 I thought of the future ; whatever I did, 
 That I never might grieve for the past." 
 
Hope Triumphant in Death. J I 
 
 " You are old, Father William," the young man cried, 
 " And life must be hast'ning away ; 
 You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; 
 Now tell me the reason, I pray." 
 
 " I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied, 
 " Let the cause thy attention engage ; 
 In the days of my youth I remember'd my God, 
 And He hath not forgotten my age." 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 HOPE TRIUMPHANT IN DEATH. 
 
 Unfading Hope ! when life's last embers burn, 
 When soul to soul, and dust to dust return ! 
 Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour ! 
 Oh ! then thy kingdom comes ! Immortal Power ! 
 What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly 
 The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye ! 
 Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey 
 The morning dream of life's eternal day — 
 Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin ! 
 And all the Phoenix spirit burns within! 
 
72 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 Oh ! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, 
 The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! 
 Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, 
 It is a dread and awful thing to die ! 
 Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun ! 
 Where Time's far-wandering tide has never run, 
 From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres, 
 A warning conies, unheard by other ears. 
 'T is Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud, 
 Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud ! 
 While Nature hears, with terror-mingled trust, 
 The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust ; 
 And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod 
 The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, 
 With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, 
 And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss ! 
 
 Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume 
 The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb ! 
 Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll 
 Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul ! 
 Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, 
 Chased on his night-steed by the star of day ! 
 The strife is o'er — the pangs of Nature close, 
 And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. 
 Hark ! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, 
 The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, 
 On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, 
 Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ; 
 
Hope Triumphant in Death. 73 
 
 Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail 
 Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, 
 When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still 
 Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill ! 
 
 Soul of the just ! companion of the dead ! 
 Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled ? 
 Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, 
 Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ; 
 Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn, 
 And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and return. — 
 Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven, 
 With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven, 
 Careers the fiery giant, fast and far, 
 On bickering wheels, and adamantine car ; 
 From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, 
 He visits realms beyond the reach of thought ; 
 But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run, 
 Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun ! 
 So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd 
 Her trembling wings, emerging from the world ; 
 And o'er the path by mortal never trod, 
 Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God ! 
 
74 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 MATERNAL CARE. 
 
 Lo ! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps, 
 Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps ; 
 She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 
 Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes, 
 And weaves a song of melancholy joy — 
 " Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy : 
 No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; 
 No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine ; 
 Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be 
 In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he ! 
 Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, 
 Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past — 
 With many a smile my solitude repay, 
 And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 
 
 " And say, when summon'd from the world and thee, 
 I lay my head beneath the willow tree ; 
 Wilt thou, sweet mourner ! at my stone appear, 
 And soothe my parted spirit lingering near ? 
 Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to shed 
 The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed ; 
 With aching temples on thy hand reclined, 
 Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, 
 Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, 
 And think on all my love, and all my woe ?" 
 
The Star of Bethlehem. 75 
 
 So speaks affection, ere the infant eye 
 Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 
 But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim 
 A mother's ear by that endearing name ; 
 Soon as the playful innocent can prove 
 A tear of pity, or a smile of love, 
 Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, 
 Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, 
 Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 
 The mournful ballad warbled in his ear ; 
 How fondly looks admiring Hope the while, 
 At every artless tear, and every smile ! 
 How glows the joyous parent to descry 
 A guileless bosom, true to sympathy ! 
 
 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 When, marshall'd on the nightly plain, 
 The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
 
 One star alone, of all the train, 
 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
 
J 6 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 From every host, from every gem; 
 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks, — 
 It is the star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud, — the night was dark, 
 The ocean yawn'd — and rudely blow'd 
 
 The wind that toss'd my foundering bark. 
 
 Deep horrors then my vitals froze; 
 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; 
 When suddenly a star arose, — 
 
 It was the star of Bethlehem. 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all ; 
 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease; 
 And, through the storm and dangers' thrall, 
 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 Now, safely moor'd — my perils o'er, 
 I '11 sing, first in night's diadem, 
 
 For ever and for evermore, 
 
 The star ! — The star of Bethlehem ! 
 
A Hymn. 77 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 Lord, my God, in mercy turn ; 
 In mercy hear a sinner mourn ! 
 To Thee I call, to Thee I cry, 
 Oh ! leave me, leave me not to die ! 
 
 1 strove against Thee, Lord, I know ; 
 
 I spurn'd thy grace, I mock'd thy law ; 
 The hour is past — the day's gone by, 
 And I am left alone to die. 
 
 O pleasures past, what are ye now 
 But thorns about my bleeding brow? 
 Spectres that hover round my brain, 
 And aggravate and mock my pain. 
 
 For pleasure I have given my soul ; 
 Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 
 Now, Vengeance, smile — and with a blow, 
 Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 
 
 Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I '11 cling ; 
 I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing; 
 I'll clasp the cross; and, holding there, 
 Even me, oh bliss! — his wrath may spare. 
 
y8 Henry Kirke White. 
 
 A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 
 
 O Lord, another day is flown, 
 
 And we, a lonely band, 
 Are met once more before thy throne, 
 
 To bless thy fostering hand. 
 
 And wilt Thou bend a listening ear 
 
 To praises low as ours ? 
 Thou wilt ! for Thou dost love to hear 
 
 The song which meekness pours. 
 
 And, Jesus, Thou thy smiles wilt deign, 
 
 As we before Thee pray; 
 For Thou didst bless the infant train, 
 
 And we are less than they. 
 
 Oh ! let thy grace perform its part, 
 
 And let contention cease; 
 And shed abroad in every heart 
 
 Thine everlasting peace! 
 
 Thus chasten'd, cleansed, entirely thine, 
 
 A flock by Jesus led; 
 The Sun of Holiness shall shine 
 
 In glory on our head. 
 
Love of the Country. 79 
 
 And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet, 
 
 And Thou wilt bless our way; 
 Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet 
 
 The dawn of lasting day. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Welcome silence ! welcome peace ! 
 
 O most welcome, holy shade ! 
 Thus I prove as years increase, 
 
 My heart and soul for quiet made. 
 Thus I fix my firm belief 
 
 While rapture's gushing tears descend ; 
 That every flower and every leaf 
 
 Is moral Truth's unerring friend. 
 
 I would not for a world of gold 
 
 That Nature's lovely face should tire ; 
 Fountain of blessings yet untold ; 
 
 Pure source of intellectual fire ! 
 Fancy's fair buds, the gems of song, 
 
 Unquicken'd midst the world's rude strife, 
 Shall sweet retirement render strong, 
 
 And morning silence bring to life. 
 
80 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
 Then tell me not that I shall grow 
 
 Forlorn, that fields and woods will cloy; 
 From Nature and her changes flow 
 
 An everlasting tide of joy. 
 I grant that summer heads will burn, 
 
 That keen will come the frosty night ; 
 But both shall please ; and each in turn 
 
 Yield Reason's most supreme delight. 
 
 Build me a shrine, and I could kneel 
 
 To rural gods, or prostrate fall ; 
 Did I not see, did I not feel, 
 
 That one Great Spirit governs all. 
 O heaven permit that I may lie 
 
 Where o'er my corse green branches wave ; 
 And those who from life's tumult fly 
 
 With kindred feelings press my grave. 
 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Halt ! ye legions, sheathe your steel : 
 Blood grows precious; shed no more : 
 
 Cease your toils ; your wounds to heal : 
 Lo ! beams of mercy reach the shore ! 
 
 From realms of everlasting light 
 
 The favour'd guest of Heaven is come : 
 
Peace. 
 
 Prostrate your banners at the sight, 
 And bear the glorious tidings home. 
 
 The plunging corpse with half-closed eyes, 
 
 No more shall stain the unconscious brine ; 
 Yon pendant gay, that streaming flies, 
 
 Around its idle staff shall twine. 
 Behold ! along the ethereal sky 
 
 Her beams o'er conquering navies spread ; 
 Peace ! Peace ! the leaping sailors cry, 
 
 With shouts that might arouse the dead. 
 
 Then forth Britannia's thunder pours ; 
 
 A vast reiterated sound ! 
 From line to line the cannon roars, 
 
 And spreads the blazing joy around. 
 Return, ye brave ! your country calls ; 
 
 Return, return, your task is done : 
 While here the tear of transport falls, 
 
 To grace your laurels nobly won. 
 
 Albion cliffs — from age to age, 
 
 That bear the roaring storm of heaven, 
 Did ever fiercer warfare lage, 
 
 Was ever peace more timely given ? 
 Wake ! sounds of joy: rouse, generous isle ; 
 
 Let every patriot bosom glow: 
 Beauty, resume thy wonted smile, 
 
 And, Poverty, thy cheerful brow. 
 
82 Thomas Gray. 
 
 Boast, Briton, of thy glorious guests ; 
 
 Peace, Wealth, and Commerce, all thine own, 
 Still on contented labour rests 
 
 The basis of a lasting throne. 
 Shout, Poverty ! 't is Heaven that saves ; 
 
 Protected wealth, the chorus raise, 
 Ruler of war, of winds, and waves, 
 
 Accept a prostrate nation's praise. 
 
 Thomas Gray. 
 
 ODE ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd hours, 
 
 Fair Venus' train, appear, 
 Disclose the long-expected flowers, 
 
 And wake the purple year ! 
 The attic warbler pours her throat, 
 Responsive to the cuckoo's note, 
 
 The untaught harmony of spring : 
 While, whispering pleasure as they fly, 
 Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky 
 
 Their gather'd fragrance fling. 
 
Ode on the Spring. 83 
 
 Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch 
 
 A broader, browner shade, 
 Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech 
 
 O'er-canopies the glade, 
 Beside some water's rushy brink 
 With me the Muse shall sit, and think 
 
 (At ease reclined in rustic state) 
 How vain the ardour of the crowd, 
 How low, how little are the proud, 
 
 How indigent the great ! 
 
 Still is the toiling hand of care ; 
 
 The panting herds repose : 
 Yet hark, how through the peopled air 
 
 The busy murmur glows ! 
 The insect youth are on the wing, 
 Eager to taste the honied spring, 
 
 And float amid the liquid noon : 
 Some lightly o'er the current skim, 
 Some show their gaily-gilded trim 
 
 Quick-glancing to the sun. 
 
 To Contemplation's sober eye 
 
 Such is the race of man : 
 And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 Alike the busy and the gay 
 But flutter through life's little day, 
 
84 Alexander Pope. 
 
 In fortune's varying colours dress'd : 
 Brush'd by the hand of rough mischance, 
 Or chill'd by age, their airy dance 
 
 They leave, in dust to rest. 
 
 Methinks I hear, in accents low, 
 
 The sportive kind reply : 
 Poor Moralist ! and what art thou ? 
 
 A solitary fly! 
 Thy joys no glittering female meets, 
 No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, 
 
 No painted plumage to display: 
 On hasty wings thy youth is flown ; 
 Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — 
 
 We frolic while 't is Mav. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame : 
 Quit, oh quit this mortal frame : 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
 Oh the pain, the bless of dying ! 
 
 Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
The Messiah. 85 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; Angels say, 
 
 Sister Spirit, come away. 
 
 What is this absorbs me quite \ 
 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be Death ? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
 O Grave ! where is thy Victorv ;. 
 
 O Death ! where is thy Sting ? 
 
 THE MESSIAH. 
 
 Ye Nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song : 
 To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more — O thou my voice inspire 
 Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire ! 
 
 Rapt into future times, the Bard begun : 
 A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son ! 
 From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, 
 Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies 
 The iEthereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
 And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
 
86 Alexander Pope. 
 
 Ye Heavens ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ! 
 The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
 From storms a shelter and from heat a shade. 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail; 
 Returning Justice lift aloft her scale ; 
 Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, 
 And white-robed innocence from heaven descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise the expected morn ! 
 Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born ! 
 See Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, 
 With all the incense of the breathing spring : 
 See lofty Lebanon his head advance, 
 See nodding forests on the mountains dance : 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, 
 And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies ! 
 Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers ; 
 Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears : 
 A God, a God ! the vocal hills reply, 
 The rocks proclaim the approaching Deity. 
 Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies ! 
 Sink down, ye mountains, and, ye valleys, rise ; 
 With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay ; 
 Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! 
 The Saviour comes ! by ancient bards foretold : 
 Hear him, ye deaf, and, all ye blind, behold ! 
 He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, 
 And on the sightless eyeball pour the day : 
 'T is he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 
The Messiah. 87 
 
 And bid new music charm the unfolding ear : 
 The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, 
 And leap exulting like the bounding roe, 
 No sigh, no murmur the wide world shall hear, 
 From every face he wipes off every tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound, 
 And Hell's grim tyrant feel the eternal wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air, 
 Explores the lost, the wand'ring sheep directs, 
 By day o'ersees them, and by night protects, 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms, 
 Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms ; 
 Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, 
 The promised father of the future age. 
 No more shall nation against nation rise, 
 Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
 Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er, 
 The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend, 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
 Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful Son 
 Shall finish what his short-lived Sire begun ; 
 Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
 And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. 
 The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
 See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
 And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 New falls of water murm'ring in his ear. 
 
8 Alexander Pope. 
 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 
 Waste, sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn, 
 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn : 
 
 To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed, 
 
 And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 
 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, 
 
 And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead ! 
 
 The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, 
 
 And harmless serpents lick the pilgrims' feet. 
 
 The smiling infant in his hand shall take 
 
 The crested basilisk and speckled snake, 
 
 Pleased the green lustre of the scales survey, 
 
 And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 
 
 Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ! 
 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 
 See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
 
 See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, 
 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
 
 Demanding life impatient for the skies ! 
 
 See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, 
 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
 
 See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings, 
 
 And heap'd with products of Sabean springs ! 
 
 For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 
 See heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day. 
 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
 
Humility. 89 
 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
 But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 O'erflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine 
 Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
 But fix'd his word, his saving power remains ; 
 Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns ! 
 
 HUMILITY. 
 
 Hope, humbly, then ; with trembling pinions soar, 
 Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore, 
 What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
 Man never is, but always to be blest : 
 The soul, uneasy and confined from home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind ; 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk or milky way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has given 
 Behind the cloud-topp'd hill an humbler Heaven ; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the watery waste, 
 
90 A lexander Pope. 
 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 
 No fiends torment, nor Christians thirst for gold. 
 
 To be, contents his natural desire, 
 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 Go, wiser thou ; and in thy scale of sense, 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
 Say, here he gives too little, there too much : 
 Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust, 
 Yet cry, if man 's unhappy, God 's unjust ; 
 If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, 
 Alone made perfect here, immortal there ; 
 Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 
 Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. 
 In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 
 Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
 Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
 Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 Of order, sins against the eternal cause. 
 
Adoration of the A ngels. 9 1 
 
 yohn Milton. 
 
 ADORATION OF THE ANGELS. 
 
 From Paradise Lost. 
 
 No sooner had the Almighty ceased, but all 
 The multitude of angels, with a shout 
 Loud as from numbers without number, sweet 
 As from blest voices, uttering joy, heaven rung 
 With jubilee, and loud Hosannas fill'd 
 The eternal regions : lowly reverend 
 Towards either throne they bow, and to the ground 
 With solemn adoration down they cast 
 Their crowns inwove with amarant and gold ; 
 Immortal amarant, a flower which once 
 In paradise, fast by the tree of life, 
 Began to bloom ; but soon for man's offence 
 To heaven removed, where first it grew, there grows, 
 And flowers aloft, shading the fount of life, 
 And where the river of bliss through midst of heaven 
 Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream ; 
 With these that never fade the spirits elect 
 Bind their resplendent locks inwreathed with beams, 
 
92 John Milton. 
 
 Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright 
 Pavement, that like a sea of jaspar shone, 
 Empurpled with celestial roses smiled. 
 Then crown'd again, their golden harps they took, 
 Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side 
 Like quivers hung, and with preamble sweet 
 Of charming symphony, they introduce 
 Their sacred song, and waken raptures high ; 
 No voice exempt, no voice but well could join 
 Melodious part, such concord is in heaven. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 From Paradise Lost. 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad ; 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests 
 Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung; 
 Silence was pleased : now glow'd the firmament 
 With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length 
 Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 
The Cteation. 93 
 
 THE CREATION. 
 
 From Paradise Lost. 
 
 And God made two great lights, great for their use 
 
 To man, the greater to have rule by day, 
 
 The less by night altera ; and made the stars, 
 
 And set them in the firmament of heaven, 
 
 To illuminate the earth, and rule the day 
 
 In their vicissitude, and rule the night, 
 
 And light from darkness to divide. God saw, 
 
 Surveying his great work, that it was good : 
 
 For of celestial bodies first the sun 
 
 A mighty sphere he framed, unlightsome first, 
 
 Though of ethereal mould : then form'd the moon 
 
 Globose, and every magnitude of stars, 
 
 And sow'd with stars the heaven thick as a field : 
 
 Of light by far the greater part he took, 
 
 Transplanted from her cloudy shrine, and placed 
 
 In the sun's orb, made porous to receive 
 
 And drink the liquid light, firm to retain 
 
 Her gather'd beams, great palace now of light. 
 
 Hither, as to their fountain, other stars 
 
 Repairing, in their golden urns draw light, 
 
 And hence the morning planet gilds her horns; 
 
 By tincture or reflection they augment 
 
 Their small peculiar, though from human sight 
 
 So far remote, with diminution seen. 
 
94 John Milton. 
 
 EVE'S DISOBEDIENCE. 
 
 From Paradise Lost. 
 
 So saying, her rash hand, in evil hour, 
 
 Forth reaching to the fruit, she pluck' d, she eat : 
 
 Earth felt the wound, and Nature from her seat 
 
 Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe, 
 
 That all was lost. Back to the thicket slunk 
 
 The guilty serpent, and well might ; for Eve 
 
 Intent now wholly on her taste, nought else 
 
 Regarded, such delight till then, as seem'd, 
 
 In fruit she never tasted, whether true 
 
 Or fancied so, through expectation high 
 
 Of knowledge ; nor was God-head from her thought. 
 
 Greedily she ingorged without restraint, 
 
 And knew not eating death. 
 
 ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 
 
 Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ; 
 
 Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
 
 When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones, 
 
 Forget not ; in thy book record their groans 
 
 Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 
Prayer in Prospect of DeatJi. 95 
 
 Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that roll'd 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 
 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 The triple tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 
 A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way, 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF 
 DEATH. 
 
 O thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
 
 Of all my hope and fear ! 
 In whose dread presence, ere an hour. 
 
 Perhaps I must appear ! 
 
 If I have wander'd in those paths 
 
 Of life I ought to shun ; 
 As something, loudly, in my breast, 
 
 Remonstrates 1 have done; 
 
g6 Robert Burns. 
 
 Thou knowest that thou hast formed me, 
 With passions wild and strong; 
 
 And listening to their witching voice 
 Has often led me wrong. 
 
 Where human weakness has come short, 
 
 Or frailty stept aside, 
 Do thou, All-Good! for such thou art, 
 
 In shades of darkness hide. 
 
 Where with intention I have err'd, 
 
 No other plea I have, 
 But, Thou art good; and goodness still 
 
 Delighteth to forgive. 
 
 THE FIRST PSALM. 
 
 The man, in life wherever placed, 
 
 Hath happiness in store, 
 Who walks not in the wicked's way, 
 
 Nor learns their guilty lore ! 
 
 Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
 Casts forth his eyes abroad, 
 
 But with humility and awe 
 Still walks before his God. 
 
Mother s Lament on Death of her Son. 97 
 
 That man shall flourish like the trees, 
 
 Which by the streamlets grow ; 
 The fruitful top is spread on high, 
 
 And firm the root below. 
 
 But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
 Shall to the ground be cast, 
 
 And, like the rootless stubble tost, 
 Before the sweeping blast. 
 
 For why ? that God the good adore 
 Hath given them peace and rest, 
 
 But hath decreed that wicked men 
 Shall ne'er be truly blest. 
 
 A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE 
 DEATH OF HER SON. 
 
 Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 
 
 And pierced my darling's heart; 
 And with him all the joys are fled 
 
 Life can to me impart. 
 By cruel hands the sapling drops, 
 
 In dust dishonour'd laid: 
 So fell the pride of all my hopes, 
 
 My age's future shade. 
 
 H 
 
98 Robert Burns. 
 
 The mother linnet in the brake 
 
 Bewails her ravish'd young; 
 So I, for my lost darling's sake, 
 
 Lament the live-day long. 
 Death 1 oft I 've feared thy fatal blow, 
 
 Now, fond I bare my breast; 
 Oh, do thou kindly lay me low 
 
 With him I love, at rest ! 
 
 TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 
 
 That lovest to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usherest in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 O Mary! dear departed shade! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget, 
 
 Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met, 
 
 To live one day of parting love ! 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace, 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 
 
To Mary in Heave?z. 99 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 
 
 Twined am'rous round the raptured scene ; 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, 
 
 The birds sang love on every spray — 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaim' d the speed of wing&d day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ! 
 Time but the impression stronger makes, 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
 See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 
 
 Hearest thou the groans that rend his breast ? 
 
100 David Macbeth Moir. 
 
 David Macbeth Moir. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GRAVE. 
 
 Man comes into the world like morning mushrooms, soon 
 thrusting up their heads into the air, and conversing with their 
 kindred of the same production, and as soon they turn into dust 
 and forgetfulness. — Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 Who sleeps below ? who sleeps below ? — 
 
 It is a question idle all ! 
 Ask of the breezes as they blow, 
 
 Say, do they heed, or hear thy call ? 
 They murmur in the trees around, 
 And mock thy voice, an empty sound ! 
 
 A hundred summer suns have shower'd 
 
 Their fostering warmth, and radiance bright ; 
 
 A hundred winter storms have lower'd 
 With piercing floods, and hues of night, 
 
 Since first this remnant of his race 
 
 Did tenant his lone dwelling-place. 
 
 Say, did he come from East, from West ? 
 From Southern climes, or where the Pole, 
 
The Unknown Grave. ioi 
 
 With frosty sceptre, doth arrest 
 
 The howling billows as they roll ? 
 Within what realm of peace or strife 
 Did he first draw the breath of life ? 
 
 Was he of high or low degree ? 
 
 Did grandeur smile upon his lot I 
 Or, born to dark obscurity, 
 
 Dwelt he within some lowly cot, 
 And, from his youth to labour wed, 
 From toil-strung limbs wrung daily bread ? 
 
 Say, died he ripe, and full of years, 
 Bow'd down, and bent by hoary eld, 
 
 When sound was silence to his ears, 
 And the dim eyeball sight withheld ; 
 
 Like a ripe apple falling down, 
 
 Unshaken, 'mid the orchard brown ; 
 
 When all the friends that bless'd his prime, 
 Were vanish'd like a morning dream ; 
 
 Pluck'd one by one by spareless Time, 
 And scatter'd in oblivion's stream ; 
 
 Passing away all silently, 
 
 Like snow-flakes melting in the sea : 
 
 Or, 'mid the summer of his years, 
 
 When round him throng'd his children young, 
 When bright eyes gush'd with burning tears, 
 
 And anguish dwelt on every tongue, 
 
102 David Macbeth Moir. 
 
 Was he cut off, and left behind 
 
 A widow'd wife, scarce half resign'd ? 
 
 Or, 'mid the sunshine of his spring, 
 
 Came the swift bolt that dash'd him down ; 
 
 When she, his chosen, blossoming 
 In beauty, deem'd him all her own, 
 
 And forward look'd to happier years 
 
 Than ever bless'd this vale of tears ? 
 
 By day, by night, through calm and storm, 
 O'er distant oceans did he roam, 
 
 Far from his land, a lonely form, 
 
 The deck his walk, the sea his home : 
 
 Toss'd he on wild Biscayan wave, 
 
 Or where smooth tides Panama lave ? 
 
 Slept he within the tented field, 
 
 With pillowing daisies for his bed ? 
 
 Captived in battle, did he yield ? 
 Or plunge to victory o'er the dead ? 
 
 Oft, 'mid destruction, hath he broke 
 
 Through reeking blades and rolling smoke ? 
 
 Perhaps he perish 'd for the faith — 
 
 One of that persecuted band, 
 Who suffer'd tortures, bonds, and death, 
 
 To free from mental thrall the land, 
 And, toiling for the martyr's fame, 
 Espoused his fate, nor found a name ! 
 
 
The Unknown Grave. 103 
 
 Say, was he one to science blind, 
 A groper in Earth's dungeon dark ? 
 
 Or one who with aspiring mind 
 Did, in the fair creation, mark 
 
 The Maker's hand, and kept his soul 
 
 Free from this grovelling world's control ? 
 
 Hush ! wild surmise ! — 't is vain — 't is vain — 
 The summer flowers in beauty blow, 
 
 And sighs the wind, and floods the rain, 
 O'er some old bones that rot below ; 
 
 No other record can we trace 
 
 Of fame or fortune, rank or race ! 
 
 Then, what is life, when thus we see 
 No trace remains of life's career ? — 
 
 Mortal ! whoe'er thou art, for thee 
 A moral lesson gloweth here ; 
 
 Putt' st thou in aught of earth thy trust ? 
 
 'T is doom'd that dust shall mix with du6t. 
 
 What doth it matter, then, if thus, 
 
 Without a stone, without a name, 
 To impotently herald us, . 
 
 We float not on the breath of fame ; 
 But, like the dewdrop from the flower, 
 Pass, after glittering for an hour ? 
 
 The soul decays not, freed from earth, 
 And earthly coils, it bursts away ; — 
 
1 04 David Macbeth Moir. 
 
 Receiving a celestial birth, 
 
 And spurning off its bonds of clay, 
 It soars, and seeks another sphere, 
 And blooms through Heaven's eternal year ! 
 
 Do good ; shun evil ; live not thou, 
 As if at death thy being died ; 
 
 Nor Error's siren voice allow 
 
 To draw thy steps from truth aside ; 
 
 Look to thy journey's end — the grave ! 
 
 And trust in Him whose arm can save. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Father in Heaven ! who gave me breath, 
 And made this world for such as me, 
 
 Remind me, I must give, at death, 
 Account of all my deeds to Thee ! 
 
 If from the track of duty e'er 
 
 My thoughts would roam, my feet would slide, 
 Still may I feel that Thou art near, 
 
 And pray Thee, Lord, to be my guide. 
 
 Yes ! from Thine eye's unsleeping lid, 
 And from Thy presence none can flee ; 
 
 The secret places are not hid, 
 
 And darkness is as light to Thee ! 
 
Hymn. 105 
 
 So when I wake to morning light, 
 
 My prayers to Thee shall still ascend ; 
 
 And I will ask Thee, every night, 
 To bless my slumbers, and defend ! 
 
 Professor Wilson. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 Three days before my Mary's death, 
 We walked by Grassmere shore ; 
 
 " Sweet I^ake ! " she said with faltering breath, 
 " I ne'er shall see thee more ! " 
 
 Then turning round her languid head, 
 
 She looked me in the face, 
 And whispered, " When thy friend is dead, 
 
 Remember this lone place." 
 
 Vainly I struggled at a smile, 
 
 That did my fears betray ; 
 It seemed that on our darling isle 
 
 Foreboding darkness lay. 
 
io6 Professor Wilson. 
 
 My Mary's words were words of truth ; 
 
 None now behold the Maid ; 
 
 Amid the tears of age and youth, 
 
 She in her grave was laid. 
 
 Long days, long nights, I ween, were past 
 
 Ere ceased her funeral knell ; 
 
 But to the spot I went at last 
 
 Where she had breathed " farewell ! " 
 
 Methought, I saw the phantom stand 
 
 Beside the peaceful wave ; 
 
 I felt the pressure of her hand — 
 
 Then looked towards her grave. 
 
 Fair, fair beneath the evening sky 
 
 The quiet churchyard lay : 
 
 The tall pine-grove most solemnly 
 
 Hung mute above her clay. 
 
 Dearly she loved their arching spread, 
 
 Their music wild and sweet, 
 
 And, as she wished on her deathbed, 
 
 Was buried at their feet. 
 
 Around her grave a beauteous fence 
 
 Of wild-flowers shed their breath, 
 
 Smiling like infant innocence 
 
 Within the gloom of death. 
 
Mary. ioy 
 
 Such flowers from bank of mountain brook 
 
 At eve we used to bring, 
 When every little mossy nook 
 
 Betrayed returning Spring. 
 
 Oft had I fixed the simple wreath 
 
 Upon her virgin breast ; 
 But now such flowers as formed it, breathe 
 
 Around her bed of rest. 
 
 Yet all within my silent soul, 
 
 As the hushed air was calm ; 
 The natural tears that slowly stole, 
 
 Assuaged my grief like balm. 
 
 The air that s*eemed so thick and dull 
 
 For months unto my eye ; 
 Ah me ! how bright and beautiful 
 
 It floated on the sky ! 
 
 A trance of high and solemn bliss 
 
 From purest ether came ; 
 'Mid such a heavenly scene as this, 
 
 Death is an empty name ! 
 
 The memory of the past returned 
 
 Like music to my heart, — 
 It seemed that causelessly I mourned, 
 
 When we were told to part. 
 
108 Professor Wilson. 
 
 " God's mercy," to myself I said, 
 " To both our souls is given — 
 
 To me, sojourning on earth's shade, 
 To her — a Saint in heaven ! " 
 
 THE SABBATH-DAY. 
 
 When by God's inward light, a happy child, 
 
 I walked in joy, as in the open air, 
 
 It seemed to my young thought the Sabbath smiled 
 
 With glory and with love. So still, so fair, 
 
 The Heavens looked ever on that hallowed morn, 
 
 That, without aid of memory, something there 
 
 Had surely told me of its glad return. 
 
 How did my little heart at evening burn, 
 
 When, fondly seated on my father's knee, 
 
 Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer, 
 
 Warm from the fount of infant piety ! 
 
 Much is my spirit changed ; for years have brought 
 
 Intenser feeling and expanded thought ; 
 
 — Yet, must I envy every child I see ! 
 
 ¥ 
 
The Burial of the Righteous. 109 
 
 yames Grahame. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE RIGHTEOUS. 
 
 From the Sabbath. 
 
 But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale, 
 The house of prayer itself, — no place inspires 
 Emotions more accordant with the day, 
 Than does the field of graves, the land of rest : — 
 Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll, 
 The solemn funeral-toll, pausing, proclaims 
 The service of the tomb : the homeward crowds 
 Divide on either hand ; the pomp draws near ; 
 The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, 
 " I am the resurrection and the life." 
 Ah me ! these youthful bearers robed in white, 
 They tell a mournful tale ; some blooming friend 
 Is gone, dead in her prime of years : — 'Twas she, 
 The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give, 
 With angel tongue pleaded to those who could ; 
 With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye, 
 That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd 
 For longer life, with heart resign'd to die, — 
 Rejoiced to die ; for happy visions bless'd 
 
1 1 o James Grahame. 
 
 Her voyage's last days, and hovering round, 
 Alighted on her soul, giving presage 
 
 That heaven was nigh : O what a burst 
 
 Of rapture from her lips ! what tears of joy 
 
 Her heavenward eyes suffused ! Those eyes are 
 
 closed ; 
 But all her loveliness is not yet flown : 
 She smiled in death, and still her cold pale face 
 Retains that smile ; as when a waveless lake, 
 In which the wintry stars all bright appear, 
 Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice, 
 Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged, 
 Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast. 
 Again that knell ! The slow procession stops : 
 The pall withdrawn, Death's altar, thick emboss'd 
 With melancholy ornaments — (the name, 
 The record of her blossoming age), — appears 
 Unveil'd, and on it dust to dust is thrown, 
 The final rite. Oh ! hark that sullen sound ! 
 Upon the lower'd bier the shovell'd clay 
 Falls fast, and fills the void. 
 
 AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. 
 
 When homeward bands their several ways disperse, 
 I love to linger in the narrow field 
 Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb, 
 And think of some who silent sleep below. 
 
An Autumn Sabbath Walk. 
 
 1 1 1 
 
 Sad sighs the wind, that from those ancient elms 
 Shakes showers of leaves upon the wither'd grass : 
 The seer and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep, 
 Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock'd graves. 
 But list that moan ! 't is the poor blind man's dog, 
 His guide for many a day, now come to mourn 
 The master and the friend — conjunction rare ! 
 A man indeed he was of gentle soul, 
 Though bred to brave the deep : the lightning's flash 
 Had dimm'd, not closed, his mild, but sightless eyes. 
 He was a welcome guest through all his range ! 
 (It was not wide) : no dog would bay at him ; 
 Children would run to meet him on his way, 
 And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
 His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales. 
 Then would he teach the elfins how to plait 
 The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship ; 
 And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
 Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. 
 Peace to thy spirit ! that now looks on me 
 Perhaps with greater pity than I felt 
 To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 
 
 But let me quit this melancholy spot, 
 And roam where nature gives a parting smile. 
 As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod 
 That copes the sheepfold ring ; and in the woods 
 A second blow of many flowers appears ; 
 Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume. 
 But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath 
 
[ 1 2 John Logan. 
 
 That circles Autumn's brow : the ruddy haws 
 Now clothe the half-leaved thorn ; the bramble bends 
 Beneath its jetty load ; the hazel hangs 
 With auburn branches, dipping in the stream 
 That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow 
 The leaf-strewn banks : Oft, statue-like, I gaze, 
 In vacancy of thought, upon that stream, 
 And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam ; 
 Or rowan's cluster'd branch, or harvest sheaf, 
 Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood. 
 
 yohn Logan. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE. 
 
 Few are thy days, and full of woe, 
 
 O man of woman born ! 
 Thy doom is written, " Dust thou art, 
 
 And shalt to dust return." 
 
 Determined are the days that fly 
 
 Successive o'er thy head ; 
 The number'd hour is on the wing, 
 
 That lays thee with the dead. 
 
The Complaint of Nature. 1 1 3 
 
 Alas ! the little day of life 
 
 Is shorter than a span ; 
 Yet black with thousand hidden ills 
 
 To miserable man. 
 
 Gay is thy morning ; flattering hope 
 
 Thy sprightly step attends ; 
 But soon the tempest howls behind, 
 
 And the dark night descends. 
 
 Before its splendid hour the cloud 
 
 Comes o'er the beam of light ; 
 A pilgrim in a weary land, 
 
 Man tarries but a night. 
 
 Behold ! sad emblem of thy state, 
 The flowers that paint the field ; 
 
 Or trees, that crown the mountain's brow, 
 And boughs and blossoms yield. 
 
 When chill the blast of winter blows, 
 
 Away the summer flies, 
 The flowers resign their sunny robes, 
 
 And all their beauty dies. 
 
 Nipp'd by the year, the forest fades ; 
 
 And, shaking to the wind, 
 The leaves toss to and fro, and streak 
 
 The wilderness behind. 
 
1 1 4 John Logan. 
 
 The winter past, reviving flowers 
 Anew shall paint the plain ; 
 
 The woods shall hear the voice of spring; 
 And flourish green again : 
 
 But man departs this earthly scene, 
 
 Ah ! never to return ! 
 No second spring shall e'er revive 
 
 The ashes of the urn. 
 
 
 The inexorable doors of death 
 What hand can e'er unfold ? 
 Who from the cerements of the tomb 
 Can raise the human mould ? 
 
 The mighty flood that rolls along 
 
 Its torrents to the main, 
 The waters lost can ne'er recall 
 
 From that abyss again. 
 
 The days, the years, the ages, dark 
 Descending down to night, 
 
 Can never, never be redeem'd 
 Back to the gates of light. 
 
 So man departs the living scene, 
 To night's perpetual gloom ; 
 
 The voice of morning ne'er shall break 
 The slumbers of the tomb. 
 
The Complaint of Nature. 115 
 
 Where are our fathers ? whither gone 
 
 The mighty men of old ? 
 The patriarchs, prophets, princes, kings, 
 
 In sacred books inroll'd ? 
 
 Gone to the resting-place of man, 
 
 The everlasting home, 
 Where ages past have gone before, 
 
 Where future ages come. 
 
 Thus nature pour'd the wail of woe, 
 
 And urged her earnest cry; 
 Her voice in agony extreme 
 
 Ascended to the sky. 
 
 The Almighty heard ; then from his throne 
 
 In majesty he rose ; 
 And from the heaven, that open'd wide, 
 
 His voice in mercy flows. 
 
 " When mortal man resigns his breath, 
 And falls a clod of clay, 
 The soul immortal wings its flight 
 To never-setting day. 
 
 " Prepared of old for wicked men 
 
 The bed of torment lies ; 
 
 The just shall enter into bliss 
 
 Immortal in the skies." 
 
n6 
 
 John Logan. 
 
 TRUST IN PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Almighty Father of mankind, 
 On thee my hopes remain, 
 
 And when the day of trouble comes, 
 I shall not trust in vain. 
 
 Thou art our kind Preserver, from 
 The cradle to the tomb ; 
 
 And I was cast upon thy care, 
 Even from my mother's womb. 
 
 In early years thou wast my guide, 
 And of my youth the friend : 
 
 And as my days began with thee, 
 With thee my days shall end. 
 
 I know the power in whom I trust, 
 The arm on which I lean ; 
 
 He will my Saviour ever be, 
 Who has my Saviour been. 
 
 In former times, when trouble came, 
 Thou didst not stand afar ; 
 
 Nor didst thou prove an absent friend 
 Amid the din of war. 
 
Heavenly Wisdom. 117 
 
 My God, who causedst me to hope, 
 
 When life began to beat, 
 And when a stranger in the world, 
 
 Didst guide my wandering feet ; 
 
 Thou wilt not cast me ofF, when age 
 
 And evil days descend ; 
 Thou wilt not leave me in despair, 
 
 To mourn my latter end. 
 
 Therefore in life I'll trust to thee, 
 
 In death I will adore ; 
 And after death will sing thy praise, 
 
 When time shall be no more. 
 
 HEAVENLY WISDOM. 
 
 O happy is the man who hears 
 Instruction's warning voice, 
 
 And who celestial wisdom makes 
 His early, only choice. 
 
 For she has treasures greater far 
 Than east or west unfold, 
 
 And her reward is more secure 
 Than is the gain of gold. 
 
1 1 8 Robert Pollok. 
 
 In her right hand she holds to view 
 A length of happy years ; 
 
 And in her left, the prize of fame 
 And honour bright appears. 
 
 She guides the young, with innocence 
 In pleasure's path to tread ; 
 
 A crown of glory she bestows 
 Upon the hoary head. 
 
 According as her labours rise, 
 So her rewards increase ; 
 
 Her ways are ways of pleasantness, 
 And all her paths are peace. 
 
 Robert Pollok. 
 
 THE PRIMEVAL EARTH. 
 
 From the Course of Time. 
 
 A little orb, 
 Attended by one moon, her lamp by night, 
 With her fair sisterhood of planets seven, 
 Revolving round their central sun; she third 
 
The Primeval Earth. 119 
 
 In place, in magnitude the fourth. That orb, 
 
 New made, new named, inhabited anew, 
 
 Though whiles we sons of Adam visit still 
 
 Our native place, not changed so far but we 
 
 Can trace our ancient walks, the scenery 
 
 Of childhood, youth, and prime, and hoary age, 
 
 But scenery most of suffering and woe, — 
 
 That little orb, in days remote of old, 
 
 When angels yet were young, was made for Man, 
 
 And titled Earth, her primal virgin name. 
 
 Created first so lovely, so adorned 
 
 With hill, and dale, and lawn, and winding vale, 
 
 Woodland, and stream, and lake, and rolling seas, 
 
 Green mead, and fruitful tree, and fertile grain, 
 
 And herb, and flower; so lovely, so adorned 
 
 With numerous beasts of every kind, with fowl 
 
 Of every wing and every tuneful note, 
 
 And with all fish that in the multitude 
 
 Of waters swam ; so lovely, so adorned, 
 
 So fit a dwelling-place for man, that as 
 
 She rose, complete, at the creating word, 
 
 The morning stars, the sons of God, aloud 
 
 Shouted for joy; and God, beholding, saw 
 
 The fair design, that from eternity 
 
 His mind conceived, accomplished, and, well pleased, 
 
 His six days' finished work most good pronounced, 
 
 And Man declared the sovereign prince of all. 
 
120 Robert Pollok. 
 
 THE BIBLE. 
 
 From the Course of Time. 
 
 This Book, this holy Book, on every lint 
 Marked with the seal of high divinity, 
 On every leaf bedewed with drops of love 
 Divine, and with the eternal heraldry 
 And signature of God Almighty stamped 
 From first to last, — this ray of sacred light, 
 This lamp, from off the everlasting throne, 
 Mercy took down, and in the night of Time 
 Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow; 
 And evermore beseeching men, with tears 
 And earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live* 
 And many to her voice gave ear, and read, 
 Believed, obeyed ; and now, as the Amen, 
 True, Faithful Witness swore, with snowy robes 
 And branchy palms surround the fount of life, 
 And drink the streams of immortality, 
 For ever happy, and for ever young. 
 
 
The Sceptic. 1 2 1 
 
 THE SCEPTIC. 
 
 From the Course of Time. 
 
 The sceptic's route, the unbeliever's, who, 
 
 Despising reason, revelation, God, 
 
 And kicking 'gainst the pricks of conscience, rushed 
 
 Deliriously upon the bossy shield 
 
 Of the Omnipotent ; and in his heart 
 
 Purposed to deify the idol chance ; 
 
 And laboured hard, oh, labour worse than naught ! 
 
 And toiled with dark and crooked reasoning, 
 
 To make the fair and lovely earth, which dwelt 
 
 In sight of Heaven, a cold and fatherless, 
 
 Forsaken thing, that wandered on, forlorn, 
 
 Undestined, uncompassioned, unupheld ; 
 
 A vapour eddying in the whirl of chance, 
 
 And soon to vanish everlastingly. 
 
 He travailed sorely, and made many a tack, 
 
 His sails oft shifting, to arrive, dread thought ! 
 
 Arrive at utter nothingness ; and have 
 
 Being no more, no feeling, memory, 
 
 No lingering consciousness that e'er he was. 
 
 Guilt's midnight wish ! last, most abhorred thought 
 
 Most desperate effort of extremest sin ! 
 
 Others, preoccupied, ne'er saw true Hope ; 
 
 He, seeing, aimed to stab her to the heart, 
 
 And with infernal chemistry to wring 
 
 The last sweet drop from sorrow's cup of gall ; 
 
i 2 2 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 To quench the only ray that cheered the earth, 
 And leave mankind in night which had no star. 
 Others the streams of Pleasure troubled ; he 
 Toiled much to dry her very fountain-head. 
 Unpardonable man ! sold under sin ! 
 He was the devil's pioneer who cut 
 The fences down of Virtue, sapped her walls, 
 And opened a smooth and easy way to death. 
 Traitor to all existence, to all life ! 
 Soul-suicide ! determined foe of being ! 
 Intended murderer of God, Most High ! 
 Strange road, most strange ! to seek for happiness ; 
 Hell's madhouses are full of such, too fierce, 
 Too furiously insane, and desperate, 
 To rage unbound 'mong evil spirits damned. 
 
 Sir Waiter Scott. 
 
 HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. 
 
 From Ivan hoe. 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 
 Out from the land of bondage came, 
 
 Her father's God before her moved, 
 An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
 
Hymn of the Hebrew Maid. 1 2 3 
 
 By day, along the astonished lands 
 
 The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
 By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands 
 
 Return'd the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hymn of praise, 
 
 And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, 
 And Zion's daughters poured their lays, 
 
 With priest's and warrior's voice between. 
 No portents now our foes amaze, 
 
 Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; 
 Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 
 
 And Thou hast left them to their own. 
 
 But present still, though now unseen ! 
 
 When brightly shines the prosperous day, 
 Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 
 
 To temper the deceitful ray. 
 And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In shade and storm the frequent night, 
 Be Thou, long suffering, slow to wrath, 
 
 A burning and a shining light ! 
 
 Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 
 
 The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
 No censer round our altar beams, 
 
 And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn ; 
 But Thou hast said, — " The blood of goat, 
 
 The flesh of rams I will not prize ; 
 A contrite heart, an humble thought, 
 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice." 
 
124 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 HYMN FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 From the Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
 When heaven and earth shall pass away ! 
 What power shall be the sinner's stay ? 
 How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 
 
 When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, 
 The flaming heavens together roll ; 
 When louder yet, and yet more dread, 
 Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ! 
 
 Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
 When man to judgment wakes from clay, 
 Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, 
 Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! 
 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 From Marmion. 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 Loved when the year its course had roll'd, 
 And brought blithe Christmas back again, 
 With all his hospitable train. 
 
Christmas. 125 
 
 Domestic and religious rite 
 
 Gave honour to the holy night ; 
 
 On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
 
 On Christmas eve the mass was sung : 
 
 That only night in all the year, 
 
 Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
 
 The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; 
 
 The hall was dress'd with holly green ; 
 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
 
 To gather in the mistletoe. 
 
 Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
 
 And Ceremony dofPd his pride. 
 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
 
 That night might village partner choose ; 
 
 The Lord, underogating, share 
 
 The vulgar game of " post and pair." 
 
 All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight, 
 
 And general voice, the happy night, 
 
 That to the cottage, as the crown, 
 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 1? 
 
126 A lexander Wilson. 
 
 Alexander Wilson. 
 
 THOUGHTS IN A CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Again, O Sadness ! softening power, again 
 
 I woo thee, thoughtful, from this letter'd stone ; 
 
 And hail, thou comes ! to view the dreary scene, 
 Where ghastly Death has fixed his awful throne. 
 
 How lone, how solemn seems each view around ? 
 
 I see, at distance, oh ! distracting sight ! 
 I see the tomb — the humbly grassy mound, 
 
 Where he now lies, once all my soul's delight ! 
 
 A youth more generous, more humanely kind, 
 A friend more loving, or a heart more brave, 
 
 Ne'er breathed a being from the eternal mind, 
 Nor fell a victim to the cruel grave. 
 
 But cease, ye tears, nor thus incessant flow, 
 
 And still these tumults, oh ! thou bleeding heart ; 
 
 Methinks his shade soft whispers, " Wait the blow, 
 And soon we '11 meet, ne'er, ne'er again to part." 
 
 
Thoughts in a Churchyard. 127 
 
 Here stands the artist's tomb, in splendour rear'd, 
 And all the pomp surviving art can give ; 
 
 But will hoar Time the pillar'd dome regard, 
 And shall its pride to endless ages live ? 
 
 No — though the marble seems to start to life, 
 Though firm as rock the structure rears its head, 
 
 Time's cankering jaws will end the daring strife, 
 And lay it level with the unhonour'd dead. 
 
 Ye lonely heaps, ye bones, ye grim skulls, say, 
 Must I be stretch'd cold, lifeless in the dust ; 
 
 Must this poor head be wrapt in putrid clay, 
 
 And glare like you ? — Ye murmur back — " It must." 
 
 Then what avail thy fleeting joys, O Time ! 
 
 Thy bliss uncertain, when such truths are sure ; 
 May these scenes teach me to condemn this clime, 
 
 And seek that bliss, those joys that shall endure. 
 
 These are thy spoils, thou grisly monarch, Death ! 
 
 Grim pleased thou stalks above the low-laid train ; 
 Each sculptured stone, each poor, low, grassy wreath, 
 
 Thou eyes as trophies of thy dreadful fame. 
 
 But know, proud lord, thy reign shall have an end, 
 Though nought on earth can now resist its force ; 
 
 Yet, shalt thou fall beneath a mightier hand, 
 And yield thy weapons, and thy meagre horse. 
 
128 A lexander Wilson. 
 
 In that dread day, when from the bellowing clouds, 
 The trump's loud sound shall shake the affrighted 
 earth, 
 
 When these, and millions struggling from their shrouds, 
 Shall wake to misery or to endless mirth : 
 
 When Time shall cease in scanty stream to flow, 
 And earth and stars in endless ruin sink, 
 
 Then Heaven's high King, with one triumphant blow, 
 Shall dash thee headlong from existence's brink. 
 
 But, see ! sad evening spreads her sable veil, 
 The chilly breeze bleak ruffles o'er the lawn ; 
 
 For once, adieu ; ye silent heaps, farewell, 
 Perhaps I join you ere to-morrow's dawn. 
 
 Oft let me stray where these lone captives lie, 
 
 And, sad and thoughtful, o'er the deep grave bend ; 
 
 This is the place, truth tells us with a sigh, 
 Where all our sorrows and our sighings end. 
 
 
Hymn on the Seasons. 129 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 HYMN ON THE SEASONS. 
 
 These as they change, Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
 Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
 And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
 Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months, 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : 
 And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow- whispering gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd, 
 And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
 In Winter awful Thou ! With clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Riding sublime, Thou bid'st the world adore, 
 And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast. 
 
130 James Thomson. 
 
 Mysterious round ! What skill, what force divine, 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
 Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
 Such beauty and beneficence combined ; 
 Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
 But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
 Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres, 
 Works in the secret deep, shoots, steaming, thence 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring, 
 Flings from the Sun direct the flaming Day, 
 Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth, 
 And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 Nature, attend ! join every living soul, 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
 In adoration join, and, ardent, raise 
 One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, 
 Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes. 
 O, talk of Him in solitary glooms, 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven 
 The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
 
Hymn on the Seasons. 131 
 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 
 Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound ; 
 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 
 Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
 
 In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 
 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
 
 Ye forests, bend, ye harvests, wave to Him ; 
 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, 
 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. 
 
 Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep 
 
 Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, 
 
 Ye constellations, while your angels strike, 
 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 
 Great source of day ! best image here below 
 
 Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 
 On Nature write with every beam His praise. 
 
 The thunder rolls : be hush'd the prostrate world ; 
 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills : ye mossy rocks, 
 
 Retain the sound : the broad responsive low, 
 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
 
 And His unsufFering kingdom yet will come. 
 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
 
 Burst from the groves ; and when the restless day, 
 
132 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, 
 
 Sweetest of birds, sweet Philomela, charm 
 
 The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 
 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, 
 
 Crown the great hymn ! In swarming cities vast, 
 
 Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
 
 The long-resounding voice, oft-breaking clear, 
 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
 
 And, as each mingling flame increases each, 
 
 In one united ardour rise to heaven. 
 
 Or if you rather choose the rural shade, 
 
 And find a fane in every sacred grove ; 
 
 There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, 
 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
 
 Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 
 
 For me, when 1 forget the darling theme, 
 
 Whether the blossom blows, the Summer ray 
 
 Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 
 
 Or Winter rises in the blackening East ; 
 
 Be my tongue mute, may Fancy paint no more, 
 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 
 
 Should fate command me to the furthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, 
 Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on the Atlantic Isles ; 't is nought to me 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 
The Negro's Complaint, 133 
 
 In the void waste as in the city full ; 
 
 And where He vital breathes there must be joy. 
 
 When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, 
 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 
 1 cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, 
 
 Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go 
 
 Where Universal Love not smiles around, 
 
 Sustaining all yon orbs and all their sons ; 
 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 
 In infinite progression. — But I lose 
 
 Myself in Him, in light ineffable ! 
 
 Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise. 
 
 William Cowfter. 
 
 THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 Forced from home and all its pleasures, 
 
 Afric's coast I left forlorn, 
 To increase the stranger's treasures, 
 
 O'er the raging billows borne. 
 
134 William Cowper. 
 
 Men from England bought and sold me, 
 Paid my price in paltry gold : 
 
 But, though slave they have enroll'd me, 
 Minds are never to be sold. 
 
 Still in thought as free as ever, 
 
 What are England's rights, I ask ? 
 Me from my delights to sever, 
 
 Me to torture, me to task ? 
 Fleecy locks and black complexion 
 
 Cannot forfeit Nature's claim ; 
 Skins may differ, but affection 
 
 Dwells in white and black the same. 
 
 Why did all-creating Nature 
 
 Make the plant for which we toil ? 
 Sighs must fan it, tears must water, 
 
 Sweat of ours must dress the soil. 
 Think, ye masters, iron-hearted, 
 
 Lolling at your jovial boards, 
 Think how many backs have smarted 
 
 For the sweets your cane affords. 
 
 Is there, as ye sometimes tell us, 
 Is their One who reigns on high ? 
 
 Has He bid you buy and sell us, 
 Speaking from his throne, the sky ? 
 
 Ask Him, if your knotted scourges, 
 Matches, blood-extorting screws, 
 
The Negro s Complaint. 135 
 
 Are the means that duty urges 
 Agents of his will to use ? 
 
 Hark ! He answers ! — Wild tornadoes 
 
 Strewing yonder sea with wrecks, 
 Wasting towns, plantations, meadows, 
 
 Are the voice with which he speaks. 
 He, foreseeing what vexations 
 
 Afric's sons should undergo, 
 Fix'd their tyrants' habitations 
 
 Where his whirlwinds answer — No. 
 
 By our blood in Afric wasted, 
 
 Ere our necks received the chain ; 
 By the miseries that we tasted, 
 
 Crossing in your barks the main ; 
 By our sufferings, since ye brought us 
 
 To the man-degrading mart, 
 All sustain'd by patience, taught us 
 
 Only by a broken heart ! 
 
 Deem our nation brutes no longer, 
 
 Till some reason ye shall find 
 Worthier of regard and stronger 
 
 Than the colour of our kind. 
 Slaves of gold, whose sordid dealings 
 
 Tarnish all your boasted powers, 
 Prove that you have human feelings 
 
 Ere you proudly question ours ! 
 
1 3 6 William Cowper. 
 
 THE MORNING DREAM. 
 
 'Twas in the glad season of spring, 
 
 Asleep at the dawn of the day, 
 I dream'd what I cannot but sing, 
 
 So pleasant it seem'd as I lay. 
 I dream'd that, on ocean afloat, 
 
 Far hence to the westward I sail'd, 
 While the billows high lifted the boat, 
 
 And the fresh-blowing breeze never fail'd. 
 
 In the steerage a woman I saw ; 
 
 Such at least was the form that she wore, 
 Whose beauty impress' d me with awe, 
 
 Ne'er taught me by woman before. 
 She sat, and a shield at her side 
 
 Shed light, like a sun on the waves, 
 And, smiling divinely, she cried — 
 
 " I go to make freemen of slaves." 
 
 Then raising her voice to a strain 
 
 The sweetest that ear ever heard, 
 She sung of the slave's broken chain 
 
 Wherever her glory appear'd. 
 Some clouds, which had over us hung, 
 
 Fled, chased by her melody clear, 
 And methought while she liberty sung, 
 
 ,'Twas liberty only to hear. 
 
 
The Morning Dream. 137 
 
 Thus swiftly dividing the flood, 
 
 To a slave-cultured island we came, 
 Where a Demon, her enemy, stood — 
 
 Oppression his terrible name. 
 In his hand, as a sign of his sway, 
 
 A scourge hung with lashes he bore, 
 And stood looking out for his prey 
 
 From Africa's sorrowful shore. 
 
 But soon as approaching the land 
 
 That goddess-like woman he view'd, 
 The scourge he let fall from his hand, 
 
 With blood of his subjects imbrued. 
 I saw him both sicken and die, 
 
 And the moment the monster expired, 
 Heard shouts that ascended the sky, 
 
 From thousands with rapture inspired. 
 
 Awaking, how could I but muse 
 
 At what such a dream should betide ? 
 But soon my ear caught the glad news, 
 
 Which served my weak thought for a guide, — 
 That Britannia, renown'd o'er the waves 
 
 For the hatred she ever had shown 
 To the black-sceptred rulers of slaves, 
 
 Resolves to have none of her own. 
 
138 William Cowper. 
 
 HUMAN FRAILTY. 
 
 Weak and irresolute is man ; 
 
 The purpose of to-day, 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 
 To-morrow rerids away. 
 
 The bow well bent and smart the spring, 
 
 Vice seems already slain, 
 But passion rudely snaps the string, 
 
 And it revives again. 
 
 Some foe to his upright intent 
 
 Finds out his weaker part, 
 Virtue engages his assent, 
 
 But pleasure wins his heart. 
 
 *T is here the folly of the wise 
 Through all his heart we view, 
 
 And while his tongue the charge denies, 
 His conscience owns it true. 
 
 Bound on a voyage of awful length 
 
 And dangers little known, 
 A stranger to superior strength, 
 
 Man vainly trusts his own. 
 
 
Peace. 139 
 
 But oars alone can ne'er prevail 
 
 To reach the distant coast, 
 The breath of heaven must swell the sail, 
 
 Or all the toil is lost. 
 
 ON PEACE. 
 
 Come, peace of mind, delightful guest ! 
 Return and make thy downy nest 
 
 Once more in this sad heart : 
 Nor riches I, nor power pursue, 
 Nor hold forbidden joys in view, 
 
 We therefore need not part. 
 
 Where wilt thou dwell if not with me, 
 From avarice and ambition free, 
 
 And pleasure's fatal wiles ? 
 For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare 
 The sweets that I was wont to share, 
 
 The banquet of thy smiles ? 
 
 The great, the gay, shall they partake 
 The heaven that thou alone canst make ; 
 
 And wilt thou quit the stream 
 That murmurs through the dewy mead, 
 The grove and the sequester'd shed, 
 
 To be a guest with them ? 
 
140 William Cowpev. 
 
 For thee I panted, thee I prized, 
 For thee I gladly sacrificed 
 
 Whate'er I loved before ; 
 And shall I see thee start away, 
 And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say — 
 
 Farewell ! we meet no more ? 
 
 ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Suns that set, and moons that wane, 
 Rise, and are restored again ; 
 Stars that orient day subdues, 
 Night at her return renews. 
 Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth 
 Of the genial womb of Earth, 
 Suffer but a transient death 
 From the winter's cruel breath. 
 Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
 Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
 We, alas ! Earth's haughty kings, 
 We, that promise mighty things, 
 Losing soon life's happy prime, 
 Droop and fade in little time. 
 Spring returns, but not our bloom ; 
 Still 'tis winter in the tomb. 
 
 
Hymn. 141 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Hear, Lord, the song of praise and prayer, 
 
 In heaven thy dwelling-place, 
 From infants, made the public care, 
 
 And taught to seek thy face ! 
 
 Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day ; 
 
 And grant us, we implore, 
 Never to waste in sinful play 
 
 Thy holy Sabbaths more. 
 
 Thanks that we hear, — but oh ! impart 
 
 To each desires sincere, 
 That we may listen with our heart, 
 
 And learn as well as hear. 
 
 For if vain thoughts the minds engage 
 
 Of elder far than we, 
 What hope that at our heedless age 
 
 Our minds should e'er be free ? 
 
 Much hope, if thou our spirits take 
 
 Under thy gracious sway, 
 Who canst the wisest wiser make, 
 
 And babes as wise as they. 
 

 142 William Cowper. 
 
 Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, 
 A sun that ne'er declines ; 
 
 And be thy mercies showered on those 
 Who placed us where it shines. 
 
 SIMPLE TRUST. 
 
 Still, still, without ceasing, 
 
 I feel it increasing, 
 This fervour of holy desire ; 
 
 And often exclaim, 
 
 Let me die in the flame 
 Of a love that can never expire ! 
 
 Had I words to explain 
 
 What she must sustain 
 Who dies to the world and its ways ; 
 
 How joy and affright, 
 
 Distress and delight, 
 Alternately chequer her days. 
 
 Thou, sweedy severe ! 
 
 I would make thee appear, 
 In all thou art pleased to award, 
 
 Not more in the sweet 
 
 Than the bitter I meet, 
 My tender and merciful Lord. 
 
 
Ode to Duty. 143 
 
 This Faith, in the dark 
 
 Pursuing its mark 
 Through many sharp trials of Love, 
 
 Is the sorrowful waste 
 
 That is to be pass'd 
 In the way to the Canaan above. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 
 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love, 
 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 
 When empty terrors overawe ; 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free ; 
 
 And calm' st the weary strife of frail humanity 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 
144 William Wordsworth. 
 
 Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 May joy be theirs while life shall last ! 
 And thou, if they should totter, teach them to 
 stand fast ! 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And blest are they who in the main 
 This faith, even now, do entertain : 
 Live in the spiiit of this creed ; 
 Yet find that other strength, according to their 
 need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried ; 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 Full oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task imposed, from day to day ; 
 But thee I now would serve more strictly, if 1 
 may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul, 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 
To the Supreme Being. 145 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their name ; 
 
 I long for a repose which ever is the same. 
 
 Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are 
 fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
 Oh ! let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 And in the light of truth thy bondman let me 
 live ! 
 
 TO THE SUPREME BEING. 
 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed 
 If thou the Spirit give by which I pray : 
 
146 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 1 
 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
 Which of its native self can nothing feed ; 
 Of good and pious works thou art the seed, 
 Which quickens only where thou say^t it may ; 
 Unless thou show to us thine own true way, 
 No man can find it ; Father ! thou must lead. 
 Do thou, then, breathe these thoughts into my mind, 
 By which such virtue may in me be bred, 
 That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
 The fetters of my tongue do thou unbind, 
 That I may have the power to sing of thee, 
 And sound thy praises everlastingly. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 THE VANITY OF LIFE. 
 
 From Religious Musings. 
 
 Believe thou, O my soul, 
 Life is a vision shadowy of truth ; 
 And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, 
 Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire, 
 And lo ! the throne of the redeeming God, 
 Forth flashing unimaginable day, 
 Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell. 
 
Epitaph on an Infant. 147 
 
 Contemplant spirits ! ye that hover o'er 
 
 With untired gaze the immeasurable fount 
 
 Ebullient with creative Deity ! 
 
 And ye of plastic power that interfused 
 
 Roll through the grosser and material mass 
 
 In organizing surge ! Holies of God ! 
 
 (And what if monads of the infinite mind ?) 
 
 I haply journeying my immortal course, 
 
 Shall sometime join your mystic choir ! Till then 
 
 I discipline my young noviciate thought 
 
 In ministeries of heart-stirring song, 
 
 And aye on meditation's heaven-ward wing, 
 
 Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air 
 
 Of love, omnific, omnipresent love, 
 
 Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul 
 
 As the great sun, when he his influence 
 
 Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream 
 
 Flows to the ray, and warbles as it flows. 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, 
 Death came with friendly care ; 
 
 The opening bud to heaven convey'd 
 And bade it blossom there. 
 
148 Edward Young. 
 
 Edward Young. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 From the Last Day. 
 
 Oh Thou ! whose balance does the mountains weigh, 
 Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey, 
 Whose breath can turn those watery worlds to flame, 
 That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; 
 Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, 
 And on the boundless of thy goodness calls. 
 
 Oh ! give the winds all past offence to sweep, 
 To scatter wide, or bury in the deep : 
 Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see, 
 And wholly dedicate my soul to thee : 
 Reign o'er my will ; my passions ebb and flow 
 At thy command, nor human motive know ! 
 If anger boil, let anger be my praise, 
 And sin the graceful indignation raise: 
 My love be warm to succour the distress' d, 
 And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd. 
 
 Oh may my understanding ever read 
 This glorious volume which thy wisdom made ! 
 Who decks the maiden spring with flowery pride ? 
 
 
An Address to the Deity. 149 
 
 Who calls forth summer, like a sparkling bride ? 
 
 Who joys the mother autumn's bed to crown ? 
 
 And bids old winter lay her honours down ? 
 
 Not the great Ottoman, or greater Czar, 
 
 Not Europe's arbitress of peace and war. 
 
 May sea, and land, and earth, and heaven, be join'd, 
 
 To bring the eternal Author to my mind ! 
 
 When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, 
 
 May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul ; 
 
 When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, 
 
 Adore, my heart ! the majesty divine. 
 
 Through every scene of life, or peace, or war, 
 Plenty, or want, thy glory be my care ! 
 Shine we in arms ? or sing beneath our vine \ 
 Thine is the vintage, and the conquest thine : 
 Thy pleasure points the shaft, and bends the bow, 
 The cluster blasts, or bids it brightly glow : 
 'T is thou that lead'st our powerful armies forth, 
 And givest great Anne thy sceptre o'er the north. 
 
 Grant I may ever, at the morning ray, 
 Open with prayer the consecrated day ; 
 Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, 
 And with the mounting sun ascend the skies ; 
 As that advances, let my zeal improve, 
 And glow with ardour of consummate love ; 
 Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun 
 My endless worship shall be still begun. 
 And, oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night 
 To sacred thought may forcibly invite. 
 
I 5 O Robert Blair. 
 
 When this world 's shut, and awful planets rise, 
 Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies ; 
 Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, 
 And shew all nature in a milder light ; 
 How every boisterous thought in calm subsides ! 
 How the smoothed spirit into goodness glides ! 
 Oh how divine ! to tread the milky way, 
 To the bright palace of the Lord of day ; 
 His court admire, or for his favour sue, 
 Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew ; 
 Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep, 
 While I long vigils to its Founder keep ! 
 
 Robert Blair. 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF PARADISE. 
 
 From the Grave. 
 
 Poor man ! how happy once in thy first state ! 
 When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand, 
 He stamp'd thee with his image, and well pleased 
 Smiled on his last fair work ! then all was well, 
 Sound was the body, and the soul serene ; 
 Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune, 
 
The Happiness of Paradise. i 5 1 
 
 That play their several parts. Nor head nor heart 
 
 Offer'd to ache ; nor was their cause they should, 
 
 For all was pure within : no fell remorse, 
 
 Nor anxious castings up of what might be, 
 
 Alarm'd his peaceful bosom : summer seas 
 
 Shew not more smooth, when kiss'd by southern winds, 
 
 Just ready to expire. Scarce importuned, 
 
 The generous soil, with a luxuriant hand, 
 
 Offer'd the various produce of the year, 
 
 And every thing most perfect in its kind. 
 
 Blessed, thrice blessed days ! but, ah, how short ! 
 
 Bless'd as the pleasing dreams of holy men, 
 
 But fugitive, like those, and quickly gone. 
 
 slipp'ry state of things ! What sudden turns, 
 
 What strange vicissitudes, in the first leaf 
 
 Of man's sad history ! to-day most happy, 
 
 And ere to-morrow's sun has set, most abject ! 
 
 How scant the space between these vast extremes ! 
 
 Thus fared it with our sire : not long he enjoyed 
 
 His paradise : scarce had the happy tenant 
 
 Of the fair spot, due time to prove its sweets, 
 
 Or sum them up, when straight he must be gone, 
 
 Ne'er to return again. 
 
 ^ 
 
152 George Herbert. 
 
 George Herbert. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Sweet peace, where dost thou dwell ? I humbly 
 crave 
 Let me once know. 
 I sought thee in a secret cave 
 
 And ask'd if peace were there, 
 A hollow wind did seem to answer, " No ! 
 Go seek elsewhere." 
 
 I did ; — and going, did a rainbow note : 
 
 Surely, thought I, 
 This is the lace of Peace's coat : 
 I will search out the matter. 
 But while I. look'd, the clouds immediately 
 Did break and scatter. 
 
 Then I went to a garden, and did spy 
 A gallant flower, 
 
 The crown imperial. " Sure," said I, 
 " Peace at the root must dwell." 
 But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour 
 What show'd so well. 
 
Peace. 153 
 
 At length I met a reverend good old man ; 
 
 Whom when for Peace 
 I did demand he thus began : 
 ** There was a prince of old 
 At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase 
 Of flock and fold. 
 
 " He sweetly lived ; yet sweetness did not save 
 His life from foes. 
 But after death out of his grave 
 
 There sprang twelve stalks of wheat 
 Which many wond'ring at, got some of those 
 To plant and set. 
 
 " It prosper'd strangely, and did soon disperse 
 Through all the earth ; 
 For they that taste it do rehearse, 
 That virtues lie therein ; 
 A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth, 
 By flight of sin. 
 
 " Take of this grain, which in my garden grows. 
 And grows for you : 
 Make bread of it ; and that repose 
 And peace which everywhere 
 With so much earnestness you do pursue, 
 Is only there." 
 
154 George Herbert. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 I made a posy, while the day ran by : 
 
 " Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
 
 My life within this band." 
 But time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
 By noon most cunningly did steal away, 
 
 And wither'd in my hand. 
 
 My hand was next to them, and then my heart. 
 I took, without more thinking, in good part, 
 
 Time's gentle admonition : 
 Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
 Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 
 
 Yet sugaring the suspicion. 
 
 Farewell, dear flowers ! sweedy your time ye spent 
 Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament : 
 
 And, after death, for cures. 
 I follow straight, without complaints or grief; 
 Since, if my scent be good, I care not if 
 
 It be as short as yours. 
 
 ? 
 
Virtue. 155 
 
 GRIEF. 
 
 who will give me tears ? Come all ye springs, 
 Dwell in my head and eyes : come, clouds, and rain : 
 My grief hath need of all the watery things, 
 That nature hath produced. Let every vein 
 Suck up a river to supply mine eyes, 
 My weary weeping eyes too diy for me, 
 Unless they get new conduits, new supplies 
 To bear them out, and with my state agree. 
 What are two shallow fords, two little sprouts 
 Of a less world ? the greater is but small, 
 A narrow cupboard for my griefs and doubts, 
 Which want provision in the midst of all. 
 Verses, ye are too fine a thing, too wise 
 For my rough sorrows : cease, be dumb and mute, 
 Give up your feet, and running to mine eyes, 
 And keep your measures for some lover's lute, 
 Whose grief allows him music and a rhyme : 
 For mine excludes both measure, tune, and time. 
 Alas, my God ! 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky ; 
 The dews shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
 For thou must die. 
 
I 5 6 George Herbert. 
 
 Sweet rose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave, 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring ! full of sweet days and roses, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie, 
 Thy music shews you have your closes, 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
 Like season'd timber never gives ; 
 But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 MORTIFICATION. 
 
 How soon doth man decay ! 
 When clothes are taken from a chest of sweets, 
 
 To swaddle infants, whose young breath 
 Scarce knows the way ; 
 
 Those clouts are little winding-sheets, 
 Which do consign and send them unto death. 
 
 When boys go first to bed, 
 They step into their voluntary graves ; 
 
 Sleep binds them fast ; only their breath 
 Makes them not dead. 
 
Mortification. 157 
 
 Successive nights, like roliing waves, 
 Convey them quickly, who are bound for death. 
 
 When youth is frank and free, 
 And calls for music, while his veins do swell, 
 
 All day exchanging mirth and breath 
 In company ; 
 
 That music summons to the knell, 
 Which shall befriend him at the house of death. 
 
 When man grows staid and wise, 
 Getting a house and home, where he may move 
 
 Within the circle of his breath, 
 Schooling his eyes ; 
 
 That dumb enclosure maketh love 
 Unto the coffin, that attends his death. 
 
 When age grows low and weak, 
 Marking his grave, and thawing every year, 
 
 Till all do melt, and drown his breath 
 When he would speak ; 
 
 A chair or litter shews the bier 
 Which shall convey him to the house of death. 
 
 Man, ere he is aware, 
 Hath put together a solemnity, 
 
 And drest his hearse, while he has breath 
 As yet to spare. 
 
 Yet, Lord, instruct us so to die, 
 That all these dyings may be life in death. 
 
158 George Herbert. 
 
 THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM. 
 
 The God of love my shepherd is, 
 And he that doth me feed : 
 
 While he is mine, and I am his, 
 What can I want or need ? 
 
 He leads me to the tender grass, 
 Where I both feed and rest ; 
 
 Then to the streams that gently pass : 
 In both I have the be6t. 
 
 Or if I stray, he doth convert, 
 And bring my mind in frame : 
 
 And all this not for my desert, 
 But for his holy name. 
 
 Yea, in death's shady, black abode 
 Well may I walk, not fear : 
 
 For thou art with me, and thy rod 
 To guide, thy staff to bear. 
 
 Nay, thou dost make me sit and dine, 
 E'en in my enemies' sight ; 
 
 My head with oil, my cup with wine 
 Runs over day and night. 
 
Non Nobis Domine. 159 
 
 Surely thy sweet and wondrous love 
 
 Shall measure all my days ; 
 And as it never shall remove, 
 
 So neither shall my praise. 
 
 William Habington. 
 
 NON NOBIS DOMINE. 
 
 No marble statue, nor high 
 Aspiring pyramid, be raised 
 
 To lose its head within the sky ! 
 
 What claim have I to memory ? 
 God, be thou only praised ! 
 
 Thou in a moment canst defeat 
 
 The mighty conquests of the proud, 
 And blast the laurels of the great : 
 Thou canst make brighter glory set 
 O' the sudden in a cloud. 
 
1 60 William Habington. 
 
 How can the feeble works of art 
 
 Hold out against the assault of storms ? 
 Or how can brass to him impart 
 Sense of surviving fame, whose heart 
 Is now resolved to worms ? 
 
 Blind folly of triumphing pride 
 
 Eternity, why build'st thou here ? 
 Dost thou not see the highest tide 
 Its humbled stream in the ocean hide, 
 And ne'er the same appear ? 
 
 That tide which did its banks o'erflow, 
 
 As sent abroad by the angry sea, 
 To level vastest buildings low, 
 And all our trophies overthrow, 
 Ebbs like a thief away. 
 
 And thou who, to preserve thy name, 
 
 Leav'st statues in some conquer'd land ; 
 How will posterity scorn fame, 
 When the idol shall receive a maim, 
 And lose a foot or hand ? 
 
 How wilt thou hate thy wars, when he 
 
 Who only for his hire did raise 
 Thy counterfeit in stone, with thee 
 Shall stand competitor, and be 
 Perhaps thought worthier praise ? 
 
God's Providence. 161 
 
 No laurel wreath about my brow ! 
 
 To thee, my God, all praise, whose law 
 The conquer'd doth, and conqueror bow; 
 For both dissolve to air, if thou 
 
 Thy influence but withdraw. 
 
 Joseph Addison. 
 
 GOD'S PROVIDENCE. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
 His presence shall my wants supply, 
 And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
 My noon-day walks He shall attend, 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountains pant, 
 To fertile vales and dewy meads, 
 My weary wandering steps He leads, 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
1 62 Joseph Addison. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread 
 With gloomy horrors overspread, 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no ill ; 
 For thou, O God, art with me still : 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way, 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 When, rising from the bed of death, 
 O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear, 
 
 I see my Maker, face to face, 
 O how shall I appear! 
 
 If yet, while pardon may be found, 
 And mercy may be sought, 
 
 My heart with inward horror shrinks, 
 And trembles at the thought; 
 
An Ode. 163 
 
 When thou, Lord, shalt stand disclosed 
 
 In majesty severe, 
 And sit in judgment on my soul, 
 
 O how shall I appear ! 
 
 But thou hast told the troubled mind 
 
 Who does her sins lament, 
 The timely tribute of her tears 
 
 Shall endless woe prevent. 
 
 Then see the sorrows of my heart, 
 
 Ere yet it be too late; 
 And hear my Saviour's dying groans, 
 
 To give those sorrows weight. 
 
 For never shall my soul despair 
 
 Her pardon to procure, 
 Who knows thine only Son has died 
 
 To make her pardon sure. 
 
 AN ODE. 
 
 The spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim : 
 
164 Joseph Addison. 
 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wond'rous tale, 
 And nightly to the list'ning earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth : 
 Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
 And all the planets in their turn, 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball r 
 What though no real voice nor sound 
 Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? 
 In Reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
 For ever singing as they shine, 
 " The hand that made us is divine." 
 
 
 H^ 
 
The Divine Love. 165 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
 THE DIVINE LOVE. 
 
 That early love of creatures yet unmade, 
 To frame the world the Almighty did persuade : 
 For love it was that first created light, 
 Moved on the waters, chased away the night 
 From the rude chaos, and bestow'd new grace 
 On things disposed of to their proper place, 
 Some to rest here, and some to shine above : 
 Earth, sea, and heaven, were all the effects of love. 
 And love would be return'd, but there was none 
 That to themselves or others yet were known. 
 The world a palace was without a guest, 
 Till one appears that must excel the rest : 
 One like the Author, whose capacious mind 
 Might by the glorious work the Maker find ; 
 Might measure heaven, and give each star a name, 
 With art and courage the rough ocean tame ; 
 Over the globe with swelling sails might go, 
 And that 'tis round by his experience know ; 
 Make strongest beasts obedient to his will, 
 And serve his use the fertile earth to till. 
 
1 66 George Sandys. 
 
 When by his word God had accomplished all, 
 
 Man to create he did a council call ; 
 
 Employ'd his hand to give the dust he took 
 
 A graceful figure and majestic look ; 
 
 With his own breath convey'd into his breast 
 
 Life and a soul, fit to command the rest, 
 
 Worthy alone to celebrate his name, 
 
 For such a gift, and tell from whence it came : 
 
 Birds sing his praises in a wilder note, 
 
 But not with lasting numbers, and with thought, 
 
 Man's great prerogative. But above all, 
 
 His grace abounds in his new fav' rite's fall. 
 
 If he create, it is a world he makes ; 
 
 If he be angry, the creation shakes. 
 
 From his just wrath our guilty parents fled ; 
 
 He curst the earth, but bruised the serpent's head. 
 
 George Sandys. 
 
 
 PARAPHRASE ON PSALM CXLVIII. 
 
 Ye who dwell above the skies 
 Free from human miseries, 
 You whom highest heaven embowers, 
 Praise the Lord with all your powers. 
 
Paraphrase on Psalm cxlviii. 167 
 
 Angels, your clear voices raise, 
 
 Him your heavenly armies praise ; 
 
 Sun, and moon with borrow'd light, 
 
 All you sparkling eyes of night, 
 
 Waters hanging in the air, 
 
 Heaven of heavens his praise declare. 
 
 His deserved praise record, 
 
 His who made you by his Word, 
 
 Made you evermore to last, 
 
 Set you bounds not to be past. 
 
 Let the earth his praise resound, 
 
 Monstrous whales and seas profound ; 
 
 Vapours, lightnings, hail and snow, 
 
 Storms which when he bids them, blow ; 
 
 Flowery hills and mountains high ; 
 
 Cedars, neighbours to the sky ; 
 
 Trees that fruit in season yield ; 
 
 All the cattle of the field, 
 
 Savage beasts, all creeping things, 
 
 All that cut the air with wings ; 
 
 You who awful sceptres sway, 
 
 You inur&d to obey, 
 
 Princes, judges of the earth, 
 
 All of high and humble birth ; 
 
 Youths and virgins flourishing 
 
 In the beauty of your spring, 
 
 You who bow with age's weight, 
 
 You who were but born of late ; 
 
 Praise his name with one consent. 
 
1 68 Thomas Ken. 
 
 Oh, how great ! how excellent ! 
 Than the earth profounder far, 
 Higher than the highest star, 
 He will us to honour raise : 
 You, his saints, resound his praise ; 
 You who are of Jacob's race, 
 And united to his grace. 
 
 Thomas Ken. 
 
 
 MORNING HYMN. 
 
 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
 Thy daily course of duty run ; 
 Shake ofF dull sloth, and joyful rise 
 To pay thy morning sacrifice. 
 
 Thy precious time misspent redeem ; 
 Each precious day thy last esteem ; 
 Improve thy talent with due care, 
 For the great day thyself prepare. 
 
 In conversation be sincere, 
 Keep conscience as the noontide clear, 
 Think how all-seeing God thy ways 
 And all thy secret thoughts surveys. 
 
Morning Hymn. 1 69 
 
 By influence of the light divine, 
 Let thy own light to others shine ; 
 Reflect all heaven's propitious rays 
 In ardent love and cheerful praise. 
 
 Wake, and lift thyself, ray heart, 
 And with the angels bear thy part, 
 Who all night long unwearied sing 
 High praises to the eternal King. 
 
 I wake, I wake ! — ye heavenly choir, 
 May your devotion me inspire ; 
 That I like you my age may spend, 
 Like you may on my God attend. 
 
 May I like you in God delight, 
 Have all day long my God in sight, 
 Perform, like you, my Maker's will — 
 Oh, may I never more do ill ! 
 
 Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly ; 
 But God shall that defect supply, 
 And my soul, wing'd with warm desire, 
 Shall all day long to heaven aspire. 
 
 All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, 
 And hast refresh'd me whilst I slept. 
 Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, 
 I may of endless light partake. 
 
i 70 Thomas Ken. 
 
 I would not wake, nor rise again, 
 Even heaven itself I would disdain, 
 Wert not Thou there to be enjoy'd, 
 And I in hymns to be employ' d. 
 
 Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art ; 
 Oh, never, then, from me depart; 
 For to my soul 'tis hell to be 
 But for one moment void of Thee. 
 
 Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ; 
 Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 
 Guard my first springs of thought and will, 
 And with thyself my spirit fill 
 
 Direct, control, suggest, this day, 
 All I design, or do, or say ; 
 That all my powers, with all their might, 
 In thy sole glory may unite. 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise him, all creatures here below ; 
 Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
Midnight Hymn. lyi 
 
 MIDNIGHT HYMN. 
 
 My God, now I from sleep awake, 
 
 The sole possession of me take ; 
 
 From midnight terrors me secure, 
 
 And guard my heart from thoughts impure. 
 
 Blest angels ! while we silent lie, 
 You hallelujahs sing on high ; 
 You joyful hymn the Ever-blest 
 Before the throne, and never rest. 
 
 I with your choir celestial join, 
 In offering up a hymn divine : 
 With you in heaven I hope to dwell, 
 And bid the night and world farewell. 
 
 My soul, when I shake off this dust, 
 Lord, in thy arms I will intrust : 
 Oh, make me thy peculiar care, 
 Some mansion for my soul prepare. 
 
 Give me a place at thy saints' feet, 
 Or some fallen angel's vacant seat : 
 I'll strive to sing as loud as they 
 Who sit above in brighter day. 
 
172 Thomas Ken. 
 
 Oh, may I always ready stand, 
 With my lamp burning in my hand ; 
 May I in sight of heaven rejoice, 
 % Whene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice. 
 
 All praise to Thee, in light array'd, 
 Who light thy dwelling-place hast made ; 
 A boundless ocean of bright beams 
 From thy all-glorious Godhead streams. 
 
 The sun, in its meridian height, 
 
 Is very darkness in thy sight : 
 
 My soul, oh, lighten and inflame 
 
 With thought and love of thy great name 
 
 Blest Jesu ! thou, on heaven intent, 
 Whole nights hast in devotion spent ; 
 But I, frail creature, soon am tired, 
 And all my zeal is soon expired. 
 
 My soul ! how canst thou weary grow 
 Of antedating bliss below, 
 In sacred hymns and heavenly love, 
 Which will eternal be above ? 
 
 Shine on me, Lord ; new life impart ; 
 Fresh ardours kindle in my heart : 
 One ray of thy all-quickening light 
 Dispels the sloth and clouds of night ! 
 
 
The Soul's Faculties. 173 
 
 Lord, lest the tempter me surprise, 
 Watch over thine own sacrifice ; 
 All loose, all idle thoughts cast out, 
 And make my very dreams devout. 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise him, all creatures here below ; 
 Praise him above, ye heavenly host ; 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
 Sir yohn Davies. 
 
 THE SOUL'S FACULTIES. 
 
 This is the Soul, and these her virtues be ; 
 
 Which, though they have their sundry proper ends, 
 And one exceeds another in degree, 
 
 Yet each on other mutually depends. 
 
 Our wit is given Almighty God to know ; 
 
 Our will is given to love him, being known : 
 But God could not be known to us below, 
 
 But by his works, which through the sense are shewn. 
 
1 74 Sir John Davies. 
 
 And as the wit doth reap the fruits of sense, 
 So doth the quickening power the senses feed : 
 
 Thus while they do their sundry gifts dispense, 
 " The best the service of the least doth need." 
 
 
 Even so the king his magistrates do serve ; 
 
 Yet commons feed both magistrates and king : 
 The commons' peace the magistrates preserve, 
 
 By borrow'd power, which from the prince doth 
 spring. 
 
 The quickening power would be, and so would rest : 
 The sense would not be only, but be well : 
 
 But wit's ambition longeth to the best, 
 For it desires in endless bliss to dwell. 
 
 And these three powers three sorts of men do make ; 
 
 For some, like plants, their veins do only fill ; 
 And some, like beasts, their senses' pleasures take ; 
 
 And some, like angels, do contemplate still. 
 
 Therefore the fables turn'd some men to flowers, 
 And others did with brutish forms invest, 
 
 And did of others make celestial powers, 
 Like angels, which still travel, yet still rest. 
 
 Yet these three powers are not three Souls, but one ; 
 
 As one and two are both contain'd in three ; 
 Three being one number by itself alone, 
 
 A shadow of the blessed Trinity. 
 
The Soul's Faculties. 175 
 
 Oh ! what is man (great Maker of mankind !) 
 That thou to him so great respect doth bear ! 
 
 That thou adorn'st him with so bright a mind, 
 Makest him a king, and e'en an angel's peer ! 
 
 Oh ! what a lively life, what heavenly power, 
 What spreading virtue, what a sparkling fire ; 
 
 How great, how plentiful, how rich a dower 
 Dost thou within this dying flesh inspire ! 
 
 Thou leav'st thy print in other works of thine ; 
 
 But thy whole image thou in man hast writ : 
 There cannot be a creature more divine, 
 
 Except (like thee) it should be infinite. 
 
 But it exceeds man's thought, to think how high 
 God hath raised men, since God a man became ; 
 
 The angels do admire this mystery, 
 
 And are astonish'd when they view the same. 
 
 Nor hath he given these blessings for a day, 
 Nor made them on the Body's life depend: 
 
 The Soul, though made in time, survives for ay ; 
 And though it hath beginning, sees no end. 
 
 •9 
 
1 7 6 John Donne. 
 
 John Donne. 
 
 
 A HYMN TO CHRIST. 
 
 In what torn ship soever I embark, 
 That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark ; 
 What sea soever swallow me, that flood 
 Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood. 
 Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise 
 Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes, 
 Which, though they turn away sometimes, 
 They never will despise. 
 
 I sacrifice this island unto thee, 
 And all whom I love here, and who love me ; 
 When I have put this flood 'twixt them and me, 
 Put thou thy blood betwixt my sins and thee. 
 As the tree's sap doth seek the root below 
 In winter, in my winter now I go, 
 Where none but thee, the Eternal root 
 Of true love, I may know. 
 
 Nor thou, nor thy religion, dost control 
 
 The am'rousness of an harmonious soul ; 
 
 But thou wouldst have that love thyself: as thou 
 
 Art jealous, Lord ! so I am jealous now. 
 
Hymn on the Nativity. 177 
 
 Thou lovest not, till from loving more thou free 
 My soul : whoever gives, takes liberty. 
 Oh ! if thou carest not whom I love, 
 Alas ! thou lovest not me. 
 
 Seal then this bill of my divorce to all 
 On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ; 
 Marry those loves which in youth scatter'd be 
 On face, wit, hopes (false mistresses), to thee. 
 Churches are best for prayer that have least light : 
 To see God only I go out of sight ; 
 And to 'scape stormy days I choose 
 An everlasting night. 
 
 William Drummond. 
 
 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 Christ, whose redemption all doth free, 
 
 Son of the Father, who alone 
 
 Before the world began to be, 
 
 Didst spring from Him by means unknown ; 
 
 Thou his clear brightness, thou his light, 
 Thou everlasting hope of all, 
 
 N 
 
178 William Drummond. 
 
 Observe the prayers which in thy sight 
 Thy servants through the world let fall. 
 
 O dearest Saviour, bear in mind, 
 That of our body thou a child 
 Didst whilom take the natural kind, 
 Born of the Virgin undefiled. 
 
 This much the present day makes known, 
 Passing the circuit of the year, 
 That thou from thy high Father's throne 
 The world's sole safety didst appear. 
 
 The highest heaven, the earth, and seas, 
 And all that is within them found, 
 Because he sent thee us to ease, 
 With mirthful songs his praise resound. 
 
 We also, who redeemed are 
 With thy pure blood from sinful state, 
 For this thy birthday will prepare 
 New hymns this feast to celebrate. 
 
 Glory, O Lord, be given to thee 
 Whom the unspotted Virgin bore, 
 And glory to thee, Father, be, 
 And the Holy Ghost, for evermore. 
 
Providence. 179 
 
 yohn Pomfret. 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Bold is the wretch, and blasphemous the man, 
 Who, finite, will attempt to scan 
 The works of Him that 's infinitely wise, 
 And those he cannot comprehend, denies : 
 As if a space immense were measurable by a span. 
 Thus the proud sceptic will not own 
 That Providence the world directs, 
 
 Or its affairs inspects, 
 But leaves it to itself alone. 
 How does it with almighty grandeur suit, 
 To be concern'd with our impertinence ; 
 Or interpose his power for the defence 
 Of a poor mortal, or a senseless brute ? 
 Villains could never so successful prove, 
 And unmolested in those pleasures live, 
 
 Which honour, ease, and affluence give : 
 While such as Heaven adore, and virtue love, 
 And most the care of Providence deserve, 
 Oppress'd with pain and ignominy, starve. 
 What reason can the wisest show, 
 Why murder does unpunish'd go ? 
 
180 John Pomf ret. 
 
 If the Most High, that's just and good, 
 Intends and governs all below ; 
 And yet regards not the loud cries of guiltless blood ; 
 But shall we things unsearchable deny, 
 Because our reason cannot tell us why 
 They are allow' d, or acted by the Deity? 
 'Tis equally above the reach of thought 
 To comprehend how matter should be brought 
 From nothing, as existent be 
 From all eternity. 
 And yet that matter is, we feel and see. 
 
 Nor is it easier to define 
 What ligatures the soul and body join : 
 
 Or how the memory does the impression take 
 Of things, and to the mind restores them back. 
 Did not the Almighty, with immediate care, 
 Direct and govern this capacious all, 
 How soon would things into confusion fall ; 
 
 Earthquakes the trembling ground would tear ; 
 And blazing comets rule the troubled air ; 
 Wide inundations with resistless force 
 
 The lower provinces o'erflow, 
 In spite of all that human strength could do, 
 To stop the raging sea's impetuous course : 
 Murder and rapine every place would fill, 
 And sinking virtue stoop to prosperous ill ; 
 
 Devouring pestilences rave, 
 And all that part of nature which has breath, 
 Deliver to the tyranny of death, 
 
Providence. 1 8 i 
 
 And hurry to the dungeons of the grave, 
 If watchful Providence were not concern'd to save. 
 Let the brave soldier speak, who oft has been 
 In dreadful sieges, and fierce battles seen. 
 How he's preserved when bombs and bullets fly 
 So thick, that scarce one inch of air is free : 
 
 And though he does ten thousand see, 
 Fall at his feet, and in a moment die, 
 Unhurt retreats, or gains unhurt the victory. 
 
 Let the poor shipwreck'd sailor show, 
 To what invisible protecting power 
 
 He did his life and safety owe, 
 When the loud storm his well-built vessel tore, 
 And half a shatter'd plank convey'd him to the shore. 
 Nay, let the ungrateful sceptic tell us how 
 His tender infancy protection found, 
 And helpless childhood was with safety crown'd, 
 
 If he '11 no Providence allow ? 
 When he had nothing but his nurse's arms 
 To guard him from innumerable fatal harms. 
 
 From childhood, how to youth he ran 
 
 Securely, and from thence to man ? 
 How in the strength and vigour of his years, 
 
 The feeble bark of life he saves, 
 Amidst the fury of tempestuous waves, 
 From all the dangers, he foresees, or fears ; 
 Yet every hour 'twixt Scylla and Charybdis steers ; 
 If Providence, which can the seas command, 
 Held not the rudder with a steady hand ? 
 
1 82 John Dyer. 
 
 John Dyer. 
 
 TO THE DEITY. 
 
 Greatest of Beings ! source of life ! 
 
 Sovereign of air and earth and sea ! 
 All nature feels thy power, and all 
 
 A silent homage pay to thee. 
 
 Waked at thy call, the morning sun 
 Pours forth to thee its earliest rays ; 
 
 And spreads thy glories as it climbs ; 
 
 While raptured worlds look up and praise. 
 
 The moon to the deep shades of night, 
 Speaks the mild lustre of thy name ; 
 
 While all the stars that cheer the scene, 
 Thee the great Lord of light proclaim. 
 
 And groves and vales, and rocks and hills, 
 And every flower, and every tree, 
 
 Ten thousand creatures, warm with life, 
 Have each a grateful song for thee. 
 
 
To the Deity. 183 
 
 But man was form'd to rise to heaven, 
 And blest with reason's brilliant light, 
 
 He views his Maker through his works, 
 And glows with rapture at the sight. 
 
 Subject to wants, to thee he looks, 
 
 And from thy goodness seeks supplies ; 
 
 And, when oppress'd with guilt he mourns, 
 Thy mercy lifts him to the skies. 
 
 Children whose little minds unform'd, 
 
 Ne'er raised a tender thought to Heaven ; 
 
 And men, whom reason lifts to God, 
 
 Though oft by passion downward driven ; 
 
 Such too, who bend with age and care, 
 And faint and tremble near the tomb ; 
 
 Who, sickening at the present scenes, 
 Sigh for that better state to come — 
 
 All, great Creator, all are thine ; 
 
 All feel thy providential care : 
 And through each varying stage of life, 
 
 Alike thy constant pity share. 
 
 And whether grief oppress the heart, 
 
 Or whether joy elate the breast ; 
 Or life still keep its little course, 
 
 Or death invite the heart to rest ; 
 
184 Charles Wesley. 
 
 All are thy messengers, and all 
 
 Thy sacred pleasure, Lord, obey ; 
 
 And all are training man to dwell 
 
 Nearer to bliss, and nearer thee. 
 
 Charles Wesley. 
 
 THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 Thou Judge of quick and dead, 
 
 Before whose bar severe, 
 
 With holy joy or guilty dread, 
 
 We all shall soon appear : 
 
 Our sinful souls prepare 
 
 For that tremendous day ; 
 
 And fill us now with watchful care, 
 
 And stir us up to pray. 
 
 To pray and wait the hour, 
 
 That awful hour unknown ; 
 
 When robed in majesty and power, 
 
 Thou shalt from heaven come down, 
 
The Day of Judgment. 1 8 5 
 
 The immortal Son of Man, 
 
 To judge the human race, 
 With all thy Father's dazzling train, 
 
 With all thy glorious grace. 
 
 To damp our earthly joys, 
 
 To increase our gracious fears, 
 For ever let the Archangel's voice 
 
 Be sounding in our ears. 
 The solemn midnight cry, 
 
 " Ye dead, the Judge is come ; 
 Arise, and meet him in the sky, 
 
 And meet your instant doom ! " 
 
 O may we thus be found, 
 
 Obedient to his word ; 
 Attentive to the trumpet's sound, 
 
 And looking for our Lord ! 
 O may we all insure 
 
 A lot among the blest ! 
 And watch a moment, to secure 
 
 An everlasting rest. 
 
1 86 Elizabeth Rowe. 
 
 Elizabeth Rowe. 
 
 
 PRAISE TO GOD. 
 
 Thou didst, O mighty God, exist 
 
 Ere time began its race ; 
 Before the ample elements 
 
 FilPd up the void of space. 
 
 Before the ponderous earthly globe 
 
 In fluid air was stay'd ; 
 Before the ocean's mighty springs 
 
 Their liquid stores display' d, — 
 
 Ere through the gloom of ancient night 
 The streaks of light appear'd ; 
 
 Before the grand celestial arch, 
 Or starry poles, were rear'd, — 
 
 Before the loud melodious spheres 
 Their tuneful round begun ; 
 
 Before the shining roads of heaven 
 Were measured by the sun, — 
 
Praise to God. 187 
 
 Ere, through the empyrean courts, 
 
 One hallelujah rung ; 
 Or to their harps the sons of light 
 
 Ecstatic anthems sung, — 
 
 Ere men adored, or angels knew, 
 Or praised thy wondrous name, — 
 
 Thy bliss, O sacred Spring of Life ! 
 Thy glory was the same. 
 
 And when the pillars of the world 
 
 With sudden ruin break, 
 And all this vast and goodly frame 
 
 Sinks in the mighty wreck, — 
 
 When from her orb the moon shall start, 
 
 The astonish'd sun roll back, 
 And all the trembling starry lamps 
 
 Their ancient course forsake, — 
 
 For ever permanent and fix'd, 
 
 From agitation free, 
 Unchanged in everlasting years, 
 
 Shall thy existence be. 
 
 ■? 
 
James Merrick. 
 
 James Merrick, 
 
 THE FESTAL MORN. 
 
 The festal morn, my God, is come. 
 That calls me to thy honour'd dome, 
 
 Thy presence to adore : 
 My feet the summons shall attend, 
 With willing steps thy courts ascend, 
 
 And tread the hallow'd floor. 
 
 E'en now to our transported eyes, 
 Fair Sion's towers in prospect rise, 
 
 Within her gates we stand, 
 And, lost in wonder and delight, 
 Behold her happy sons unite, 
 
 In friendship's firmest band. 
 
 Hither from Judah's utmost end 
 The heaven protected tribes ascend ; 
 
 Their offerings hither bring ; 
 Here, eager to attest their joy, 
 In hymns of praise their tongues employ, 
 
 And hail the immortal King. 
 
The Festal Morn. 189 
 
 By his command impell'd, to her 
 Contending crowds their cause refer ; 
 
 While princes from her throne, 
 With equal doom, the unerring law 
 Dispense, who boast their birth to draw 
 
 From Jesse's favour'd Son. 
 
 Be peace by each implored on thee, 
 O Salem, while with bended knee 
 
 To Jacob's God we pray : 
 How blest who calls himself the friend ! 
 Success his labours shall attend, 
 
 And safety guard his way. 
 
 O may st thou, free from hostile fear, 
 Nor the loud voice of tumult hear, 
 
 Nor war's wild wastes deplore : 
 May plenty nigh thee take her stand, 
 And in the courts with lavish hand 
 
 Distribute all her store. 
 
 Seat of my friends and brethren hail ! 
 How can my tongue, O Salem, fail 
 
 To bless thy loved abode ? 
 How cease the zeal that in me glows 
 Thy good to seek, whose walls inclose 
 
 The mansions of my God. 
 
190 John Dry den. 
 
 jfokn Dryden. 
 
 
 VENI CREATOR. 
 
 Creator. Spirit, by whose aid 
 The world's foundations first were laid, 
 Come, visit every pious mind ; 
 Come, pour Thy joys on human kind ; 
 From sin and sorrow set us free, 
 And make Thy temples worthy Thee. 
 
 O Source of uncreated light, 
 The Father's promised Paraclete ! 
 Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire, 
 Our hearts with heavenly love inspire ; 
 Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, 
 To sanctify us while we sing. 
 
 Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
 Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! 
 Thou strength of His almighty hand, 
 Whose power does heaven and earth command. 
 
 
Vent Creator. 
 
 Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 
 
 Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, 
 
 And crown'st Thy gift with eloquence ; 
 
 Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
 
 But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! 
 
 Our frailties help, our vice control, 
 
 Submit the senses to the soul ; 
 
 And when rebellious they are grown, 
 
 Then lay Thine hand, and hold them down. 
 
 Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
 And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
 And, lest our feet should step astray, 
 Protect and guide us in the way. 
 Make us eternal truths receive, 
 And practice all that we believe ; 
 Give us Thyself, that we may see 
 The Father and the Son by Thee. 
 
 Immortal honour, endless fame, 
 Attend the Almighty Father's Name ; 
 The Saviour Son be glorified, 
 Who for lost man's redemption died ; 
 And equal adoration be, 
 Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! 
 
 IQI 
 
192 Philip Doddridge. 
 
 Philip Doddridge. 
 
 ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 
 
 My God, thy service well demands 
 
 The remnant of my days : 
 Why was the fleeting breath renew'd, 
 
 But to renew thy praise ? 
 
 Thine arms of everlasting love, 
 Did this weak frame sustain ; 
 
 When life in purple torrents flow'd 
 From every sinking vein. 
 
 Calmly I bow'd my fainting head 
 
 On thy dear faithful breast, 
 Pleased to obey my Father's call 
 
 To his eternal rest. 
 
 Back from the borders of the grave 
 
 At thy command I come : 
 Nor would I urge a speedier flight 
 
 To my celestial home. 
 
 
Morning Hymn. 193 
 
 Where thou appointest my abode, 
 
 There would I choose to be : 
 For in thy presence death is life, 
 
 And earth is heaven with thee. 
 
 Thomas ParnelL 
 
 MORNING HYMN. 
 
 See the star that leads the day, 
 Rising, shoots a golden ray, 
 To make the shades of darkness go 
 From heaven above and earth below ; 
 And warn us early with the sight, 
 To leave the beds of silent night. 
 
 From a heart sincere and sound, 
 From its very deepest ground, 
 Send devotion up on high, 
 Wing'd with heat, to reach the sky. 
 See the time for sleep has run ! 
 Rise before or with the sun : 
 
194 Thomas Parnell. 
 
 Lift thy hands, and humbly pray 
 The fountain of eternal day, — 
 That, as the light, serenely fair, 
 Illustrates all the tracts of air, 
 The sacred Spirit so may rest, 
 With quickening beams upon thy breast 
 And kindly clear it all within, 
 From darker blemishes of sin ; 
 And shine with grace, until we view 
 The realm it gilds with glory too. 
 
 See the day that dawns in air, 
 Brings along its toil and care : 
 From the lap of night it springs, 
 With heaps of business on its wings. 
 Prepare to meet them in a mind 
 That bows submissively resign'd ; 
 That would to works appointed fall, 
 That knows that God has order'd all. 
 
 And whether with a small repast 
 We break the sober morning fast ; 
 Or in our thoughts and houses lay 
 The future methods of the day ; 
 Or early walk abroad to meet 
 Our business with industrious feet ; — 
 Whate'er we think, whate'er we do, 
 His glory still be kept in view. 
 
Noontide Hymn. 195 
 
 Oh, giver of eternal bliss, 
 
 Grant, heavenly Father ! grant me this ! 
 
 Grant it to all, as well as me, 
 
 All those whose hearts are fix'd on thee, — 
 
 Who revere thy Son above, 
 
 Who thy sacred Spirit love. 
 
 NOONTIDE HYMN. 
 
 The sun is swiftly mounted high, 
 It glitters in the southern sky ! 
 Its beams with force and glory beat, 
 And fruitful earth is fill'd with heat. 
 
 Father ! also with thy fire 
 Warm the cold, the dead desire, 
 And make the sacred love of thee, 
 Within my soul, a sun to me ! 
 Let it shine so fairly bright, 
 That nothing else be took for light ; 
 That worldly charms be seen to fade, 
 And in its lustre find a shade ! 
 
 Let it strongly shine within, 
 To scatter all the clouds of sin, 
 That drive when gusts of passion rise, 
 And intercept it from our eyes ! 
 
196 Thomas Parnell. 
 
 Let its glory more than vie 
 With the sun that lights the sky ! 
 
 Let it swiftly mount in air, 
 Mount with that, and leave it there ! 
 And soar, with more aspiring flight, 
 To realms of everlasting light ! 
 
 Thus while here I'm forced to be, 
 I daily wish to live with thee ; 
 And feel that union, which thy love 
 Will, after death, complete above. 
 
 From my soul I send my prayer, — 
 Great Creator, bow thine ear ! 
 Thou, for whose propitious sway 
 The world was ta*ught to see the day ; 
 Who spake the word, and earth begun, 
 And shew'd its beauties in the sun ; 
 
 With pleasure I thy creatures view, 
 
 And would with good affection too ; 
 
 Good affection sweetly free, 
 
 Loose from them and move to thee : 
 
 O ! teach me due returns to give, 
 
 And to thy glory let me live ! 
 
 And then my days shall shine the more, 
 
 Or pass more blessed than before. 
 
E ven ing Hymn. 1 9 7 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 The beam-repelling mists arise, 
 And evening spreads obscurer skies. 
 The twilight will the night forerun, 
 And night itself be soon begun. 
 
 Upon thy knees devoutly bow, 
 And pray the God of glory now 
 To fill thy breast ; or deadly sin 
 May cause a blinder night within. 
 And, whether pleasing vapours rise, 
 Which gently dim the closing eyes ; 
 Which make the weary members bless'd, 
 With sweet refreshment in their rest ; 
 
 Or whether spirits, in the brain, 
 Dispel their soft embrace again ; 
 And on my watchful bed I stay, 
 Forsook by sleep, and waiting day ; 
 Be God for ever in my view, 
 And never he forsake me too ! 
 
 But still, as day concludes in night, 
 To break again the new-born light, 
 His wondrous bounty let me find, 
 With still a more enlightened mind ; 
 When grace and love in one agree, — 
 Grace from God, and love from me ; 
 
198 Francis Quarles. 
 
 Grace that will from heaven inspire, 
 Love that steals it in desire ; 
 Grace and love that mingle beams, 
 And fill me with increasing flames. 
 
 Thou that hast thy palace far 
 Above the moon and every star; 
 Thou, that sittest on a throne 
 To which the night was never known ; 
 Regard my voice, and make me bless'd, 
 By kindly granting its request ! 
 
 If thoughts on thee my soul employ, 
 My darkness will afford me joy, 
 Till thou shalt call, and I shall soar, 
 And part with darkness evermore. 
 
 Francis Quarles. 
 
 WARNINGS. 
 
 Wages of sin is death : the day is come, 
 Wherein the equal hand of death must sum 
 The several items of man's fading glory 
 Into the easy total of one story. 
 
 
Warnings. 199 
 
 The brows that sweat for kingdoms and renown, 
 
 To glorify their temples with a crown ; 
 
 At length grow cold, and leave their honour'd name 
 
 To flourish in the uncertain blast of fame. 
 
 This is the height that glorious mortals can 
 
 Attain ; this is the highest pitch of man. 
 
 The mighty conqueror of the earth's great ball, 
 
 Whose unconfined limits were too small 
 
 For his extreme ambition to deserve, — 
 
 Six feet of length and three of breadth must serve. 
 
 This is the highest pitch that man can fly ; 
 
 And, after all his triumph, he must die. 
 
 Lives he in wealth ? Does well-deserved store 
 
 Limit his wish, that he can wish no more ? 
 
 And does the fairest bounty of increase 
 
 Crown him with plenty, and his days with peace ? 
 
 It is a right-hand blessing : but supply 
 
 Of wealth cannot secure him ; he must die. 
 
 Lives he in pleasure ? Does perpetual mirth 
 Lend him a little heaven upon this earth ? 
 Meets he no sullen care, no sudden loss 
 To cool his joys ? Breathes he without a cross ? 
 Wants he no pleasure that his wanton eye 
 Can crave or hope from fortune ? He must die. 
 
 Lives he in honour ? hath his fair desert 
 Obtain'd the freedom of his prince's heart ? 
 
200 Francis Quarles. 
 
 Or may his more familiar hands disburse 
 His liberal favours from the royal purse ? 
 Alas ! his honour cannot soar too high 
 For pale-faced Death to follow ; he must die. 
 
 Lives he a conqueror ? and doth heaven bless 
 His heart with spirit : that spirit with success ; 
 Success with glory ; glory with a name, 
 To live with the eternity of fame ? 
 The progress of his lasting fame may vie 
 With time : but yet the conqueror must die. 
 
 Great and good God ! thou Lord of life and death, 
 In whom the creature hath its being, breath ; 
 Teach me to under-prize this life, and I 
 Shall find my loss the easier when I die. 
 So raise my feeble thoughts and dull desire, 
 That, when these vain and weary days expire, 
 I may discard my flesh with joy, and quit 
 My better part of this false earth, and it 
 Of some more sin ; and for this transitory 
 And tedious life enjoy a life of glory. 
 
Warnings to Reflection. 201 
 
 yokn Hawkesworth. 
 
 WARNINGS TO REFLECTION. 
 
 Great God ! how awful is the scene : 
 A breath, a transient breath, between, 
 
 And can I trifle life away ? 
 To earth, alas ! too firmly bound, 
 Trees deeply rooted in the ground, 
 
 Are shiver'd when they 're torn away ! 
 
 Vain joys, which envied greatness gains, 
 How do ye bind with silken chains, 
 
 Which ask immortal strength to break ? 
 How with new terrors have ye arm'd, 
 That power whose slightest glance alarm'd 
 
 How many deaths of one ye make ! 
 
 Yet, dumb with wonder, I behold 
 
 Man's thoughtless race in error bold, 
 Forget, or scorn, the laws of death ; 
 
 With these no projects coincide, 
 
 Nor vows, nor toils, nor hopes, they guide- 
 Each thinks he draws immortal breath ! 
 
202 John Hawkesworth. 
 
 Each, blind to fate's approaching hour, 
 Intrigues, or fights, for wealth or power, 
 
 And slumbering danger dares provoke 
 And he who, tottering, scarce sustains 
 A century's age, plans future gains, 
 
 And feels an unexpected stroke ! 
 
 DEATH AND ETERNITY. 
 
 Yet a few years, or days perhaps, 
 Or moments, pass in silent lapse, 
 
 And time to me shall be no more ; 
 No more the sun these eyes shall view ; 
 Earth o'er these limbs her dust shall strew ; 
 
 And life's fantastic dream be o'er. 
 
 Alas, I touch the dreadful brink ! 
 From nature's verge impell'd I sink ! 
 
 And gloomy darkness wraps me round ! 
 Yes ! — death is ever at my hand, 
 Fast by my bed he takes his stand, 
 
 And constant at my board is found ! 
 
 But then, this spark that warms, that guides, 
 That lives, that thinks — what fate betides ? 
 Can this be dust ? — a kneaded clod ! 
 
Death and Eternity. 203 
 
 This yield to death ! the soul, the mind, 
 That measures heaven, and mounts the wind, 
 That knows at once itself and God ! 
 
 Great cause of all, above, below, — 
 Who knows Thee, must for ever know 
 
 Thou art immortal and divine ! 
 Thine image on my soul imprest, 
 Of endless being is the test, 
 
 And bids eternity be mine ! 
 
 Transporting thought ! but am I sure 
 That endless life will joy secure ? — 
 
 Joys only to the just decreed ! — 
 The guilty wretch, expiring goes 
 Where vengeance endless life bestows, 
 
 That endless misery may succeed ! 
 
204 Augustus M. Top lady. 
 
 Augustus M. Top lady. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Rock of ages, rent for me ! 
 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ; 
 Let the water and the blood, 
 
 From Thy riven side which flow'd, 
 Be of sin the double cure, 
 
 Cleanse me from its guilt and power ! 
 
 Not the labour of my hands 
 
 Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 
 
 Could my zeal no respite know, 
 Could my tears for ever flow, 
 
 All for sin could not atone : 
 
 Thou must save, and Thou alone ! 
 
 Nothing in my hand I bring, 
 Simply to Thy cross I cling : 
 
 Naked, come to Thee for dress ; 
 Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; 
 
 Vile, I to the fountain fly ; 
 Wash me, Saviour, or I die. 
 
Hymn to the Deity. 205 
 
 While I draw this fleeting breath, 
 When my eyelids close in death, 
 
 When I soar to worlds unknown, 
 See Thee on Thy judgment throne, 
 
 Rock of ages, rent for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! 
 
 HYMN TO THE DEITY. 
 
 Inspirer and hearer of prayer, 
 Thou feeder and guardian of thine, 
 My all to thy covenant care 
 I sleeping and waking resign; 
 If thou art my shield and my sun, 
 The night is no darkness to me, 
 And fast as my moments roll on, 
 They bring me but nearer to thee. 
 
 Thy minist'ring spirits descend 
 
 To watch while thy saints are asleep, 
 
 By day and by night they attend, 
 
 The heirs of salvation to keep ; 
 
 Bright seraphs dispatch'd from the throne, 
 
 Repair to the stations assign'd, 
 
 And angels -elect are sent down, 
 
 To guard the elect of mankind. 
 
206 Augustus M. Top lady. 
 
 Thy worship no interval knows, 
 Their fervour is still on the wing : 
 And while they protect my repose, 
 They chant to the praise of my King 
 I too, at the season ordain'd, 
 Their chorus for ever shall join, 
 And love, and adore, without end, 
 Their faithful Creator, and mine. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SOUL. 
 
 Deathless principle, arise ! 
 Soar, thou native of the skies ! 
 Pearl of price by Jesus bought, 
 To his glorious likeness wrought, 
 Go, to shine before his throne, 
 Deck his mediatorial crown ; 
 Go, his triumphs to adorn, 
 Made for God, to God return. 
 
 Lo, he beckons from on high ! 
 Fearless to his presence fly ; 
 Thine the merit of his blood, 
 Thine the righteousness of God ! 
 Angels, joyful to attend, 
 Hovering round thy pillow bend ; 
 Wait to catch the signal given, 
 And escort thee quick to heaven ! 
 
Address to the Sold. 207 
 
 Is thy earthly house distrest ? 
 Willing to retain its guest ? 
 'Tis not thou, but it, must die — 
 Fly, celestial tenant, fly ! 
 Burst thy shackles, drop thy clay, 
 Sweetly breathe thyself away. 
 Singing, to thy crown remove, 
 Swift of wing, and fired with love. 
 
 Shudder not to pass the stream, 
 Venture all thy care on him, 
 Him, whose dying love and power 
 Still'd its tossing, hush'd its war : 
 Safe is the expanded wave, 
 Gentle as a summer's eve ; 
 Not one object of his care 
 Ever suffer'd shipwreck there ! 
 
 See the haven full in view, 
 
 Love divine shall bear thee through ; 
 
 Trust to that propitious gale, 
 
 Weigh thy anchor, spread thy sail ! 
 
 Saints in glory perfect made, 
 
 Wait thy passage through the shade : 
 
 Ardent for thy coming o'er, 
 
 See they throng the blissful shore ! 
 
 Mount, their transports to improve, 
 Join the longing choir above, 
 
208 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 Swiftly to their wish be given, 
 Kindle higher joy in heaven ! 
 Such the prospects that arise 
 To the dying Christian's eyes ! 
 Such the glorious vista, Faith 
 Opens through the shades of death ! 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 
 A HYMN IN SICKNESS. 
 
 O Thou great Power ! in whom I move, 
 For whom I live, to whom I die, 
 Behold me through thy beams of love, 
 While on this couch of tears I lie ; 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 By thy Christ's blood, the bath of sin. 
 
 No hallow'd oils, no grains I need, 
 No rags of saints, no purging fire, 
 One rosy drop from David's seed 
 Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire : 
 O precious ransom ! which once paid, 
 That " consummatum est " was said : — 
 
Precepts. 209 
 
 And said by Him, that said no more, 
 But seal'd it with his sacred breath : — 
 Thou, then, that hast dispunged my score, 
 And dying wast the death of death, 
 Be to me now (on Thee I call) 
 My life, my strength, my joy, my all. 
 
 Thomas Randolph. 
 
 PRECEPTS. 
 
 First worship God ; — he that forgets to pray 
 Bids not himself good morrow, nor good day : 
 Let thy first labour be to purge thy sin, 
 And serve Him first, whence all things did begin. 
 
 Honour thy parents to prolong thine end ; 
 With them, though for a truth, do not contend ; 
 Whoever makes his father's heart to bleed 
 Shall have a child that will avenge the deed. 
 
 Think that is just ; 't is not enough to do, 
 Unless thy very thoughts are upright too. 
 
2 1 o Thomas Randolph. 
 
 Defend the truth ; for that, who will not die, 
 A coward is, and gives himself the lie. 
 
 Honour the king, as sons their parents do, 
 For he 's thy father, and thy country's too. 
 
 Swear not ; an oath is like a dangerous dart 
 Which, shot, rebounds to strike the shooter's heart. 
 
 Fly drunkenness, whose vile incontinence 
 Takes both away thy reason and thy sense, 
 Till, with Circsean cups, thy mind possess'd 
 Leaves to be man, and wholly turns to beast : 
 Think, while thou swallowest the capacious bowl, 
 Thou let'st in seas, to wreck and drown the soul ; 
 That hell is open, to remembrance call, 
 And think how subject drunkards are to fall. 
 
 To doubtful matters do not headlong run, 
 What 's well left off were better not begun. 
 
 First think, and if thy thoughts approve thy will, 
 Then speak, and, after, that thou speak'st fulfil. 
 
 So live with men, as if God's curious eye 
 Did every where into thine actions pry ; 
 For never yet was sin so void of sense, 
 So fully faced with brazen impudence, 
 
 
The Image of Death. 2 1 1 
 
 As that it durst, before men's eyes, commit 
 Their brutal lusts, lest they should witness it ; 
 How dare they then offend, when God shall see, 
 That must alone both judge and jury be. 
 
 Strive to live well ; tread in the upright ways, 
 And rather count thine actions than thy days, 
 Then thou hast lived enough among us here, 
 For every day well spent I count a year ; 
 Live well ; and then, how soon soe'er thou die, 
 Thou art of age to claim eternity. 
 
 Robert Southwell. 
 
 THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 
 
 Before my face the picture hangs, 
 That daily should put me in mind, 
 Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs, 
 That shortly I am like to find : 
 But yet, alas ! full little I 
 Do think hereon that T must die. 
 
 I often look upon the face, 
 Most ugly, grisly, bare and thin ; 
 
2 1 2 Robert Southwell. 
 
 I often view the hollow place, 
 
 Where eyes and nose had sometime been ; 
 
 I see the bones across, that lie, 
 
 Yet little think that I must die. 
 
 I read the label underneath, 
 
 That telleth me whereto I must ; 
 
 I see the sentence eke, that saith, 
 
 " Remember man, that thou art dust :" 
 
 But yet, alas ! how seldom I 
 
 Do think indeed, that I must die. 
 
 Continually, at my bed's head, 
 
 An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell 
 
 That I, ere morning, may be dead, 
 
 Though now I feel myself full well : 
 
 But yet, alas ! for all this, I 
 
 Have little mind that I must die. 
 
 The gown which I do use to wear, 
 The knife wherewith I cut my meat, 
 And eke that old and ancient chair, 
 Which is my only usual seat ; 
 All these do tell me I must die, 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 My ancestors are turn'd to clay, 
 And many of my mates are gone, 
 My youngers daily drop away ; 
 And can I think to 'scape alone ? 
 
 
An Evening Prayer. 213 
 
 No, no, I know that all must die, 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 If none can 'scape Death's dreadful dart, 
 If rich and poor his beck obey, 
 If strong, if wise, if all do smart, 
 Then I to 'scape shall have no way : 
 O grant me grace, my God, that I 
 My life may mend, since I must die. 
 
 Sir Thomas Browne. 
 
 AN EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 The night is come. Like to the day, 
 Depart not, Thou, great God, away ; 
 Let not my sins, black as the night, 
 Eclipse the lustre of thy light : 
 Keep still in my horizon, for to me 
 The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 
 
 Thou, whose Nature cannot sleep, 
 On my temples sentry keep ; 
 Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes, 
 Whose eyes are open while mine close 
 
214 Sir Thomas Browne. 
 
 Let no dreams my head infest 
 But such as Jacob's temples blest. 
 While I do rest, my soul advance ; 
 Make my sleep a holy trance, 
 That I may, my rest being wrought, 
 Awake into some holy thought, 
 And with as active vigour run 
 My course as doth the nimble sun. 
 
 Sleep is a death ; O make me try, 
 By sleeping what it is to die, 
 And as gently lay my head 
 On my grave, as now my bed. 
 Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
 Awake again at last with Thee ; 
 And thus assured, behold I lie 
 Securely, or to wake, or die. 
 These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
 I do now wake to sleep again; 
 O come, sweet hour, when I shall never 
 Sleep again, but wake for ever ! 
 
 4 
 
Resignation. 215 
 
 Richard Baxter. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 Lord, it belongs not to my care, 
 
 Whether I die or live ; 
 To love and serve Thee is my share, 
 
 And this thy grace must give. 
 If life be long, I will be glad, 
 
 That I may long obey : 
 If short ; yet why should I be sad, 
 
 That shall have the same pay I 
 
 Christ leads me through no darker rooms 
 
 Than He went through before ; 
 He that into God's kingdom comes, 
 
 Must enter by this door. 
 Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet, 
 
 Thy blessed face to see ; 
 For if thy work on earth be sweet, 
 
 What will thy glory be ? 
 
2 1 6 Richard Baxter. 
 
 Then I shall end my sad complaints, 
 
 And weary, sinful days ; 
 And join with the triumphant saints, 
 
 That sing Jehovah's praise. 
 My knowledge of that life is small, 
 
 The eye of faith is dim ; 
 But 't is enough that Christ knows all ; 
 
 And I shall be with Him. 
 
 THE EXIT. 
 
 My soul, go boldly forth, 
 Forsake this sinful earth ; 
 What hath it been to thee 
 
 But pain and sorrow ; 
 And think'st thou it will be 
 
 Better to-morrow ? 
 
 Why art thou for delay ? 
 Thou cam'st not here to stay : 
 What tak'st thou for thy part, 
 
 But heavenly pleasure ; 
 Where then should be thy heart, 
 
 But where's thy treasure ? 
 
 Thy God, thy head 's above, 
 There is the world of love, 
 
The Exit. 2 1 7 
 
 Mansions there purchased are, 
 By Christ's own merit, 
 
 For these he doth prepare 
 Thee by his Spirit. 
 
 Jerusalem above, 
 Glorious in light and love, 
 Is mother of us all ; 
 
 Who shall enjoy them ? 
 The wicked hell-ward fall ; 
 
 Sin will destroy them. 
 
 O blessed company, 
 Where all in harmony, 
 Jehovah's praises sing, 
 
 Still without ceasing ; 
 And all obey their King, 
 
 With perfect pleasing. 
 
 What joy must there needs be, 
 Where all God's glory see ; 
 Feeling God's vital love, 
 
 Which still is burning ; 
 And flaming God-ward move, 
 
 Full love returning. 
 
 Hath mercy made life sweet : 
 And is it kind and meet, 
 
2 1 8 Samuel Wesley Jun. 
 
 Thus to draw back from God, 
 Who doth protect thee ? 
 
 Look then for his sharp rod, 
 Next to correct thee. 
 
 Lord Jesus, take my spirit : 
 I trust thy love and merit : 
 Take home this wandering sheep, 
 
 For Thou hast sought it : 
 This soul in safety keep, 
 
 For Thou hast bought it. 
 
 
 Samuel Wesley Jun. 
 
 THE RESURRECTION. 
 
 The Sun of Righteousness appears, 
 To set in blood no more ! 
 
 Adore the healer of your fears, 
 Your rising Sun adore. 
 
 The saints, when He resign'd his t 
 Unclosed their sleeping eyes, 
 
Epitaph on an Infant. 2 1 9 
 
 He breaks again the bonds of death, 
 Again the dead arise. 
 
 Alone the dreadful race He ran, 
 
 Alone the wine-press trod ; 
 He died and suffer'd as a man, 
 
 He rises as a God ! 
 
 In vain the stone, the watch, the seal, 
 
 Forbid an early rise, 
 To Him who breaks the gates of hell, 
 
 And opens paradise. 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Beneath, a sleeping infant lies, 
 
 To earth whose ashes lent, 
 More glorious shall hereafter rise, 
 
 Though not more innocent. 
 
 When the archangel's trump shall blow, 
 
 And souls and bodies join, 
 What crowds will wish their lives below 
 
 Had been as short as thine ! 
 
220 John Mason. 
 
 , yohn Mason. 
 
 A MORNING HYMN. 
 
 My God was with me all this night, 
 
 And gave me sweet repose : 
 
 My God did watch, even whilst I slept, 
 
 Or I had never rose. 
 
 How many groan'd and wish'd for sleep, 
 
 Until they wish'd for day ; 
 
 Measuring slow hours with their quick pains, 
 
 Whilst I securely lay ! 
 
 Whilst I did sleep, all dangers slept, 
 
 No thieves did me affright ; 
 
 Those evening wolves, those beasts of prey, 
 
 Disturbers of the night. 
 
 No raging flames nor storms did rend 
 
 The house that I was in ; 
 
 I heard no dreadful cries without, 
 
 No doleful groans within. 
 
A Morning Hymn. 2 2 1 
 
 What terrors have I 'scaped this night, 
 
 Which have on others fell ! 
 My body might have slept its last, 
 
 My soul have waked in hell. 
 Sweet rest hath gained that strength to me, 
 
 Which labour did devour : 
 My body was in weakness sown, 
 
 But it is raised in power. 
 
 Lord, for the mercies of the night, 
 
 My humble thanks I pay ; 
 And unto Thee I dedicate 
 
 The first-fruits of the day. 
 Let this day praise Thee, O my God, 
 
 And so let all my days: 
 And, O let mine eternal day 
 
 Be thine eternal praise. 
 
222 Sir Matthew Hale. 
 
 Sir Matthew Hale. 
 
 ON CHRIST'S BIRTH. 
 
 When the great lamp of heaven, the glorious sun, 
 
 Had touch'd this southern period, and begun 
 
 To leave the winter tropic, and to climb 
 
 The zodiac's ascending signs ; that time 
 
 The brighter Sun of Righteousness did choose 
 
 His beams of light and glory to diffuse 
 
 O'er our dark lower world, and by that ray 
 
 To chase the darkness, and to make it day. 
 
 And lest the glorious and resplendent light 
 
 Of his eternal beam might be too bright 
 
 For mortal eyes to gaze upon, he shrouds, 
 
 And clothes his fiery pillar, with the clouds 
 
 Of human flesh ; that in that dress He may 
 
 Converse with men, acquaint them with the way 
 
 To life and glory, show his Father's mind 
 
 Concerning them, how bountiful and kind 
 
 His thoughts were to them; what they might expect 
 
 From Him, in the observance or neglect 
 
 Of what He did require ; — and then He seal'd, 
 
 With his dear blood, the Truth He had reveal'd. 
 
Omnipotence of the Deity. 223 
 
 Isaac Watts. 
 
 OMNIPOTENCE OF THE DEITY. 
 
 Eternal Wisdom ! Thee we praise, 
 
 Thee the creation sings; 
 With thy loud name, rocks, hills, and seas, 
 
 And Heaven's high palace rings. 
 
 Thy hand, how wide it spreads the sky ! 
 
 How glorious to behold ; 
 Tinged with a blue of heavenly dye, 
 
 And starr'd with sparkling gold. 
 
 There, thou hast bid the globes of light 
 
 Their endless circles run : 
 There, the pale planet rules the night ; 
 
 The day obeys the sun. 
 
 If down I turn my wond'ring eyes 
 
 On clouds and storms below, 
 Those under-regions of the skies 
 
 Thy numerous glories show. 
 
224 Isaac Watts. 
 
 The noisy winds stand ready there 
 
 Thy orders to obey ; 
 With sounding wings they sweep the air, 
 
 To make thy chariot way. 
 
 There, like a trumpet loud and strong, 
 Thy thunder shakes our coast ; 
 
 While the red lightnings wave along 
 The banners of thy host. 
 
 On the thin air, without a prop, 
 Hang fruitful showers around ; 
 
 At thy command they sink, and drop 
 Their fatness on the ground. 
 
 Thy wondrous power and skill array 
 The earth in cheerful green ; 
 
 A thousand herbs thy art display, 
 A thousand flowers between. 
 
 The rolling mountains of the deep 
 Obey thy strong command : 
 
 Thy breath can raise the billows steep, 
 Or sink them to the sand. 
 
 Thy glories blaze all nature round, 
 And strike the gazing sight, 
 
 Through skies, and seas, and solid ground, 
 With terror and delight. 
 
 
 
The Creation. 225 
 
 Infinite strength and equal skill 
 Shine through thy works abroad, 
 
 Our souls with vast amazement fill, 
 And speak the builder God. 
 
 But the mild glories of thy grace 
 
 Our softer passions move ; 
 Pity divine in Jesu's face 
 
 We see, adore, and love ! 
 
 THE CREATION. 
 
 " Now let the spacious world arise !" 
 Said the Creator Lord : 
 At once the obedient earth and skies 
 Rose at his sovereign word. 
 
 Dark was the deep, the waters lay 
 Confused, and drown'd the land ; 
 
 He call'd the light, the new-born day 
 Attends on his command. 
 
 He bids the clouds ascend on high : 
 The clouds ascend, and bear 
 
 A wateiy treasure to the sky, 
 And float on softer air. 
 Q 
 
226 Isaac Watts. 
 
 The liquid element below 
 Was gather'd by his hand ; 
 
 The rolling seas together flow, 
 And leave the solid land. 
 
 With herbs and plants, a flowery birth, 
 The naked globe He crown'd, 
 
 Ere there was rain to bless the earth, 
 Or sun to warm the ground. 
 
 Then He adorn'd the upper skies : 
 Behold ! the sun appears ; 
 
 The moon and stars in order rise, 
 To mark our months and years. 
 
 Out of the deep the Almighty King 
 
 Did vital beings frame, 
 And painted fowls of every wing, 
 
 And fish of every name. 
 
 He gave the lion and the worm 
 At once their wondrous birth ; 
 
 And grazing beasts of various form 
 Rose from the teeming earth. 
 
 Adam was form'd of equal clay, 
 The sovereign of the rest ; 
 
 Design 'd for nobler ends than they, 
 With God's own image blest 
 
Immortality. 227 
 
 Thus glorious in the Maker's eye 
 
 The young creation stood ; 
 He saw the building from on high, 
 
 His word pronounced it good. 
 
 William Mason. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 Say, are you sure that Mercy will extend 
 To you a certain space ? Alas, ye sigh ! 
 
 Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 
 And learn with equal ease to sleep or die ! 
 
 Nor think the muse, whose sober voice ye hear, 
 Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow : 
 
 Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear, 
 
 Or shades with horrors what with smiles should glow. 
 
 No — she would warm you with seraphic fire, 
 Heirs as ye are of Heaven's eternal day : 
 
 Would bid you boldly to that Heaven aspire, 
 Nor sink and slumber in your cells of clay. 
 
228 William Mason. 
 
 Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field, 
 I n yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave : 
 
 Force, then, secure in Faith's protecting shield, 
 
 The sting from Death, the victory from the Grave! 
 
 Is this the bigot's rant ? Away, ye vain, 
 
 Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep ; 
 
 Go, soothe your souls, in sickness, grief, or pain, 
 With the sad solace of Eternal sleep. 
 
 Yet know, vain Sceptics ! know, the Almighty Mind, 
 Who breathed on man a portion of his fire, 
 
 Bade his free soul, by earth nor time confined, 
 To Heaven, to Immortality aspire. 
 
 Nor shall the pile of Hope his mercy rear'd, 
 By vain philosophy be e'er destroy'd : 
 
 Eternity, by all or wish'd or fear'd 
 Shall be by all or sufFer'd or enjoy'd ! 
 
 * 
 
Missions. 229 
 
 Reginald Heber. 
 
 MISSIONS. 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains, 
 
 From India's coral strand, 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 
 Roll down their golden sand ; 
 From many an ancient river, 
 
 From many a palmy plain, 
 They call us to deliver 
 
 Their land from error's chain ! 
 
 What though the spicy breezes 
 
 Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle ; 
 Though every prospect pleases, 
 
 And only man is vile ; 
 In vain with lavish kindness 
 
 The gifts of God are strown, 
 The heathen in his blindness 
 
 Bows down to wood and stone ! 
 
230 Reginald Heber. 
 
 Shall we, whose souls are lighted 
 
 With wisdom from on high, 
 Shall we to men benighted 
 
 The lamp of life deny ? 
 Salvation ! oh, salvation ! 
 
 The joyful sound proclaim, 
 Till each remotest nation 
 
 Has learned Messiah's name ! 
 
 Waft, waft, ye winds, his story, 
 
 And you, ye waters, roll, 
 Till, like a sea of glory, 
 
 It spreads from pole to pole ! 
 Till o'er our ransom'd nature, 
 
 The Lamb for sinners slain, 
 Redeemer, King, Creator, 
 
 In bliss returns to reign ! 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing 
 
 soil ; 
 When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's 
 
 toil ; 
 When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the 
 
 flood, — 
 In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker 
 
 good. 
 
Spring. 231 
 
 The birds that wake the morning, and those that love 
 
 the shade, 
 The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy 
 
 glade, 
 The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his 
 
 way, 
 The moon and stars their Master's name in silent pomp 
 
 display. 
 
 Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky — 
 Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny ? 
 No ; let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease 
 
 to be, 
 Thee, Master, must we always love, and Saviour 
 
 honour thee. 
 
 The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer 
 
 fade, 
 The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake the shade, 
 The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget their old 
 
 decree, — 
 But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to 
 
 thee ! 
 
 * 
 
232 Reginald Heber. 
 
 FAREWELL TO A DEPARTED FRIEND. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — but we will not deplore 
 thee ; 
 Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, 
 The Saviour has pass'd through its portals before thee, 
 And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the 
 gloom. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — we no longer behold thee, 
 Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 
 
 But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, 
 And sinners may hope, since the sinless has died. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — and its mansion forsaking, 
 Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt linger'd long ; 
 
 But the sunshine of heaven beam'd bright on thy waking, 
 And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's 
 song. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave — but 't were wrong to de- 
 plore thee, 
 When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide ; 
 He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, 
 Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath 
 died. 
 
Evening Prayer. 233 
 
 Rev. Thomas Dale. 
 
 EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 Should some seraph wing his flight, 
 From the realms of cloudless light, 
 Earth and ocean soaring over, 
 Where would he delight to hover ? 
 
 Not o'er halls of regal pride ; 
 Not o'er fields with carnage dyed, 
 Where, 'mid shouts of triumph breathing, 
 Fame the hero's brow is wreathing ; 
 
 Not o'er cells of letter'd age ; 
 Not o'er haunts of hoary sage ; 
 Not where youthful poet stealing, 
 Woos the muse's warm revealing ; 
 
 Not o'er wood and shadowy vale 
 Where the lover tells his tale, 
 And the blush — love's fondest token — 
 Speaks what words had never spoken ; 
 
234 Rev. Thomas Dale. 
 
 Not where music's silver sound 
 Wakes the dormant echoes round, 
 And with charms as pure as tender, 
 Holds the heart in pleased surrender. 
 
 O'er the calm sequester' d spot, 
 O'er the lone and lowly cot, 
 Where its little hands unwreathing, 
 Childhood's guileless prayer is breathing : 
 
 While the gentle mother nigh, 
 Points her daughter's prayer on high, 
 To the God whose goodness gave her, 
 To the God whose love shall save her ; — 
 
 There, awhile, the Son of light 
 Would arrest his rapid flight ; 
 Thence would bear, to heaven ascending, 
 Prayers with heartfelt praises blending. 
 
 Gladly would he soar above, 
 
 With the sacrifice of love ; 
 
 And through Heaven's expanded portal, 
 
 Bear it to the throne immortal ! 
 
Time. 235 
 
 TIME. 
 
 Yes — all may grace one mortal day, 
 
 That warms the heart and wins the eye, 
 And gives each ardent strength to stray 
 
 From rapture to satiety. 
 
 Wealth, glory, grandeur throned on high — 
 And that which melts the heart of stone, 
 
 The magic beams of Beauty's eye — 
 But Time glides on — and all are gone. 
 
 And thou — whom Heaven's high will denies 
 
 To soar above thy fellow-men, 
 For thee as dear a home may rise 
 
 In village cot, or mountain glen ; 
 
 Where, loving and beloved again, 
 Thy hopes — thy heart may rest on one ; 
 
 Oh ! what is life ? — Time flies, and then 
 Death speeds his dart — and both are gone. 
 
 And thou too, wretch — forbear to weep, 
 
 Thy misery need not last for aye, 
 Why feed the thought that else might sleep ? 
 
 Why waste in hopeless grief away ? 
 
 Deserted in thy darker day, 
 If friends are fled and thou alone, 
 
 Thy God will prove a firmer stay — 
 Seek him — Time flies — and thou art gone. 
 
236 Rev. Thomas Dale. 
 
 • 
 Oh ! where are all the gauds of earth — 
 
 Love's melting smile — young Beauty's bloom, 
 The pomp of wealth — the pride of birth — 
 
 Are these remember'd in the tomb ? 
 
 No — sunk in cold oblivion's gloom 
 They lie — their very names unknown — 
 
 The mouldering marble tells their doom — 
 They lived — Time fled — and they are gone. 
 
 So thou shalt fall — but dost thou deem 
 
 To sleep in peace beneath the sod ? 
 Dash from thy soul that empty dream, 
 
 And know thyself — and know thy God. 
 
 Nor earth, nor time restrains his rod ; 
 And thou — a few short summers flown, 
 
 Thou tread' st the path thy fathers trod — 
 Thy doom is fixed, and hope is gone. 
 
 Chain 'd to the dust from whence we spring, 
 Why thus from yon bright skies be driven ; 
 
 Oh ! turn to your Eternal King ; 
 Believe — repent, and be forgiven, 
 Haste, seize the profFer'd hope of heaven, 
 
 While life and light are yet thine own ; 
 Swift as the passing cloud of even, 
 
 Time glides along — and thou art gone. 
 
The Mother s Grief. 237 
 
 WEEP NOT FOR ME. 
 
 When the spark of life is waning, 
 
 Weep not for me ; 
 When the languid eye is straining, 
 
 Weep not for me. 
 When the feeble pulse is ceasing, 
 Start not at its swift decreasing, 
 'T is the fettered soul's releasing ; 
 Weep not for me. 
 
 When the pangs of death assail me, 
 
 Weep not for me ; 
 Christ is mine — he cannot fail me, 
 
 Weep not for me. 
 Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour 
 From his love my soul to sever, 
 Jesus is my strength for ever — 
 Weep not for me. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S GRIEF. 
 
 To mark the sufferings of the babe 
 That cannot speak its woe ; 
 
 To see the infant tears gush forth, 
 Yet know not why they flow ; 
 
238 Rev. Thomas Dale. 
 
 To meet the meek, uplifted eye, 
 That fain would ask relief, 
 
 Yet can but tell of agony : 
 This is a mother's grief. 
 
 Through dreary days and darker nights, 
 
 To trace the mark of death ; 
 To hear the faint and frequent sigh, 
 
 The quick and shorten'd breath ; 
 To watch the last dread strife draw near, 
 
 And pray that struggle brief, 
 Though all is ended with its close : 
 
 This is a mother's grief. 
 
 To see in one short hour decay' d 
 
 The hope of future years ; 
 To feel how vain a father's prayers, 
 
 How vain a mother's tears ; 
 To think the cold grave now must close 
 
 O'er what was once the chief 
 Of all the treasured joys on earth : 
 
 This is a mother's grief. 
 
 Yet, when the first wild throb is past 
 
 Of anguish and despair, 
 To lift the eye of faith to heaven, 
 
 And think " my child is there ! " 
 This best can diy the gushing tears, 
 
 This yield the heart relief, 
 Until the Christian's pious hope 
 
 O'ercomes a mother's grief. 
 
A Christmas Carol. 239 
 
 Rev. Charles Kingsley. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve, 
 I went sighing past the church, across the moorland 
 dreary — 
 " Oh ! never sin, and want, and woe, this earth will 
 leave, 
 And the bells but mock the wailing round, they sing 
 so cheery. 
 How long, oh Lord ! how long, before Thou come 
 again ? 
 Still in cellar, and in garret, and on moorland dreary 
 The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men 
 toil in vain, 
 Till earth is sick of hope deferr'd, though Christmas 
 bells be cheery." 
 
 1 
 
 r Then arose a joyous clamour from the wild-fowl on the 
 
 mere, 
 Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells 
 ringing, 
 
240 Charles Swain. 
 
 And a voice within cried, " Listen ! Christmas carols 
 even here ! 
 Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars 
 and snows are singing. 
 Blind ! I live, I love, I reign ; and all the nations 
 through 
 With the thunder of my judgments even now are 
 ringing ; 
 Do thou fulfil thy work but as yon wild-fowl do, 
 Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through 
 it angels singing ! " 
 
 Charles Swam. 
 
 THE MOTHER'S HAND. 
 
 A wand'ring orphan child was I, — 
 
 But meanly, at the best, attired ; 
 For oh ! my mother scarce could buy 
 
 The common food each week required ; 
 But when the anxious day had fled, 
 
 It seem'd to be her dearest joy, 
 To press her pale hand on my head, 
 
 And pray that God would guide her boy. 
 
The Mother's Hand. 241 
 
 But more, each winter, more and more 
 
 Stern suffering brought her to decay ; 
 And then an angel pass'd her door, 
 
 And bore her lingering soul away ! 
 And I — they know not what is grief 
 
 Who ne'er knelt by a dying bed ; 
 All other woe on earth is brief, 
 
 Save that which weeps a mother dead. 
 
 A seaman's life was soon my lot, 
 
 'Mid reckless deeds, and desperate men ; 
 But still I never quite forgot 
 
 The prayer I ne'er should hear again ; 
 And oft, when half induced to tread 
 
 Such paths as unto sin decoy, 
 I 've felt her fond hand press my head, — 
 
 And that soft touch hath saved her boy ! 
 
 Though hard their mockery to receive, 
 
 Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had striven, 
 Her who, on earth, I dared not grieve, 
 
 I could not — would not — grieve in heaven : 
 And thus from many an action dread, 
 
 Too dark for human eyes to scan, 
 The same fond hand upon my head 
 
 That bless'd the boy — hath saved the man ! 
 
242 Charles Swain. 
 
 THE ORPHAN BOY. 
 
 The room is old, — the night is cold, — 
 But night is dearer far than day ; 
 
 For then, in dreams, to him it seems, 
 That she's returned who's gone away ! 
 
 His tears are pass'd, — he clasps her fast, — 
 Again she holds him on her knee ; 
 
 And, — in his sleep, — he murmurs deep, 
 " Oh ! mother, go no more from me!" 
 
 But morning breaks, the child awakes, — 
 The dreamer's happy dream hath fled ; 
 
 The fields look sere, and cold, and drear, — 
 Like orphans, mourning summer dead! — 
 
 The wild birds spring, on shivering wing, 
 Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree ; 
 
 And still he cries, with weeping eyes, 
 
 " Oh ! mother dear, come back to me !" 
 
 Can no one tell where angels dwell ? — 
 
 He 's call'd them oft till day grew dim ; 
 If they were near, — and they could hear, — 
 
 He thinks they'd bring her back to him !- 
 " Oh ! angels sweet, conduct my feet," 
 
 He cries, " where'er her home may be ; 
 Oh ! lead me on to where she's gone, 
 
 Or bring my mother back to me !" 
 
Sabbath Chimes. 243 
 
 SABBATH CHIMES. 
 
 There's music in the morning air, 
 
 A holy voice and sweet, 
 Far calling to the house of prayer 
 
 The humblest peasant's feet. 
 From hill, and vale, and distant moor, 
 
 Long as the chime is heard, 
 Each cottage sends its tenants poor 
 
 For God's enriching word. 
 
 Where'er the British power hath trod, 
 
 The cross of faith ascends, 
 And, like a radiant arch of God, 
 
 The light of Scripture bends ! 
 Deep in the forest wilderness 
 
 The wood-built church is known ; 
 A sheltering wing, in man's distress, 
 
 Spread like the Saviour's own ! 
 
 The warrior from his armed tent, 
 
 The seaman from the tide, 
 Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent 
 
 In Christian nations wide, — 
 Thousands and tens of thousands bring 
 
 Their sorrows to his shrine, 
 And taste the never-failing spring 
 
 Of Jesus' love divine ! 
 
2 44 Edwin Wangh. 
 
 If, at an earthly chime, the tread 
 
 Of million, million feet 
 Approach whene'er the Gospel's read 
 
 In God's own temple-seat, 
 How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep, 
 
 To see God's saints arise ; 
 And countless hosts of angels keep 
 
 The sabbath of the skies ! 
 
 Edwiii Waugh. 
 
 LIFE'S TWILIGHT. 
 
 Now silver threads begin to shine 
 
 Among my wasting hair, 
 And down the slope of life's decline 
 
 I thoughtfully repair. 
 The fire that once was in mine eyes 
 
 Has dimmed its fervid ray, 
 And every hour of life that flies, 
 
 Is stealing light away. 
 Oh, let me, with untroubled breast, 
 
 A while in shadow lie, 
 Before I lay me down to rest, 
 
 And bid the world " Good bye." 
 
Life's Twilight. 245 
 
 With Time, that wrestler old and grim, 
 
 I 've had a gallant round ; 
 But ah, there's little chance with him 
 
 Who bringeth all to ground. 
 Although the world still rolleth on 
 
 Its merry, motley, way, 
 My little part of life is done, 
 
 Except to watch the play. 
 Then, let me, with untroubled breast, 
 
 A while in shadow lie, 
 Before I lay me down to rest, 
 
 And bid the world " Good bye." 
 
 In youth, to pleasure's lightest trill, 
 
 My heart leaped blithe and free ; 
 Now, she may play what tune she will, 
 
 It is not so with me ; 
 For though a smile may sometimes steal 
 
 Across my furrow'd brow, 
 My joys are all akin, I feel, 
 
 To contemplation now. 
 Then, let me, with untroubled breast, 
 
 A while in shadow lie, 
 Before I lay me down to rest, 
 
 And bid the world " Good bye." 
 
246 Edwin Waugh. 
 
 THE WANDERER'S HYMN. 
 
 Happy the heart that's simply pure ; 
 
 Happy the heart that's nobly brave ; 
 Happy is he that shuns the lure 
 
 That winds like death round folly's slave. 
 
 Wandering in the worldly throng, 
 
 The dust of earth still keeps us blind ; — 
 
 The judgment's weak, the passions strong, 
 The will is fitful as the wind. 
 
 Disguised in joy's deceitful beams, 
 A thousand dancing meteors ply 
 
 About our path the demon-schemes, 
 That glitter only to destroy. 
 
 Who can we ask for aid but Thee, 
 Our only friend, our only guide ? 
 
 What other counsellor have we ? 
 
 Where else, oh ! where, can we abide ? 
 
 Oh ! hear and help us while we pray, 
 And travel with us all the way ! 
 
 Oh ! hold our hands, and be our stay ! 
 Oh ! set us right whene'er we stray ! 
 
Davids Lament for Absalom. 247 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 
 
 Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! 
 
 Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
 That death should settle in thy glorious eye 
 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! 
 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, 
 
 Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, 
 
 And hear thy sweet " My father !" from these dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young ; 
 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush, 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; 
 
 But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
48 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart, 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, 
 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart, 
 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — 
 
 And thy dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup, 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. 
 
 May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home, 
 My lost boy, Absalom ! 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 The spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 
 With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, 
 
 And with it comes a thirst to be away, 
 
 In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours, 
 
 A feeling like the worm's awakening wings, 
 
 Wild for companionship with swifter things. 
 
 We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 
 To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 
 
 And nature, that is beautiful and dumb, 
 
 Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods — 
 
Lines on an Infant. 249 
 
 Yet, even there, a restless thought will steal, 
 To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 
 
 Strange, that the audible stillness of the noon, 
 The waters tripping with their silver feet, 
 
 The turning to the light of leaves in June, 
 And the light whisper as their edges meet — 
 
 Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 
 
 The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 
 
 There's no contentment in a world like this, 
 
 Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 
 We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
 
 . That through the cloud-rifts radiantly stream ; 
 Bird-like, the prison'd soul will lift its eye 
 And pine — till it is hooded from the sky. 
 
 LINES ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Bright be the skies that cover thee, 
 
 Child of the sunny brow — 
 Bright as the dream flung over thee- 
 
 By all that meets thee now — 
 Thy heart is beating joyously, 
 
 Thy voice is like a bird's — 
 And sweetly breaks the melody 
 
 Of thy imperfect words. 
 
250 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 I know no fount that gushes out 
 As gladly as thy tiny shout. 
 
 I would that thou mlght'st ever be 
 
 As beautiful as now — 
 That time might ever leave as free 
 
 Thy yet unwritten brow : 
 I would life were " all poetry " 
 
 To gentle measures set, 
 That nought but chasten'd melody 
 
 Might stain thine eye of jet — 
 Nor one discordant note be spoken, 
 Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 
 
 I would — but deeper things than these 
 
 With woman's lot are wove : 
 Wrought of intensest sympathies, 
 
 And nerved by purest love — 
 By the strong spirit's discipline, 
 
 By the fierce wrong forgiven, 
 By all that wrings the heart of sin, 
 
 Is woman won to heaven. 
 " Her lot is on thee," lovely child — 
 God keep thy spirit undefined ! 
 
 I fear thy gentle loveliness, 
 Thy witching tone and air, 
 
 Thine eye's beseeching earnestness 
 May be to thee a snare. 
 
Better Moments. 251 
 
 The silver stars may purely shine, 
 
 The waters taintless flow — 
 But they who kneel at woman's shrine, 
 
 Wreathe poisons as they bow — 
 She may fling back the gift again, 
 But the crush'd flower will oftenest stain. 
 
 What shall preserve thee, beautiful child ? 
 
 Keep thee as thou art now ? 
 Bring thee a spirit undefiled, 
 
 At God's pure throne to bow ? 
 The world is but a broken reed, 
 
 And life grows early dim — 
 Who shall be near thee in thy need, 
 
 To lead thee up to Him ? 
 He, who himself was " undefiled ! " 
 With Him we trust thee, beautiful child ! 
 
 BETTER MOMENTS. 
 
 My mother's voice ! how often creep 
 Its accents on my lonely hours! 
 
 Like healing sent on wings of sleep, 
 Or dew to the unconscious flowers. 
 
 I can forget her melting prayer 
 While leaping pulses madly fly, 
 
252 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 But in tne still unbroken air, 
 
 Her gentle tone comes stealing by — 
 And years, and sin, and folly flee, 
 And leave me at my mother's knee. 
 
 The evening hours, the birds, the flowers, 
 
 The starlight, moonlight — all that's meet 
 For heaven in this lost world of ours — 
 
 Remind me of her teachings sweet. 
 My heart is harder, and perhaps 
 
 My thoughtlessness hath drunk up tears ; 
 And there 's a mildew in the lapse 
 
 Of a few swift and chequer' d years — 
 But nature's book is even yet 
 With all my mother's lessons writ. 
 
 I have been out at eventide 
 
 Beneath a moonlight sky of spring, 
 When earth was garnish'd like a bride, 
 
 And night had on her silver wing — 
 When bursting leaves, and diamond grass, 
 
 And waters leaping to the light, 
 And all that make the pulses pass 
 
 With wilder fleetness, thronged the night- 
 When all was beauty — then have I 
 
 With friends on whom my love is flung 
 Like myrrh on winds of Araby, 
 
 Gazed up where evening's lamp is hung : 
 
Better Moments. 253 
 
 And when the beautiful spirit there 
 
 Flung over me its golden chain, 
 My mother's voice came on the air 
 
 Like the light dropping of the rain — 
 And, resting on some silver star 
 
 The spirit of a bended knee, 
 I 've pour'd out low and fervent prayer 
 
 That our eternity might be 
 To rise in heaven, like stars at night, 
 And tread a living path of light. 
 
 I have been on the dewy hills, 
 
 When night was stealing from the dawn, 
 And mist was on the waking rills, 
 
 And tints were delicately drawn 
 In the gray East — when birds were waking, 
 
 With a low murmur in the trees, 
 And melody by fits was breaking 
 
 Upon the whisper of the breeze — 
 And this when I was forth, perchance 
 As a worn reveller from the dance — 
 
 And when the sun sprang gloriously 
 And freely up, and hill and river 
 
 Were catching upon wave and tree 
 The arrows from his subtle quiver — 
 
 I say a voice has thrill'd me then, 
 Heard on the still and rushing light, 
 
 Or, creeping from the silent glen, 
 Like words from the departing night, 
 
254 Nathaniel Parker Willis. 
 
 Hath stricken me, and I have press'd 
 On the wet grass my fever'd brow, 
 
 And pouring forth the earliest 
 First prayer, with which I learn'd to bow, 
 
 Have felt my mother's spirit rush 
 Upon me as in by-past years, 
 
 And, yielding to the blessed gush 
 Of my ungovernable tears, 
 
 Have risen up — the gay, the wild — 
 
 Subdued and humble as a child. 
 
 SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 
 
 I love to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet gray ; 
 For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 
 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walk'd the world for fourscore years ; 
 
 And they say that I am old, 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, 
 
 And my years are wellnigh told. 
 
Saturday Afternoon. 255 
 
 It is very true ; it is very true ; 
 
 I 'm old, and " I 'bide my time : " 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on, play on ; I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring ; 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 
 And I whoop the smother'd call, 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 
 And I shall be glad to go ; 
 For the world at best is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low ; 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 
 In treading its gloomy way ; 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, 
 
 To see the young so gay. 
 
25 6 William- Cullen Bryant. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
 
 brown and sere. 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the wither' d leaves 
 
 lie dead ; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 
 
 tread. 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs 
 
 the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the 
 
 gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
 
 lately sprang and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of 
 
 flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good 
 
 of ours. 
 
The Death of the Flowers. 257 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold Novem- 
 ber rain, 
 
 Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones 
 again. 
 
 The -wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long 
 ago, 
 
 And the briar-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
 mer glow ; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
 wood, 
 
 And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn 
 beauty stood, 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
 the plague on men, 
 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone, from up- 
 land, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such 
 
 days will come, 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
 
 home ; 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all 
 
 the trees are still, 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance 
 
 late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
 
 no more. 
 
 s 
 
258 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 
 
 died, 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my 
 
 side : 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest 
 
 cast the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
 
 brief : 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend 
 
 of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 Region of life and light ! 
 
 Land of good whose earthly toils are o'er ! 
 Nor frost nor heat may blight 
 Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
 
 Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore ! 
 
 There, without crook or sling, 
 Walks the good shepherd ; blossoms white and red 
 
 Round his meek temples cling ; 
 
 And, to sweet pastures led, 
 His own loved flock beneath his eye is fed. 
 
The Life of the Blessed. 259 
 
 He guides, and near him they 
 Follow delighted, for he makes them go 
 
 Where dwells eternal May, 
 
 And heavenly roses blow, 
 Deathless, and gather'd but again to grow. 
 
 He leads them to the height 
 Named of the infinite and long-sought Good. 
 
 And fountains of delight ; 
 
 And where his feet have stood 
 Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 
 
 And when in the mid skies, 
 The climbing sun has reach'd his highest bound. 
 
 Reposing as he lies, 
 
 With all his flock around, 
 He witches the still air with numerous sound. 
 
 From his sweet lute flow forth 
 Immortal harmonies, of power to still 
 All passions born of earth, 
 And draw the ardent will 
 Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 
 
 Might but a little part, 
 A wandering breath of that high melody, 
 
 Descend into my heart, 
 
 And change it till it be 
 Transform'd and swallow'd up, oh love ! in thee. 
 
260 William Cull en Bryant. 
 
 Ah ! then my soul should know, 
 Beloved ! where thou liest at noon of day, 
 And from this place of woe 
 Released, should take its way 
 To mingle with thy flock and never stray. 
 
 TO THE PAST. 
 
 Thou unrelenting Past ! 
 Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 
 
 And fetters, sure and fast, 
 Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 
 
 Far in thy realm withdrawn 
 Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 
 
 And glorious ages gone 
 Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 
 
 Childhood, with all its mirth, 
 Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground, 
 
 And last, Man's Life on earth, 
 Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 
 
 Thou hast my better years, 
 Thou hast my earlier friends — the good — the kind, 
 
 Yielded to thee with tears — 
 The venerable form — the exalted mind. 
 
To the Past. 261 
 
 My spirit yearns to bring 
 The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, 
 
 And struggles hard to wring 
 Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 
 
 In vain — thy gates deny 
 All passage save to those who hence depart ; 
 
 Nor to the streaming eye 
 Thou givest them back — nor to the broken heart. 
 
 In thy abysses hide 
 Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee 
 
 Earth's wonder and her pride 
 Are gathered, as the waters to the sea. 
 
 Labours of good to man, 
 Unpublish'd charity, unbroken faith,— 
 
 Love, that midst grief began, 
 And grew with years, and falter'd not in death. 
 
 Full many a mighty name 
 Lurks in thy depths, unutter'd, unrevered ; 
 
 With thee are silent fame, 
 Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappear'd. 
 
 Thine for a space are they — 
 Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ; 
 
 Thy gates shall yet give way, 
 Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 
 
262 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 All that of good and fair 
 Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 
 
 Shall then come forth, to wear 
 The glory and the beauty of its prime. 
 
 They have not perish' d — no ! 
 Kind words, remember'd voices once so sweet, 
 
 Smiles, radiant long ago, 
 And features, the great soul's apparent seat ; 
 
 All shall come back, each tie 
 Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 
 
 Alone shall Evil die, 
 And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 
 
 And then shall I behold 
 Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung ; 
 
 And her, who, still and cold, 
 Fills the next grave — the beautiful and young. 
 
Forgiveness. 263 
 
 yohn G. Whittier. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 My heart was heavy, for its trust had been 
 
 Abused, its kindness answer'd with foul wrong: 
 
 So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, 
 One summer Sabbath-day I stroll'd among 
 
 The green mounds of the village burial-place ; 
 Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
 Find one sad level — and how, soon or late, 
 
 Wrong'd and wrong-doer, each with meeken'd face, 
 And cold hands folded over a still heart, 
 
 Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
 Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, 
 
 Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 
 
 Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, 
 
 Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave ! 
 
264 'James Russell Lowell. 
 
 yames Russell Lowell. 
 
 THE HERITAGE. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands, 
 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, 
 
 And he inherits soft white hands, 
 And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
 
 The bank may break, the factory burn, 
 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
 And soft white hands could hardly earn 
 A living that would serve his turn ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants, 
 His stomach craves for dainty fare ; 
 
 With sated heart, he hears the pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
 And wearies in his easy chair ; 
 
The Heritage. 265 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the p6or man's son inherit ? 
 
 Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit ; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 
 In every useful toil and art ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 
 Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things, 
 A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, 
 
 Content that from employment springs, 
 
 A heart that in his labour sings ; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 A patience learn'd of being poor, 
 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast bless his door ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 0, rich man's son ! there is a toil, 
 That with all others level stands ; 
 
266 "James Russell Lowell. 
 
 Large charity doth never soil, 
 
 But only whiten, soft white hands, — 
 This is the best crop from thy lands ; 
 A heritage, it seems to be, 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 O, poor man's son ! scorn not thy state ; 
 There is worse weariness than thine, 
 
 In merely being rich and great ; 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 A re equal in the earth at last ; 
 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 By record of a well-filled past ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 
 
The Sunday- School. 267 
 
 Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 
 
 THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL. 
 
 Group after group are gathering, such as prest 
 
 Once to their Saviour's arms, and gently laid 
 Their cherub heads upon his shielding breast, 
 
 Though sterner souls the fond approach forbade ; 
 Group after group glide on with noiseless tread, 
 
 And round Jehovah's sacred altar meet, 
 Where holy thoughts in infant hearts are bred, 
 
 And holy words their ruby lips repeat, 
 Oft with a chasten'd glance, in modulation sweet. 
 
 Yet some there are, upon whose childish brows 
 
 Wan poverty hath done the work of care ; 
 Look up, ye sad ones ! — 't is your Father's house 
 
 Beneath whose consecrated dome you are ; 
 More gorgeous robes ye see, and trappings rare, 
 
 And watch the gaudier forms that gaily rove, 
 And deem, perchance, mistaken as you are, 
 
 The "coat of many colours" proves His love, 
 Whose sign is in the heart, and whose reward above. 
 
268 Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 
 
 
 And ye, blest labourers in this humble sphere, 
 
 To deeds of saint-like charity inclined, 
 Who from your cells of meditation dear 
 
 Come forth to guide the weak, untutor'd mind — 
 Yet ask no payment, save one smile refined 
 
 Of grateful love, one tear of contrite pain — 
 Meekly ye forfeit to your mission kind 
 
 The rest of earthly Sabbaths. Be your gain 
 A Sabbath without end, 'mid yon celestial plain. 
 
 THE SECOND BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Thou dost not dream, my little one, 
 
 How great the change must be, 
 These two years, since the morning sun 
 
 First shed his beams on thee. 
 Thy little hands did helpless fall, 
 
 As with a stranger's fear, 
 And a faint wailing cry was all 
 
 That met thy mother's ear. 
 
 But now the dictates of thy will 
 
 Thine active feet obey, 
 And, pleased, thy busy fingers still 
 
 Among thy playthings stray ; 
 And thy full eyes delighted rove 
 
 The pictured page along, 
 
The Second Birthday. 269 
 
 And, lisping to the heart of love, 
 Thy thousand wishes throng. 
 
 Fair boy ! the wanderings of thy way, 
 
 It is not mine to trace, 
 Through buoyant youth's exulting day, 
 
 Or manhood's bolder race ; 
 What discipline thy heart may need, 
 
 What clouds may veil thy sun, 
 The eye of God alone can read — 
 
 And let His will be done. 
 
 Yet might a mother's prayer of love 
 
 Thy destiny control ; 
 Those boasted gifts that often prove 
 
 The ruin of the soul — 
 Beauty and fortune, wit and fame — 
 
 For thee it would not crave, 
 But tearful urge a fervent claim, 
 
 To joys beyond the grave. 
 
 O ! be thy wealth an upright heart, 
 
 Thy strength the sufferer's stay, 
 Thine early choice that better part 
 
 Which cannot fade away ; 
 Thy zeal for Christ a quenchless fire, 
 
 Thy friends, the men of peace, 
 Thy heritage, an angel's lyre 
 
 When earthly changes cease ! 
 
270 Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 
 
 THE HOLY DEAD. 
 
 They dread no storm that lowers, 
 
 No perish'd joys bewail ; 
 They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, 
 
 Nor drink of streams that fail : 
 There is no tear-drop in their eye, 
 
 No change upon their brow : 
 Their placid bosom heaves no sigh, 
 
 Though all earth's idols bow. 
 
 Who are so greatly blest ? 
 
 From whom hath sorrow fled ? 
 Who share such deep, unbroken rest, 
 
 Where all things toil ? The dead ! 
 The holy dead. Why weep ye so 
 
 Above yon sable bier ? 
 Thrice blessed ! they have done with woe — 
 
 The living claim the tear. 
 
 Go to their sleeping bowers, 
 
 Deck their low couch of clay 
 With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers ; 
 
 And when they fade away, 
 Think of the amaranthine wreath, 
 
 The garlands never dim, 
 And tell me why thou fliest from death, 
 
 Or hidest thy friends from him. 
 
 
Morn and Even. 27 1 
 
 We dream, but they awake ; 
 
 Dread visions mar our rest ; 
 Through thorns and snares our way we take, 
 
 And yet we mourn the blest ! 
 For spirits round the Eternal Throne, 
 
 How vain the tears we shed ! 
 They are the living, they alone, 
 
 Whom thus we call the dead. 
 
 MORN AND EVEN. 
 
 The outgoings of sweet morn ! See the light mist, 
 
 That spreads its white wing to the heavens away ; 
 See the fresh blossoms by the blithe bee kiss'd ; 
 
 The hilltop kindling 'neath the king of day ; 
 
 Spire after spire, that drinks the genial ray ; 
 The rocks, that in their rifted holds abide, 
 
 And darkly frown, with heads for ever gray ; 
 While the clear stream gleams out in trembling pride 
 Through its transparent veil, like a fair, timid bride. 
 
 Morn to the earth ! The cup of life she quaffs, 
 And countless voices hail the sparkling draught : 
 
 Methinks the lamb beside its mother laughs ; 
 Up soars the lark, with song his Maker taught ; 
 
27 2 Mrs. L. H. Sigourney. 
 
 Sweet lisping murmurs wrap the infant's thought, 
 As gladly from the cottage-door it creeps ; 
 
 The wild rill glitters through the lonely grot ; 
 While the hoarse sea, whose anthem never sleeps, 
 Reverberates God's praise through all its sounding deeps. 
 
 Morn to the watcher by the sick man's bed ! 
 
 The slow, slow clock tells out the welcome hour, 
 And to the air he springs with buoyant tread ; 
 
 The poor caged bird sings sweet in lady's bower ; 
 
 The farmer, watchful lest the skies may lower, 
 Thrusts his sharp sickle 'mid the bearded grain ; 
 
 While sportive voices, strong in childhood's power, 
 With merry music wake the village plain, 
 And toil comes forth refresh'd, and age is young again. 
 
 The outgoings of mild eve ! The folded rose ; 
 
 Soft slumber settling on the lily's bell ; 
 The solemn forest lull'd to deep repose, 
 
 While restless winds no more its murmurs swell ; 
 
 The stars emerging from their secret cell, 
 A silent night-watch o'er the world to keep ; 
 
 And then the queenly moon, attended well, 
 Who o'er the mighty arch of heaven doth sweep, 
 Speaking of nature's king in language still and deep. 
 
 The charms of eve how sweet, he best can say, 
 Who, sickening at the city's dust and noise, . 
 
 And selfish arts that Mammon's votaries sway, 
 Turns to his home to taste its simple joys ; 
 
Morn and Even. 273 
 
 There, climbing on his knee, his ruddy boys 
 Wake that warm thrill that every care repays ; 
 
 And, fondly hasting from her baby-toys, 
 His prattling daughter seeks a father's gaze, 
 And gives that tender smile which o'er his slumber 
 plays. 
 
 She, too, who wins her bread by toil severe, 
 
 And from her home at early morn must go 
 To earn the bread that dries her children's tear, 
 
 How hails her heart the sun declining low ! 
 
 Love nerves the foot that else were sad and slow ; 
 And when afar her lowly roof she spies, 
 
 Forgot is all her lot of scorn and woe, 
 A mother's rapture kindling in her eyes, 
 While to her wearied arms the eager nursling flies. 
 
 And see, from labour loosed, the drooping team, 
 Unharness' d, hasting to their fragrant food ; 
 
 While, fearful of the hawk's marauding scream, 
 The broad-wing'd mother folds her helpless brood : 
 In the cool chambers of the teeming flood, 
 
 The scaly monsters check their boisterous play ; 
 And, closely curtain' d 'mid the quiet wood, 
 
 The slumbering minstrels hush their warbling lay, 
 While man's sweet hymn of praise doth close the 
 summer-day. 
 
274 William O. Peabody. 
 
 William 0. Peabody. 
 
 THE AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 Behold the western evening light ! 
 
 It melts in deepening gloom ; 
 So calmly Christians sink away, 
 
 Descending to the tomb. 
 
 The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf 
 Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
 
 So gently flows the parting breath, 
 When good men cease to be. 
 
 How beautiful on all the hills 
 
 The crimson light is shed ! 
 'T is like the place the Christian gives 
 
 To mourners round his bed. 
 
 How mildly on the wandering cloud 
 
 The sunset beam is cast ! 
 'T is like the place memory left behind 
 
 When loved ones breathe their last. 
 
Characteristics of Spring. 275 
 
 And now, above the dews of night, 
 
 The yellow star appears ; 
 So faith springs in the heart of those 
 
 Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 
 
 But soon the morning's happier light 
 
 Its glory shall restore, 
 And eyelids that are sealed in death 
 
 Shall wake to close no more. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF SPRING. 
 
 When brighter suns and milder skies 
 
 Proclaim the opening year, 
 What various sounds of joy arise! 
 
 What prospects bright appear ! 
 
 Earth and her thousand voices give 
 Their thousand notes of praise ; 
 
 And all, that by his mercy live, 
 To God their offering raise. 
 
 Forth walks the labourer to his toil, 
 
 And sees the fresh array 
 Of verdure clothe the flowery soil 
 
 Along his careless way. 
 
276 James Gates Per civ al. 
 
 The streams, all beautiful and bright, 
 Reflect the morning sky ; 
 
 And there with music in his flight, 
 The wild bird soars on high. 
 
 Thus, like the morning, calm and clear, 
 That saw the Saviour rise, 
 
 The spring of heaven's eternal year 
 Shall dawn on earth and skies. 
 
 No winter there, no shades of night, 
 Profane those mansions blest, 
 
 Where in the happy fields of light, 
 The weary are at rest. 
 
 yames Gates Percival. 
 
 CONFIDENCE IN GOD. 
 
 Thou art, O Lord, my only trust, 
 When friends are mingled with the dust, 
 
 And all my loves are gone. 
 When earth has nothing to bestow, 
 And every flower is dead below, 
 
 I look to thee alone. 
 
Confidetice in God. 277 
 
 Thou wilt not leave, in doubt and fear, 
 The humble soul who loves to hear 
 
 The lessons of thy word. 
 When foes around us thickly press, 
 And all is danger and distress, 
 
 There 's safety in the Lord. 
 
 The bosom friend may sleep below 
 The churchyard turf, and we may go 
 
 To close a loved one's eyes : 
 They will not always slumber there ; 
 We see a world more bright and fair, 
 
 A home beyond the skies. 
 
 And we may feel the bitter dart, 
 Most keenly rankling in the heart, 
 
 By some dark ingrate driven : 
 In us revenge can never burn ; 
 We pity, pardon ; then we turn, 
 
 And rest our souls in heaven. 
 
 'T is thou, O Lord, who shield'st my head, 
 And draw'st thy curtains round my bed ; 
 
 I sleep secure in thee : 
 And, O, may soon that time arrive, 
 When we before thy face shall live 
 
 Through all eternity. 
 
2 7& Nathaniel Cotton. 
 
 Nathaniel Cotton. 
 
 RELIANCE ON PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Regard the world with cautious eye, 
 Nor raise your expectations high ; 
 See that the balanced scale be such, 
 You neither fear nor hope too much, 
 For disappointment 's not the thing ; 
 'Tis pride and passion point the sting. 
 Life is a sea where storms must rise, 
 'Tis folly talks of cloudless skies ; 
 He who contracts his swelling sail, 
 Eludes the fury of the gale. 
 
 Be still, nor anxious thoughts employ ; 
 Distrust embitters present joy, 
 On God for all events depend : 
 You cannot want when God 's your friend. 
 Weigh well your part, and do your best ; 
 Leave to your Maker all the rest. 
 The hand which form'd thee in the womb, 
 Guides from the cradle to the tomb. 
 
Reliance on Providence. 279 
 
 Can the fond mother slight her boy ; 
 Can she forget her prattling joy ? 
 Say, then, shall sov'reign love desert 
 The humble and the honest heart ? 
 Heaven may not grant thee all thy mind, 
 Yet say not thou that Heaven's unkind. 
 God is alike both good and wise, 
 In what he grants, and what denies ; 
 Perhaps what Goodness gives to-day, 
 To-morrow Goodness takes away. 
 
 You say that troubles intervene ; 
 That sorrows darken half the scene. 
 True, — and this consequence you see, 
 The world was ne'er designed for thee. 
 You 're like a passenger below, 
 That stays, perhaps, a night or so ; 
 But still his native country lies 
 Beyond the boundaries of the skies. 
 
 Of Heaven ask virtue, wisdom, health ; 
 But never let thy prayer be wealth. 
 If food be thine (though little gold), 
 And raiment to repel the cold ; 
 Such as may Nature's wants suffice, 
 Not what from pride and folly rise ; 
 If soft the motions of thy soul, 
 And a calm conscience crowns the whole ; 
 
2 °° John Ogilvie. 
 
 Add but a friend to all this store, 
 You can't, in reason, wish for more ; 
 And if kind Heaven this comfort brings, 
 'T is more than Heaven bestows on kings. 
 
 yohn Ogilvie, 
 
 ADORATION OF THE DEITY. 
 
 Begin, my soul, the exalted lay ! 
 Let each enraptured thought obey, 
 
 And praise the Almighty's name : 
 Lo ! heaven and earth, and seas and skies, 
 In one melodious concert rise, 
 
 To swell the inspiring theme. 
 
 Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ; 
 Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire, 
 
 The mighty chorus aid : 
 Soon as gray evening gilds the plain, 
 Thou, moon, protract the melting strain, 
 
 And praise him in the shade. 
 
A do ratio n of the Deity. 2 8 1 
 
 Let every element rejoice : 
 
 Ye thunders, burst with awful voice 
 
 To him who bids you roll ; 
 His praise in softer notes declare, 
 Each whispering breeze of yielding air, 
 
 And breathe it to the soul. 
 
 To him, ye graceful cedars, bow ; 
 Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low, 
 
 Your great Creator own ; 
 Tell, when affrighted nature shook, 
 How Sanai kindled at his look, 
 
 And trembled at his frown. 
 
 Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, 
 Ye insects fluttering on the gale, 
 
 In mutual concourse rise ; 
 Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom, 
 And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, 
 
 In incense to the skies. 
 
 Wake, all ye mounting tribes, and sing; 
 Ye plumy warblers of the spring, 
 
 Harmonious anthems raise ; 
 To him who shaped your finer mould, 
 Who tipp'd your glittering wings with gold, 
 
 And tuned your voice to praise. 
 
 Let man, by nobler passions sway'd, 
 The feeling heart, the judging head, 
 
282 John Ogilvie. 
 
 In heavenly praise employ ; 
 Spread his tremendous name around, 
 Till heaven's broad arch rings back the sound, 
 
 The general burst of joy. 
 
 Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, 
 Nursed on the downy lap of ease, 
 
 Fall prostrate at his throne ; 
 Ye princes, rulers, all adore ; 
 Praise him, ye kings, who makes your power 
 
 An image of his own. 
 
 Ye fair, by nature formed to move, 
 Oh, praise the eternal source of love, 
 
 With youth's enlivening fire ; 
 Let age take up the tuneful lay, 
 Sigh his bless'd name — then soar away, 
 
 And ask an angel's lyre. 
 
Prayer to the Almighty. 283 
 
 Anna Letitia Barbauld. 
 
 A PRAYER TO THE ALMIGHTY. 
 
 God of my life, and Author of my days ! 
 
 Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise, 
 
 And trembling take upon a mortal tongue, 
 
 That hallow'd name, to harps of seraphs sung. 
 
 Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
 
 Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore. 
 
 Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere, 
 
 Are equal all, for all are nothing here. 
 
 All nature faints beneath the mighty name 
 
 Which nature's works through all her parts proclaim ; 
 
 I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, 
 
 And breathe an awful stillness through my soul ; 
 
 As by a charm the waves of grief subside, 
 
 Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide : 
 
 At thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
 
 And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace, 
 
 Till every worldly thought within me dies, 
 
 And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; 
 
284 Anna L etitia Barbauld. 
 
 Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 
 
 And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
 
 But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
 My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke : 
 With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, 
 And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
 But he, oar gracious Master, kind as just, 
 Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
 His spirit ever brooding o'er our mind, 
 Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined, 
 Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 
 His ears are open to the softest cry, 
 His grace descends to meet the lifted eye : 
 He reads the language of a silent tear, 
 And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
 Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give, 
 Accept the vow and bid the suppliant live : 
 From each terrestrial bondage set me free ! 
 Still eveiy wish that centres not in thee ; 
 Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, 
 And point my path to everlasting peace. 
 If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads 
 By living waters and through flowery meads, 
 Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
 And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
 Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare, 
 And whisper to my sliding heart, — Beware ! 
 With caution let me hear the siren's voice, 
 
A Prayer to the A Imighty. 285 
 
 And doubtful with a trembling heart rejoice. 
 
 If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, 
 
 Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way — 
 
 Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
 
 And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; 
 
 With equal eye my various lot receive, 
 
 Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
 
 Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
 
 While God is seen in all, and all in God. 
 
 I read his awful name emblazon'd high, 
 
 With golden letters on the illumined sky ; 
 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 
 Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree : 
 
 In every leaf that trembles to the breeze 
 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees ; 
 
 With thee in shady solitudes I walk ; 
 
 With thee in busy crowded cities talk ; 
 
 In every creature own thy forming -power, 
 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 
 Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
 
 Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control. 
 
 Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms, 
 
 Secure within the temple of thine arms ; 
 
 From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
 
 And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
 
 Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 
 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 
 When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either state ; 
 
286 Anna L etitia Barbauld. 
 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
 And having lived to thee, in thee to die. 
 
 MERCY OF THE REDEEMER. 
 
 Behold where, breathing love divine, 
 
 Our dying Master stands ! 
 His weeping followers, gathering round, 
 
 Receive his last commands. 
 
 From that mild teacher's parting lips, 
 
 What tender accents fell ! 
 The gende precepts which he gave, 
 
 Became its author well. 
 
 « Blest is the man whose softening heart 
 Feels all another's pain ; 
 To whom the supplicating eye 
 Was never raised in vain. 
 
 Whose breast expands with generous warmth 
 
 A stranger's woes to feel, 
 And bleeds in pity o'er the wound, 
 
 He wants the power to heal. 
 
Mercy of the Redeemer. 287 
 
 He spreads his kind supporting arras 
 
 To every child of grief ; 
 His secret bounty largely flows, 
 
 And brings unask'd relief. 
 
 To gentle offices of love 
 
 His feet are never slow, 
 He views through mercy's melting eye 
 
 A brother in a foe. 
 
 Peace from the bosom of his God, 
 
 My peace to him I give ; 
 And when he kneels before his throne, 
 
 His trembling soul shall live. 
 
 To him protection shall be shewn, 
 
 And mercy from above, 
 Descend on those who thus fulfil 
 
 The perfect law of love." 
 
288 Rev. Charles Wolfe. 
 
 Rev. Charles Wolfe. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MARY. 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee ; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side, 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be ; 
 It never through my mind had pass'd, 
 
 That time would e'er be o'er — 
 When I on thee should look my last, 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more. 
 
 And still upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook, 
 
 That I must look in vain ; 
 But when I speak thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er Jeft'st unsaid ; 
 And now, I feel, as well I may, 
 
 Sweet Mary, thou ait dead. 
 
Human Mortality. 289 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 
 
 All cold and all serene, 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 And where thy smile has been ; 
 While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have, 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own, 
 But there — I lay thee in the grave, 
 
 And now — I am alone. 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me ; 
 And I perhaps may soothe this heart 
 
 In thinking still of thee ! 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before, 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore. 
 
 Simon WastelL 
 
 HUMAN MORTALITY. 
 
 Like to the damask rose you see, 
 Or like a blossom on a tree, 
 Or like a dainty flower of May, 
 Or like the morning to the day, 
 u 
 
290 Simon Was tell. . 
 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas had, 
 
 E'en such is man ; — whose thread is spun, 
 
 Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — 
 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, 
 
 The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 
 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies, 
 
 The gourd consumes, — the man he dies. 
 
 Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, 
 
 Or like a tale that 's new begun, 
 
 Or like the bird that 's here to-day, 
 
 Or like the pearl'd dew of May, 
 
 Or like an hour, or like a span, 
 
 Or like the singing of a swan, 
 
 E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath, 
 
 Now here, now there, in life and death — 
 
 The grass withers, the tale is ended, 
 
 The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, 
 
 The hour is short, the span not long, 
 
 The swan 's near death, — man's life is done. 
 
 + 
 
The Nativity. 291 
 
 Richard Crashaw. 
 
 THE NATIVITY. 
 
 Gloomy night embraced the place 
 Where the noble infant lay ; 
 
 The babe look'd up and show'd his face- 
 In spite of darkness it was day. 
 
 We saw thee in thy balmy nest, 
 Bright dawn of our eternal day ! 
 
 We saw thine eyes break from the east, 
 And chase the trembling shades away 
 
 We saw thee, and we bless'd the sight, 
 
 We saw thee by thine own sweet light. 
 
 She sings thy tears asleep, and dips 
 Her kisses in thy weeping eye ; 
 
 She spreads the red leaves of thy lips, 
 That in their buds yet blushing lie. 
 
292 Christopher Smart. 
 
 Yet when young April's husband-showers 
 Shall bless the faithful Maia's bed, 
 
 We '11 bring the first-born of her flow'rs 
 To kiss thy feet and crown thy head : 
 
 To thee, dread Lamb ! whose love must keep 
 
 The shepherds, while they feed their sheep. 
 
 Christopher Smart, 
 
 ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS. 
 
 When Israel's Ruler, on the Royal bed 
 
 In anguish and in perturbation lay, 
 The down relieved not his anointed head, 
 And rest gave place to horror and dismay : 
 Fast flow'd the tears, high heaved each gasping sigh, 
 When God's own prophet thunder' d — Monarch, thou 
 must die. 
 
 But, O immortals, what had I to plead, 
 
 When death stood o'er me with his threat'ning 
 lance ! 
 
 When reason left me in the time of need, 
 And sense was lost in terror or in trance ; 
 
R e flections. 293 
 
 My sinking soul was with my blood inflamed, 
 And the celestial image sunk, defaced and maim'd. 
 
 The virtuous partner of my nuptial bands 
 Appear' d a widow to my frantic sight ; 
 My little pratders, lifting up their hands, 
 Beckon me back to them, to life, to light. 
 I come, ye spotless sweets ! I come again ; 
 Nor have your tears been shed, nor have ye knelt in 
 vain. 
 
 Rev. George Crabbe. 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 When all the fiercer passions cease 
 
 (The glory and disgrace of youth) ; 
 When the deluded soul in peace, 
 
 Can listen to the voice of truth ; 
 When we are taught in whom to trust, 
 
 And how to spare, to spend, to give, 
 (Our prudence kind, our pity just), 
 
 'T is then we rightly learn to live. 
 
2 94 Rev. George Crab be. 
 
 Its weakness when the body feels ; 
 
 Nor danger in contempt defies ; 
 To reason when desire appeals, 
 
 When on experience, hope relies ; 
 When every passing hour we prize, 
 
 Nor rashly on our follies spend ; 
 But use it, as it quickly flies, 
 
 With sober aim to serious end ; 
 When prudence bounds our utmost views, 
 
 And bids us wrath and wrong forgive ; 
 When we can calmly gain or lose, — 
 
 'T is then we rightly learn to live. 
 Yet thus, when we our way discern, 
 
 And can upon our care depend, 
 To travel safely, when we learn, 
 
 Behold ! we 're near our journey's end ; 
 We 've trod the maze of error round, 
 
 Long wand'ring in the winding glade ; 
 And, now the torch of truth is found, 
 
 It only shews us where we stray'd : 
 Light for ourselves, what is it worth, 
 
 When we no more our way can choose ? 
 For others, when we hold it forth, 
 
 They, in their pride, the boon refuse. 
 By long experience taught, we now 
 
 Can rightly judge of friends and foes, 
 Can all the worth of these allow, 
 
 And all their faults discern in those ; 
 Relentless hatred, erring love, 
 
Reflections. 295 
 
 We can for sacred truth forego ; 
 We can the warmest friend reprove, 
 
 And bear to praise the fiercest foe : 
 To what effect ? Our friends are gone 
 
 Beyond reproof, regard, or care ; 
 And of our foes remains there one, 
 
 The mild relenting thoughts to share ? 
 Now 't is our boast that we can quell 
 
 The wildest passions in their rage ; 
 Can their destructive force repel, 
 
 And their impetuous wrath assuage : 
 Ah ! Virtue, dost thou arm, when now 
 
 This bold rebellious race are fled ; 
 When all these tyrants rest, and thou 
 
 Art warring with the mighty dead ? 
 Revenge, ambition, scorn and pride, 
 
 And strong desire, and fierce disdain, 
 The giant-brood by thee defied, 
 
 Lo ! Time's resistless strokes have slain. 
 Yet Time, who could that race subdue, 
 
 (O'erpowering strength, appeasing rage,) 
 Leaves yet a persevering crew, 
 
 To try the failing powers of age. 
 Vex'd by the constant call of these, 
 
 Virtue awhile for conquest tries ; 
 But weary grown, and fond of ease, 
 
 She makes with them a compromise : 
 Av'rice himself she gives to rest, 
 
 But rules him with her strict commands, 
 
296 Rev. George Crabbe. 
 
 Bids Pity touch his torpid breast, 
 
 And Justice hold his eager hands. 
 Yet is there nothing men can do, 
 
 When chilling age comes creeping on ? 
 Cannot we yet some good pursue I 
 
 Are talents buried ? genius gone ? 
 If passions slumber in the breast, 
 
 If follies from the heart be fled ; 
 If laurels let us go in quest, 
 
 And place them on the poet's head. 
 Yes, we '11 redeem the wasted time, 
 
 And to neglected studies flee ; 
 We '11 build again the lofty rhyme, 
 
 Or live, Philosophy, with thee : 
 For reasoning clear, for flight sublime, 
 
 Eternal fame reward shall be ; 
 And to what glorious heights we '11 climb, 
 
 The admiring crowd shall envying see. 
 Begin the song ! begin the theme ! — 
 
 Alas ! and is Invention dead ? 
 Dream we no more the golden dream ? 
 
 Is Mem'ry with her treasures fled ? 
 Yes, 't is too late, — now Reason guides 
 
 The mind, sole judge in all debate ; 
 And thus the important point decides, 
 
 For laurels, 't is, alas ! too late. 
 What is possess'd we may retain, 
 But for new conquests strive in vain. 
 Beware then, Age, that what was won, 
 
Heaven in Prospect. 297 
 
 If life's past labours, studies, views, 
 Be lost not, now the labour 's done, 
 
 When all thy part is, — not to lose : 
 When thou canst toil or gain no more, 
 Destroy not what was gain'd before. 
 For, all that 's gain'd of all that 's good, 
 
 When time shall his weak frame destroy 
 (Their use then rightly understood), 
 
 Shall man in happier state enjoy. 
 Oh ! argument for truth divine, 
 
 For study's cares, for virtue's strife ; 
 To know the enjoyment will be thine, 
 
 In that renew'd, that endless life ! 
 
 Henry Vaughan. 
 
 HEAVEN IN PROSPECT. 
 
 They are all gone into a world of light, 
 
 I alone sit lingering here ; 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
298 Henry Vaughan. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove ; 
 
 Or those faint beams in which the hill is drest 
 After the sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory, 
 Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
 
 My days which are at best but dull and hoary, 
 Mere glimmerings and decays. 
 
 O holy Hope, and high Humility, 
 
 High as the heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, and you have showed them me. 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous Death, the jewel of the just, 
 
 Shining no where but in the dark ; 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
 
 Could man oudook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, 
 
 At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair field, or grove, he sings in now, 
 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
 And into glory peep. 
 
Sundays. 2 99 
 
 If a star were confined into a tomb, 
 
 Her captive flame must needs burn there ; 
 
 But when the hand that locked her up gave room, 
 She'd shine through all the sphere. 
 
 O Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 Created glories under Thee ! 
 Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
 
 Into true liberty. 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
 
 My perspective still as they pass ; 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 
 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 SUNDAYS. 
 
 Bright shadows of true rest ! some shoots of bliss ! 
 
 Heaven once a week ; 
 The next world's gladness prepossessed in this ; 
 
 A day to seek 
 Eternity in time ; the steps by which 
 
 We climb above all ages ; lamps that light 
 Man through his heap of dark days ; and the rich 
 And full redemption of the whole week's flight : 
 The pulleys unto headlong man ; time's bower ; 
 The narrow way ; 
 
3°° Henry Vaughan. 
 
 Transplanted paradise ; God's walking hour ; 
 
 The cool o' the day ; 
 The creature's jubilee ; God's parle with dust ; 
 
 Heaven here ; man on those hills of myrrh, of flowers ; 
 Angels descending ; the returns of trust ; 
 
 A gleam of glory after six days' showers ; 
 The Church's love-feasts ; time's prerogative 
 
 And interest 
 Deducted from the whole ; the combs and hive, 
 
 And home of rest ; 
 The milky-way chalked out with suns ; a clue 
 
 That guides through erring hours, and in full story ; 
 A taste of heaven on earth ; the pledge and cue 
 Of a full feast, and the out-courts of glory. 
 
 THE RAINBOW. 
 
 Still young and fine ! but what is still in view 
 We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new : 
 How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye 
 Thy burning flaming arch did first descry ; 
 When Nahor, Terah, Haran, Abram, Lot, 
 The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, 
 Did with intentive looks watch every hour 
 For thy new light, and trembled at each shower. 
 When thou dost shine darkness looks white and fair, 
 Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; 
 
Praise to God. 301 
 
 Rain gently spends his honey drops, and pours 
 Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. 
 
 Bright pledge of peace and sunshine ! the sure tie 
 Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye ! 
 When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
 Distant and low, I can in thine see Him, 
 Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, 
 And minds the covenant betwixt all and one. 
 
 George Wither* 
 
 PRAISE TO GOD. 
 
 Come, oh ! come, with sacred lays, 
 Let us sound the Almighty's praise ; 
 Hither bring in true consent, 
 Heart and voice, and instrument. 
 Let the orpharion sweet, 
 With the harp and viol meet : 
 To your voices tune the lute : 
 Let not tongue nor string be mute : 
 Not a creature dumb be found, 
 That hath either voice or sound. 
 
3° 2 George Wither. 
 
 Let such things as do not live, 
 In still music praises give ; 
 Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep 
 On the earth or in the deep ; 
 Loud aloft your voices strain, 
 Beasts and monsters of the main ; 
 Birds, your warbling treble sing ; 
 Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; 
 Sun and moon exalted higher, 
 And you stars, augment the quire. 
 
 Come, ye sons of human race, 
 In this chorus take your place, 
 And amid this mortal throng, 
 Be you masters of the song. 
 Angels and celestial powers, 
 Be the noblest tenor yours. 
 Let in praise of God the sound, 
 Run a never-ending round, 
 That our holy hymn may be 
 Everlasting as is He. 
 
 From the earth's vast hollow womb, 
 Music's deepest base shall come. 
 Sea and floods from shore to shore 
 Shall the counter-tenor roar. 
 To this concert, when we sing, 
 Whistling winds, your descant bring : 
 
Hymn for the Morning. 303 
 
 Which may bear the sound above 
 Where the orb of fire doth move, 
 And so climb from sphere to sphere, 
 Till our song the Almighty hear. 
 
 So shall He from heaven's high tower 
 On the earth his blessing shower ; 
 All this huge wide orb we see, 
 Shall one quire, one temple be ; 
 There our voices we will rear, 
 Till we fill it everywhere : 
 And enforce the fiends that dwell 
 In the air, to sink to hell. 
 Then, oh ! come, with sacred lays, 
 Let us sound the Almighty's praise. 
 
 Thomas Flatman. 
 
 HYMN FOR THE MORNING. 
 
 Awake, my soul ! awake, mine eyes ! 
 Awake, my drowsy faculties ! 
 Awake, and see the new-born light 
 Spring from the darksome womb of night ! 
 
304 Thomas Flatman. 
 
 Look up and see the unwearied sun, 
 Already has his race begun. 
 The pretty lark is mounted high, 
 And sings her matins in the sky. 
 Arise, my soul ! and thou, my voice, 
 In songs of praise early rejoice ! 
 O great Creator ! heavenly King ! 
 Thy praises ever let me sing ! 
 Thy power has made, thy goodness kept, 
 This fenceless body while 1 slept ; 
 Yet one day more has given me 
 From all the powers of darkness free. 
 Oh ! keep my heart from sin secure, 
 My life unblameable and pure ; 
 That when the last of all my days is come, 
 Cheerful and fearless I may wait my doom. 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Address to the Deity, An, Edward 
 
 Young, 148. 
 Address to the Soul, Augustus M. 
 
 Toplady, 206. 
 Adoration of the Angels, John Milton, 
 
 91. 
 Adoration of the Deity, John Ogilvie, 
 
 280. 
 Albert's Tomb, Gerald Massey, 1. 
 Almighty Comforter, The, Thomas 
 
 Moore, 65. 
 Autumn Evening, The, William O. 
 
 Peabody, 274. 
 Autumn Sabbath Walk, An, James 
 
 Grahame, no. 
 
 Belshazzar, To, Lord Byron, 53. 
 
 Belshazzar, Vision of, Lord Byron, 30. 
 
 Better Land, The, Felicia Dorothea 
 Hemans, 26. 
 
 Better Moments, Nathaniel Parker 
 Willis, 251. 
 
 Bible, The, Robert Pollok, 120. 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul, Lord 
 Byron, 54. 
 
 Bring Flowers, Felicia Dorothea He- 
 mans, 24. 
 
 Burial of the Righteous, The, James 
 Grahame, 109. 
 
 Casabianca, Felicia Dorothea He- 
 mans, 27. 
 
 Characteristics of Spring, William O. 
 Peabody, 275. 
 
 Christmas, Sir Walter Scott, 124. 
 
 Christmas Carol, A, Rev. Charles 
 Kingsley, 239. 
 
 Christmas Hymn, A, Hannah More, 
 32- 
 
 Christ's Birth, On, Sir Matthew Hale, 
 222. 
 
 Common Lot, The, James Mont- 
 gomery, 43. 
 
 Complaint of Nature, The, John 
 Logan, ii2. 
 
 Complaints of the Poor, The, Robert 
 Southey, 68. 
 
 Confidence in God, James Gates 
 Percival, 276. 
 
 Creation, The, John Milton, 93. 
 
 Creation, The, Isaac Watts, 225. 
 
 Curate at Home, The, Rev. John 
 Moultrie, 22. 
 
 David's Lament for Absalom, Na- 
 thaniel Parker Willis, 247. 
 Death and Eternity, John Hawkes- 
 
 worth, 202. 
 Death of the Flowers, The, William 
 
 Cullen Bryant, 256. 
 Death of Mary, The, Rev. Charles 
 
 Wolfe, 288. 
 Death of the Righteous, The, James 
 
 Montgomery, 35. 
 Deity, To the, John Dyer, 182. 
 Destruction of Sennacherib, The, 
 
 Lord Byron, 40. 
 Divine Love, The, Edmund Waller, 
 
 165. 
 Duty, Ode to, William Wordsworth, 
 
 143- 
 Dying Christian to his Soul, The, 
 Alexander Pope, 84. 
 
 Elegy, James Beattie, 47. 
 
 Epitaph, An, James Montgomery, 45. 
 
 Epitaph on an Infant, Samuel Taylor 
 
 Coleridge, 147. 
 Epitaph on an Infant, Samuel Wesley, 
 
 Jun., 219. 
 Eve's Disobedience, John Milton, 94. 
 Evening, John Milton, 92. 
 
 X 
 
306 
 
 Index. 
 
 Evening Hymn, Thomas Parnell, 
 
 197. 
 Evening Prayer, Rev. Thomas Dale, 
 
 233. 
 Evening Prayer, An, Sir Thomas 
 
 Browne, 213. 
 Excelsior, H. Wadsworth Longfellow, 
 
 16. 
 Exit, The, Richard Baxter, 216. 
 
 Farewell to a departed Friend, Regi- 
 nald Heber, 232. 
 
 Festal Morn, The, James Merrick, 
 188. 
 
 Flowers, H. Wadsworth Longfellow, 
 13- 
 
 Forgiveness, John G. Whittier, 263. 
 
 God's Glory in the Creation, Thomas 
 
 Moore, 60. 
 God's Providence, Joseph Addison, 
 
 161. 
 Grave, The, James Montgomery, 38. 
 Grief, George Herbert, 155. 
 
 Happiness of Paradise, The, Robert 
 
 Blair, 150. 
 Heaven in Prospect, Henry Vaughan, 
 
 297. 
 Heaven, Thomas Moore, 62. 
 Heavenly Wisdom, John Logan, 117. 
 Heritage, The, James Russell Lowell, 
 
 264. 
 Holy Dead, The, Mrs. L. H. Sigour- 
 
 ney, 270. 
 Hour of Prayer, The, Felicia Dorothea 
 
 Hemans, 29. 
 Hope Triumphant in Death, Thomas 
 
 Campbell, 7r. 
 Human Frailty, William Cowper, 138. 
 Human Mortality, Simon Wastell, 289. 
 Humility, Alexander Pope, 89. 
 Hymn, A, Henry Kirke White, 77. 
 Hymn, A, Joseph Addison, 162. 
 Hymn, Augustus M. Toplady, 204. 
 Hymn, David Macbeth Moir, 104. 
 Hymn for Family Worship, A, Henry 
 
 Kirke White, 78. 
 Hymn for the Dead, Sir Walter Scott, 
 
 124. 
 Hymn for the Morning, Thomas Flat- 
 man, 303. 
 Hymn in Sickness, A, Sir Henry 
 
 Wotton, 208. 
 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid, Sir 
 
 Walter Scott, 122. 
 Hymn on the Nativity, William 
 
 Drummond, 177. 
 Hymn on the Seasons, James Thom- 
 son, 129. 
 
 Hymn to Christ, A, John Donne, 176. 
 Hymn to the Deity, Augustus M. 
 
 Toplady, 205. 
 Hymn, William Cowper, 141. 
 
 Image of Death, The, Robert South- 
 well, 211. 
 Immortality, William Mason, 227. 
 
 Jerusalem, Thomas Moore, 63. 
 Jephtha's Daughter, Lord Byron, 52. 
 Judgment, The day of, Charles Wes- 
 ley, 184. 
 
 Life, George Herbert, 154. 
 
 Life of the Blessed, The, William 
 Cullen Bryant, 258. 
 
 Life's Twilight, Edwin Waugh, 244. 
 
 Lines on an Infant, Nathaniel Parker 
 Willis, 249. 
 
 Love of the Country, Robert Bloom- 
 field, 79. 
 
 Mary in Heaven, To, Robert Burns, 
 
 98. 
 Mary, Professor Wilson, 105. 
 Massacre in Piedmont, On the, John 
 
 Milton, 94. 
 Maternal Care, Thomas Campbell, 74. 
 Mercy of the Redeemer, Anna Letitia 
 
 Barbauld, 286. 
 Messiah, The, Alexander Pope, 85. 
 Midnight Hymn, Thomas Ken, 171. 
 Miriam's Song, Thomas Moore, 59. 
 Missions, Reginald Heber, 229. 
 Morn and Even, Mrs. L. H. Sigour- 
 
 ney, 271. 
 Morning Dream, The, William 
 
 Cowper, 136. 
 Morning Hymn, A, John Mason, 220. 
 Morning Hymn, Thomas Ken, 168. 
 Morning Hymn, Thomas Parnell, 193. 
 Mortification, George Herbert, 156. 
 Mother's Grief, The, Rev. Thomas 
 
 Dale, 237. 
 Mother's Hand, The, Charles Swain, 
 
 240. 
 Mother's Lament for the Death of her 
 
 Son, A, Robert Burns, 97. 
 
 Nativity, The, Richard Crashaw, 291. 
 Negro's Complaint, The, William 
 
 Cowper, 133. 
 Non Nobis Domine, William Habing- 
 
 ton, 159. 
 Noontide Hymn, Thomas Parnell, 
 
 195. 
 
 Ode, An, Joseph Addison, 163. 
 
 Ode on the Spring, Thomas Gray, 82. 
 
Index. 
 
 307 
 
 Old Man's Comforts, The, Robert 
 
 Southey, 70. 
 Omnipotence of the Deity, Isaac 
 
 Watts, 223. 
 Orphan Boy, The, Charles Swain, 
 
 242. 
 
 Passing Away, Felicia Dorothea He- 
 mans, 30. 
 Peace, George Herbert, 152. 
 Peace, On, William Cowper, 139. 
 Peace, Robert Bloomfield, 80. 
 Praise to God, Elizabeth Rowe, 186. 
 Praise to God, George Wither, 301. 
 Prayer in the Prospect of Death, A, 
 
 Robert Burns, 95. 
 Prayer to the Almighty, A, Anna 
 
 Letitia Barbauld, 283. 
 Precepts, Thomas Randolph, 209. 
 Primeval Earth, The, Robert Pollok, 
 
 118 
 Providence, John Pomfret, 179. 
 Providence, Reliance on, Nathaniel 
 
 Cotton, 278. 
 Providence, Trust in, John Logan, 
 
 116. 
 Psalm of Life, A, H. Wadsworth 
 
 Longfellow, 11. 
 Psalm, The First, Robert Burns, 96. 
 Psalm, The Twenty-Third, George 
 
 Herbert, 158. 
 Psalm cxLviii., Paraphrase on, George 
 
 Sandys, 166. 
 
 Rainbow, The, Henry Vaughan, 300. 
 
 Reflections, Rev. George Crabbe, 293. 
 
 Resignation, H. Wadsworth Long- 
 fellow, 9. 
 
 Resignation, Richard Baxter, 215. 
 
 Resurrection, The, Samuel Wesley, 
 Jun., 218. 
 
 Sabbath Chimes, Charles Swain, 243. 
 Sabbath-day, The, Professor Wilson, 
 
 108. 
 Saturday Afternoon, Nathaniel Parker 
 
 Willis, 254. 
 Sceptic, The, Robert Pollok, 121. 
 Second Birthday, The, Mrs. L. H. 
 Sigourney, 268. 
 
 Shortness of Human Life, On the, 
 William Cowper, 140. 
 
 Sickness, On Recovery from, Christo- 
 pher Smart, 292. 
 
 Sickness, On Recovery from, Philip 
 Doddridge, 192. 
 
 Simple Trust, William Cowper, 142. 
 
 Soul's Aspiration, The, James Mont- 
 gomery, 45. 
 
 Soul's Faculties, The, Sir John Davies, 
 J 73- 
 
 Spring, Nathaniel Parker Willis, 248. 
 
 Spring, Reginald Heber, 230. 
 
 Star of Bethlehem, The, Henry Kirke 
 White, 75. 
 
 Sunday-School, The, Mrs. L. H. 
 Sigourney, 267. 
 
 Sundays, Henry Vaughan, 299. 
 
 Supreme Being, To the, William 
 Wordsworth, 145. 
 
 Switzerland, Night in, Lord Byron, 57. 
 
 The Turf shall be my Fragrant Shrine, 
 
 Thomas Moore, 61. 
 Thoughts in a Churchyard, Alexander 
 
 Wilson, 126. 
 Three Sons, The, Rev. John Moultrie, 
 
 18. 
 Time, Rev. Thomas Dale, 235. 
 To the Past, William Cullen Bryant, 
 
 260. 
 
 Unknown Grave, The, David Mac- 
 beth Moir, 100. 
 
 Vanity of Life, The, Samuel Taylor 
 
 Coleridge, 146. 
 Veni Creator, John Dryden, 190. 
 Virtue, George Herbert, 155. 
 
 Warnings, Francis Quarles, 198. 
 Warnings to Reflection, John Hawkes- 
 
 worth, 201. 
 Wanderer's Hymn The, Edwin 
 
 Waugh, 246. 
 Weep not for me, Rev. Thomas Dale, 
 
 237. 
 When coldness wraps this suffering 
 
 clay, Lord Byron, 55 . 
 
 Youth and Age, Robert Southey, 66 
 
 Printed by R. & R. Clark, Edinburgh. 
 
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