ONE 24 W ARTES 1817) sens VERITAS LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN EL.PLURIOUS UNUM DAWASAZNAJ TCEBOR SI-QUÆRIS-PENINSULAM-AMŒNAM SCIENTIA OF THE CIRCUMSPICE Hilll JAJAJAJAJ THE GIFT OF Rev. H.A. Jump 30 !!! こ ​} • か ​• Presented No May Bene ے کو شراء Whis + Jl. J. J Z Z WY *** *** ****** :.. 1 ! FIRESIDE POETRY. BEING CHOICE SELECTIONS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER FROM THE MOST FAMOUS POETS, FROM CHAUCER TO TENNYSON, With Biographical Notices of the Authors. ! TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. ILLUSTRATED. NEW YORK: THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, 39 AND 41 CHAMBERS STREET. ! : ; 1 1 Wo Her. Hidhi gang 5-l -27 H. CONTENTS. Absalom and Achitophel, From. Achitophel's Address to Monmouth Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn Adam's Address to Eve Address to the Mummy Address to Contemplation Address to Gold Fishes Adieu to his Native Land Address to the Deity. Address to the Moon Address to the Ocean Address to the Ocean Address to Winter Admiral Hosier's Ghost Advice to a Reckless Youth Afar in the Desert Alexander's Feast "Ancient Mariner," From the "An Evening Walk," From Aristocratic Tyranny Approach of Age, The Ascension of Christ VOL. I. At Penshurst Auld Robin Gray "Anster Fair," From Autumn-" Season of Mists" • "Babe Christabel," From Ballad of Sir Patrick Spens Battle of Blenheim, The • PAGE John Dryden. 135 John Dryden 137 John Milton 99 96 John Milton Horace Smith 384 Henry Kirke White 411 Hartley Coleridge 448 Lord Byron 420 Edward Young 180 James Macpherson 281 Lord Byron. 424 Bryan Walter Proctor 429 William Cowper 263 Richard Glover. . 219 Ben Jonson 63 Thomas Pringle 426 John Dryden . 141 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 371 William Wordsworth 345 • O • • • Assemblage of the Beasts and Flowers William Dunbar Edmund Waller • • • • 1 ATS AND THEY Gerald Massey Sir Patrick Spens Joseph Addison • • Philip Massinger 67 310 George Crabbe. William Drummond. 70 21 87 298 414 445 Lady Anne Barnard William Tennant John Keats • • • • • • 500 19 160 8+ iv CONTENTS. 1 1 Y Battle of Morgarten, The. Beggar, The Beth Gelert. • Betrothed Pair, The Bird Let Loose, The .. Birks of Invermay, The "Birth of the Flowers," From the Black-eyed Susan Bonny Kilmeny Bower of Bliss, The Braes o' Gleniffer, The Braes of Yarrow • • British Navy, The Braid Claith Burial of Sir John Moore Buried Flower, The Burning Babe, The Bush Aboon Traquair, The. Byron Christmas Bells City Shower, A • Calm Winter's Night, A. Cameronian's Dream, The Castaway, The . Castles in the Air "Castle of Indolence," From the Cathedral, The "Cato," From Tragedy of Celia, To Chameleon, The Chameleon, The Character of Buckingham Character of the French Character of Shaftesbury Charity. Chevy Chase Chillon . Christ's Kirk of the Green Christ the Only Refuge Christian Soldier, The Christian's Warfare, The "Christabel," From · O • + * William Hamilton Edmund Waller Robert Ferguson Rev. Charles Wolfe • Prof. Aytoun Robert Southwell Robert Crawford Robert Pollok. . · · • • • • Mrs. Hemans. Rev. Thomas Moss William R. Spencer George Crabbe‘. Thomas Moore Daniel Mallett David M. Moir John Gay James Hogg Edmund Spenser Robert Tannahill • Percy Bysshe Shelley James Hislop William Cowper James Ballantine James Thomson Lord Byron Joseph Addison Ben Jonson Matthew Prior James Merrick John Dryden William Cowper John Dryden • Matthew Prior Richard Sheale Alfred Tennyson Jonathan Swift ↓ PAGE 440 286 351 306 399 209 460 197 353 30 378 212 86 299- 433- 491 48 • • • • · • 150 Lord Byron 14 417 11 James I. of Scotland Rev. Charles Wesley. 214 James Montgomery 368 Charlotte Elizabeth 430 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 374 483 153 • · · · 210 463- { 436 455 269 478 205 422 162 62 151 231 139 259 235 + - CONTENTS. V Clear the Way "Conference," From the Coming of Christ, The Common Lot, The "Comus," From . Contrast, The Convict Ship, The Cooper's Hill "Cottar's Saturday Night," From the Robert Burns John Logan Country in Autumn Crazed Maiden, The Crucifixion of Christ Cultivated Taste, A Cures for Melancholy. • • Dawnings of Genius Dear Harp of My Country Death and Dr. Hornbook Death of Marmion Death of Sir Henry De Bohun Death of the Fawn Death of the Warrior King Death the Conqueror of All Decay of Life Deceit of Appearances, The Delight in God Only Deserted Village, The . Doubting Heart, A "Douglas," From Tragedy of Dream, The "Dunciad," From the Dying Christian to his Soul, The • • • • • • • • • • • • Early Rising and Prayer Earth and Heaven Edwin Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady Unfortu Elegy Written in a Country Church- yard Elegy Written in Spring • Elephant in the Moon, The Emigrants in the Bermudas, The PAGE Charles Mackay 489 Charles Churchill . 257 404 367 104 Reginald Heber. James Montgomery John Milton William Cowper Thomas Kibble Harvey 469 Sir John Denham 260 121 315 296 311 402 233 198 • George Crabbe Jane Taylor Mark Akenside Matthew Green . John Clare Thomas Moore. Robert Burns John Home Lord Byron Alexander Pope Alexander Pope Henry Vaughan Dr. Isaac Watts James Beattie Alexander Pope • Thomas Gray Michael Bruce Dr. Samuel Butler Andrew Marvel • • Sir Walter Scott John Barbour Andrew Marvel Charles Swain 7 129 474 84 James Shirley Francis Quarles 77 William Shakespeare 55 Francis Quarles 776 247 Oliver Goldsmith Adelaide Anne Proctor 502 242 418 191 187 · 438 400 318 . 361 • • • • • 132 163 275 187 226 290 115 131. vi CONTENTS. of Emptiness of Riches, The Epistle to a Young Friend Essay on Criticism," From Eternity Evelyn Hope Evening Hymn Evening in Paradise Eve's Account of Herself (( • "Excursion," From the Exile of Erin Exile's Song, The Expulsion from Heaven, The . Expulsion from Paradise Faith Amidst Trials "Farmer's Boy," From the Faustus • • Fear of Death "Festus," From Fingal's Hall "Fire Worshippers," From the First, The First of Winter, The Fitz-James and Roderick Dhu • Fleeing from Wrath. For Comfort in Death . "Forest Minstrel," From the . For Twenty-fourth Sunday After Trinity Fountain, The "Frank Courtship," From the Freedom Freeman, The Friendship Ginevra Glory God's Excellence Good Counsail Good Parson, The "Grave," From the Wedding. From a Ballad upon a Wedding. PAGE 179 320 188 · 194 490 145 98 97 William Wordsworth 344 Thomas Campbell 394 Robert Gilfillan 454 John Milton 101 . John Milton 102 · · - - ▸ · . Richard Baxter 122 339 49 55 496 281 Robert Bloomfield Christopher Marlowe William Shakespeare Philip James Bailey James Macpherson Thomas Moore Frances Browne John Bethune Sir Walter Scott Francis Quarles Robert Herrick . 397 498 486 362 77 74 William and Mary Howilt 446 · → • • Edward Young Robert Burns Alexander Pope • John Gay. Robert Browning Bishop Ken John Milton John Milton · Rev. John Keble Samuel Rogers George Crabbe John Barbour • William Couper Robert Pollok Sir John Suckling • Samuel Rogers John Milton Mark Alenside Geoffry Chaucer Geoffry Chaucer Robert Blair • • • • · 109. • • 427 333 309 7 264 462 • 332 103 233 2 1 199 CONTENTS. vii Grave of Anna, The Graves of a Household, The Iare and Many Friends, The Heaven and Hell. Heavenly Sabbath, The Hermit, The Hermit, The Highland Mary "Hind and Panther," From the Hohenlinden Home "Human Life," From Hymn-" Awake, Sweet Harp of Judah " Hymn Before Sunrise Hymn for Christmas Day, A Hymn for the Dead Hymn of the Captive Jews "Hymn on the Nativity," From "Hymn on the Seasons," From Hymn to Content • Hymn to Contentment Hymn to the Flowers Hymn to Light Hymn to the Name of Jesus "Hyperion," From ► • • Ilka Blade o' Grass "Il Penseroso," From Imagination Incipit Prophesia Thomæ de Erseldoun In Contemption of Side Tails "Intimations of Immortality," From Ion, our Sometime Darling Is This All? · • · • Jaffar James I., a Prisoner in Windsor, secs Lady Joan Beaufort Jeanic Morrison Jenny's Bawbee "Joan of Arc," From William Gifford Mrs. Hemans John Gay Abraham Cowley Philip Doddridge Jarnes Beattie Henry Kirke White 310 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 373 Thomas Chatterton 301 Sir Walter Scott Thomas Parnell Robert Burns John Dryden. Thomas Campbell James Montgomery Samuel Rogers Henry IIart Milman John Milton James Thomson Mrs. Barbauld • Thomas Parnell Horace Smith • Abraham Cowley Richard Crashaw John Keats James Ballantine John Milton William Shakespeare Thomas the Rhymer • PAGE 313 442 • • • • ▼ 195 . 125 211 277 165 323 140 393 369 331 · • • 477 107 59 3 Sir David Lindsay 24 William Wordsworth 350 Thomas N. Tulfourd 447 Rev. Horatius Bonar 480 Leigh IIunt 405 James I. of Scotland, 9 William Motherwell 451 Sir Alexander Boswell 387 Robert Southey. 376 359 435 88 204 288 172 385 126 110 414 viii CONTENTS. Kate of Aberdeen "L'Allegro," From . Laird o' Cockpen Lament for Earl of Glencairn Land o' the Leal Last Friends, The. Lavinia "Lays of Ancient Rome," From Letter from Italy Lie, The Life Life and Death "Life Drama,” From a Light of the Harem," From the Like as the Armed Knighte • Lines on Churchyard of Richmond Lines on his own Death Love of Country Love of Country Lochaber No More "Lochiel's Warning," From Lodgings for Single Gentlemen Logan Braes London Churches Lord will Provide, The Lot of Thousands, The Love · (C • · Mariner's IIymn Mariner's Wife, The Mary's Dream Mary of Castle Cary Mazeppa, From Meeting, The Lover's Lute, The Love Scene from Romeo and Juliet Lucy's Flittin’ • • • • • • · • • • • John Cunningham • John Milton Baroness Nairn Robert Burns Baroness Nairn Frances Browne • James Thomson Lord Macaulay Joseph Addison Sir Walter Raleigh Maid's Lament, The Manfred," From Man whose Thoughts are not of this World, The George Herbert William Shakespeare Alexander Smith Thomas Moore Anne Askerne Herbert Knowles Jonathan Swift PAGE 255 ► 453 155 Allan Ramsay . 181 Thomas Campbell 392 326 George Colman John Mayne. 324 Richard Monckton Milnes 484 243 287 120 262 358 27 52 475 Rev. John Newton Mrs. Hunter. Dr. Samuel Butler William Couper Sir Walter Scott Sir Thomas Wyatt William Shakespeare William Laidlaw * • • • • • • • • K 106 338 322 337 496 205 465 159 Walter Savage Landor 381 Lord Byron 419 · 32 80 54 • 501 398 30 Edward Young 177 415 Mrs. Southey William Julius Mickle 273 John Lowe 297 291 Hector M'Neill Lord Byron 425 William Couper 200 CONTENTS. ix ; Melrose Abbey Men of Old, The Mercy "Messiah," From the Milton on his Blindness "Minstrel," From the Minstrel, The Ministry of Angels, The Misletoe Bough, The . Mitherless Bairn, The Modern Lady, A Modest Muse, The Morning Morning Morning in May Morning in Paradise Morning Landscape Murder of King Duncan Music • • "Nabob," From the Name of Jesus, The Nativity, The My Nanie, O My Only Jo and Dearie, O • Night Before Waterloo, The Night Piece on Death Nunc Dimittis, The • O, Nancy, wilt Thou Go with Me? On a Painted Window . PAGE Sir Walter Scott .357 Richard Monckton Milnes 485 William Shakespeare 56 Alexander Pope 185 109 Sir Walter Scott 274 357 40 Edmund Spenser Thomas Haynes Bayly 450 William Thom. 428 Jonathan Smith 154 Earl of Roscommon 145 Thomas Chatterton 303 Thomas Otway 149 Gavin Douglas 23 John Milton 99 James Beattie. 276 51 58 408 388 • · · • • • • • • • • • • • • • John Milton James Beattie William Shakespeare William Shakespeare Allan Cunningham Richard Gall Henry Vaughan Lord Byron Thomas Parnell. James Merrick • • Thomas Gray William Collins • Ode on Eton College John Leyden Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson Ode to an Indian Gold Coin "Ode to the Departing Year," From Samuel T. Coleridge. 372 Ode to Duty . 379 William Wordsworth 349 Ode to Leven Water Tobias Geo. Smollett. 235 Lord Byron Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte 424 238 Ode to the Passions William Collins Oh, Thou who Dry'st the Mourner's Tear, Oh! Why Left I My Hame? Old Man's Comforts, The Thomas Moore Robert Gilfillan Robert Southey Miss Susan Blamire. 293 Rev. John Newton . 244 133 • · • • Dr. Thomas Percy. Thomas Warton · • • * • • 421 171 230 225 241 399 454 377 254 253 X CONTENTS.. On a Sprig of Heath On Byron On Heavenly Love On His Blindness On Lady Joan Beaufort On Love On Life, Death and Immortality On Marriage On My Mother's Picture On Steam. On the Death of an Infant . On the Death of a Child . On the Death of Dr. Levett On the Death of Mr. Crashaw Orphan Boy's Tale, The Ossian's Address to the Sun Othello Relates his Courtship Poet's Wish, The Pole Star, The Poor Gallant, The Poor Man's Day, The . Portrait, A Power and Gentleness • Pæstum "Palestine," From Paradise Parental Ode to My Son, A Parting Pastoral Ballad, A Peace Peasant, The Philaster, From Picture of a Country Life Pilgrimage, The Pine Forest by the Sea, The Pixies of Devon, The Plan of Salvation, The Pleasures of Heaven, The "Pleasures of Hope," From the "Pleasures of Memory," From Poetasters • • • • • • • · • • • PAGE 304 463 Mrs. Grant Robert Pollok Edmund Spenser John Milton 42 109 9 85 James I. of Scotland. Edmund Waller Edward Young . 173 Allan Ramsay 182 William Cowper 267 Dr. Erasmus Darwin 270 Richard Cecil . 294 Rev. Charles Wesley 215 Dr. Samuel Johnson. 218 Abraham Cowley 124 Mrs. Opic 342 280 James Macpherson William Shakespeare 53 • • 334 `. 403 96 Thomas Hood 459 148 Thomas Otway William Shenstone 223 George Herbert 83 George Crabbe 305 Beaumont and Fletcher 66 Joanna Baillie 325 Sir Walter Raleigh 34 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 436 Noel T. Carrington 395 William Couper • 260 Ben Jonson Thomas Campbell Samuel Rogers 63 390 329 Matthew Prior 152 Allan Ramsay 184 Letitia E. Landon (L. E. L.) 467 Joseph Hall Ebenezer Elliot 61 400 William Wordsworth 348 Bernard Barton 406 Samuel Rogers Reginald Heber John Milton • • • • • • • • • • • • • PANA CONTENTS. xi Press-gang, The Prisoner in Windsor Procrastination "Prologue to the Satires," From the "Prophecy of Famine," From the "Psyche," From . Quince Quip, The • "Rape of the Lock," From Religio Laici "Rejected Addresses," From Religion of Hudibras Renewing of Love Retirement Rose, The. Rule Britannia "Satan," From Satan's Soliloquy • "Sabbath," From the "Samson Agonistes," From Satan's Address to the Sun • "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," From the . River Forth Feasting, The Roman Girl's Song Satire on the Three Estates School, The Schoolmistress, The Search, The Self-dedication Reviewed Seven Dreary Winters Shipwreck, The "Shipwreck," From the Skylark, The Slavery Sleeping Child, A • • Shortness of Life, The Showers in Spring "Sir Eustace Grey," From · • • Alexander Pope 189 John Dryden 139 James and Horace Smith 383 Dr. Samuel Butler Richard Edwards 114 31 278 James Beattie • • • • • James Grahame Henry Howard Edward Young Alexander Pope Charles Churchill. Mrs. Mary Tighe • • Winthorp M. Praed George Herbert. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 371 William Drummond 69 Mrs. Hemans Dr. Isaac Watts James Thomson James Grahame John Milton John Milton John Milton . Sir David Lindsay William Cowper William Shenstone George Herbert Philip Doddridge Gerard Griffin John Wilson 335 103 94 Rev. Robert Montgomery 477 90 26 266 222 80 211 473 412 271 . 127 • William Falconer Abraham Cowley James Thomson George Crabbe James Hogg William Cowper John Wilson. · • • • • • PAGE 336 28 178 . 193 258 . 374 • • • • ་ • 470 82 442 164 206 202 312 355 261 413 xii CONTENTS. Soldier's Dream, The Soldier's Return, The Solitary Life, A Solitude Song of the Shirt, The Song "If I had Thought" Sonnets Sonnet to Hope Sound of the Sea, The South American Scenery — Speech of Belial Speech of Moloch Spring Spring Staffa Still Small Voice, The Successful Man, The Summer Evening, A Swallow, The Lord Byron Song "Leave Me, Simple Shepherd" Mrs. Barbauld "Songs of Selma," From the James Macpherson Thomas Hood Tantallon Castle. Temple of Nature, The Ten Years Ago • Thaw, The Thomas of Ercildoun Thoughts of Heaven Three Fishers Three Warnings, The Thunderstorm, The "Time," From . To a Mouse To a Nightingale To a Very Young Lady To Blossoms To Britain • To Celia To Hester To Mary in Heaven . To Mrs. Bishop To Primroses • • t • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • } ► Thomas Campbell Robert Bloomfield William Drummond Rev. Charles Wolfe Sir Philip Sidney Helen M. Williams Mrs. Hemans John Milton John Milton • • 328 443 William Lisle Bowles 328 92 91 304 252 314 439 308 164 • 468 Thomas Chatterton Thomas Warton William Sotheby William M'Comb George Crabbe Dr. Isaac Watts Thomas Aird • Charles Lamb Robert Burns Samuel Bishop Robert Herrick • PAGE 394 341 68 423 289 282 457 434 47. • • • • Sir Walter Scott David Vedder Alaric A. Watts James Montgomery 3. Thomas the Rhymer Robert Nicoll 494 Rev. Charles Kingsley 499 Mrs. Thrale or Piozzi 283 John Milton 102 Henry Kirke White 410 Robert Burns 316 William Drummond 68 Sir Charles Sedley 146 Robert Herrick 72 James Montgomery 366 Ben Jonson 62 381 321 256 73 • • • • • • • 359 431 464 365 • T A } 1 CONTENTS. xini To Sleep To the Butterfly To the Cuckoo To the Daisy To Time To Yonder Side side "Tragedy of Douglas," From "Tragedy of Ella," From Traveller, The Tullochgorum Twilight Two went up to the Temple Una and the Lion Una and the Red Cross Knight Upas in Marybone Lane, The . Thomas Chatterton ton Oliver Goldsmith John Skinner "Twa Dogs," From the Robert Burns Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity, Rev. John Keble James Montgomery Richard Crashaw • Wallace Fishing in Irvine Water We Are Seven • We Met, 'twas in a Crowd. Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A What Ails This Heart o' Mine? . Widowed Mother, The Will, The William and Margaret Winter Landscape, A . Winter Walk at Noon Wish, The • • & • "Vanity of Human Wishes," From the Dr. Samuel Johnson Vanity of the World, The "Venice Preserved," From Vertue Victoria's Tears Voice of Time, The . • • • • Withered Flowers Wolsey's Speech to Cromwell "World Before the Flood," From the World Compared to a Stage, The Woman's Inconstancy • • PAGE William Wordsworth 349 Samuel Rogers 334 291 Michael Bruce William Wordsworth 347 William Lisle Bowles 327 Robert M. M'Cheyne 493 John Home 243 302 245 266 319 427 370 114 • • Edmund Spenser Edmund Spenser James Smith • • 216 Francis Quarles 75 147 Thomas Otway George Herbert. 79 Mrs. E. Barrett Browning 481 David Vedder 432 • • • • • • • Blind Harry. 12 William Wordsworth 346 Thomas Haynes Bayly 449 Allan Cunningham 407 Miss Susan Blamire 293 Hon. Mrs. Norton 479 Dr. John Donne 61 207 203 265 128 487 57 364 57 60 • David Mallett James Thomson William Cowper Abraham Cowley John Bethune William Shakespeare James Montgomery William Shakespeare Sir Robert Ayton 39 36 384 • 1 Į : Re i C 1 ܝܕܕ INDEX OF AUTHORS. ADDISON, JOSEPH, Aird Thomas, Akenside, Mark, Askewe, Anne, Ayton, Sir Robert, Aytoun, Professor, • • • • • CAMPBELL, THOMAS, Carrington, Noel Thomas, Cecil, Richard, Charlotte Elizabeth, Chatterton, Thomas, Chaucer, Geoffry, Churchill, Charles,. Clare, John, Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, Coleridge, Hartley, Collins, William, Colman, George, Cowley, Abraham, Cowper, William, • BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES, Baillie, Joanna, Ballantine, James, Barbauld, Mrs., Barbour, John, Barnard, Lady Anne, Barrett, Elizab'h (Browning), Barton, Bernard, . Baxter, Richard, Bayly, Thomas Haynes, Beattie, James, LL.D., Beaumont and Fletcher, 274 66 : 486 Bethune, John, 256 Bishop, Samuel, Blair, Robert, 199 292 12 339 Blamire, Miss Susan, Blind Harry, Bloomfield, Robert, Bonar, Rev. Horatius, Boswell, Sir Alexander, Bowles, William Lisle, Browne, Frances, Browning, Mrs. (E. Barrett), 481 480 GALL, RICHARD, 387 Gay, John. 327 496 490 290 Browning, Robert, Bruce, Michael, Burns, Robert, Butler, Dr. Samuel, Byron, Lord, . 314 Grant, Mrs., 114 Gray, Thomas, 417 Green, Matthew, Griffin, Gerard, PAGE 159 Crabbe, George, 468 Crashaw, Richard, 232 Crawford, Robert, • • • • • • · • • • • • 30 Cunningham, Allan, 59 Cunningham, John, 491 DARWIN, DR. ERASMUS, 495 Delta (Moir), 324 Denham, Sir John, 477 Doddridge, Philip, 287 Donne, Dr. John, Douglas, Gavin, Drummond, William, 7 298 481 406 122 449 Dryden, John, Dunbar, William, EDWARDS, RICHARD, Elliot, Ebenezer, Elizabeth, Charlotte, FALCONER, WILLIAM, Ferguson, Robert, Fletcher and Beaumont, Gifford, William, Gilfillan, Robert. Glover, Richard, Goldsmith, Oliver, Grahame, James, • • Heber, Reginald, 257 Hemans, Mrs., 430 Harry, Blind, 300 Harvey, Thomas Kibble, 1 • 438 Herbert, George, 370 Herrick, Robert, 448 Hislop, James, 238 Hogg, James, 326 Home, John, 389 395 HALL, J., Bishop of Norwich, 294 Hamilton, William, · 124 Hood, Thomas, 259 Howitt, William and Mary, 7 PAGE . 305 110 210 270 . 459 121 211 • 31 400 . 430 • 407 255 388 194 362 454 219 245 335 304 . 225 198 . 473 • • 60 23 · 68 134 21 271 299 66 6-4 212 12 469 402 440 79 72 455 353 242 457 446 1 ngày anh PLAČNA EN 0 xvi CONTENTS. Hunt, Leigh, Hunter, Mrs., JAMES I. of Scotland, Johnson, Dr. Samuel, Jonson, Ben, KEATS, JOHN, Keble, Rev. John, Ken, Bishop, Kingsley, Rev. Charles, Knowles, Herbert, • LAIDLAW. WILLIAM, Lamb, Charles, Landon, Letitia Eliz. (L.E.L.), Landor, Walter Savage, Leyden, John, Lindsay, Sir David, Logan, John, Lowe, John, MACAULAY, LORD, M'Cheyne, Rev. Robert M., M'Comb, William, Mackay, Charles, LL.D., M'Neill, Hector, Macpherson, James, Mallet, David, Marlowe, Christopher, Marvel, Andrew, Massey, Gerald, Massinger, Philip, Mayne, John, Merrick, James, Mickle, William Julius, Milman, Henry Hart, Milnes, Richard Monckton, Milton, John, Moir, David M. (Delta), Montgomery, James, Montgomery, Rev. Robert, Moore, Thomas, Moss, Rev. Thomas, Motherwell, William, • OPIE, MRS., Otway, Thomas, • NAIRN, Baroness,. Newton, Rev. John, Nicoll, Robert, Norton, The Hon. Mrs., • • PARNELL, THOMAS, Percy, Dr. Thomas, Piozzi, or Mrs. Thrale, Pollok, Robert, Pope, Alexander, Praed, Winthorp M., Pringle, Thomas, Prior, Matthew, · • PAGE 405 Proctor, Adelaide Anne, 287 Proctor, Bryan Walter, QUARLES, FRANCIS, RALEIGH, SIR WALTER, Ramsay, Allan, Rhymer, Thomas the, Rogers, Samuel, • • • · • • • • • · • • · • • • 9 216 62 444 427 145 Roscommon, Earl of, 499 453 475 381 466 380 379 24 295 297 465 493 439 489 291 129 500 207 280 Spencer, William R, Spens, Sir Patrick, Spenser, Edmund, Suckling, Sir John, 49 273 434 484 88 459 364 66 Swain, Charles, 324 Swift, Jonathan, 230 476 396 Scott, Sir Walter, Sedley, Sir Charles, Shakespeare, William, Sheale, Richard, Shelley, Percy Bysshe, Shenstone, William, Shirley, James. Sidney, Sir Philip, Skinner, John, Smith, Alexander, Smith, James and Horace, Smollet, Tobias George, Sotheby, William, Southey, Mrs., Southey, Robert, Southwell, Robert, 337 243 494 479 • · Surrey, Earl of, H. Howard, VAUGHAN, HENRY, Vedder, David, WALLER, EDMUND, Warton, Thomas, Thomson, James, 286 Thrale, Mrs., or Piozzi, 451 Tighe, Mrs. Mary, 342 147 Watts, Dr. Isaac, • TALFOURD, THOMAS NOON, Tannahill, Robert, Taylor, Jane, Tennant, William, Tennyson, Alfred, Thom, William, Thomas the Rhymer, ↑ • • · • • Wesley, Rev. Charles, 165 White, Henry Kirke, 254 Williams, Helen Maria, 283 Wilson, John, 462 Wolfe, Rev. Charles, 185 Wordsworth, William, • • Watts, Alaric Alexander, 470 Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 426 149 YOUNG, EDWARD, • • • PAGE 502 429 • · • • A • • • • • - • 75 32 181 3 329 145 356 146 51 14 435 222 84 46 236 501 382 235 314 415 375 48 351 19 86 109 28 474 153 447 378 482 414 482 428 3 201 289 374 132 431 85 252 464 163 214 409 329 412 433 343 27 173 f + GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Geoffrey Chaucer. THE Father of English Poetry, as Chaucer is called, was born in London in the year 1328. Very little is known of his parentage, but he seems to have lived in comfortable circumstances, having been educated at Cambridge and afterwards sent to travel in Italy. The literature of Italy and a meeting with Petrarch in Padua seem to have inspired the traveller to write in his own rude northern tongue. His life seems to have been fortunate beyond that of most poets. Edward III. made him Comptroller of Customs, and gave him a handsome house near Woodstock, where he lived amid all the luxuries of the age. In 1386 Chaucer became involved in the troubles which befell his patron, and had to flee to Holland. He soon made his peace, for in 1389 he was again taken into favour, and Henry IV. doubled his pension. In his sixty-fourth year he retired to Woodstock, to write his great poem, **The_Canterbury Tales.” He died in London on 25th October, 1400, aged seventy-two years, and was the first poet who was buried in the since famous Poet's Corner, in Westminster Abbey. ( Born 1328. ì Died 1400. THE GOOD PARSON. (From the "Canterbury Tales.") A GOOD man ther was of religiòun, That was a pouré PERSONE of a toun: But riche he was of holy thought and werk. He was also a lerned man, a Clerk, That Cristés gospel trewely woldé preche. His parishens devoutly wolde he teche, Benigne he was, and wonder diligent, And in adversitee ful patient: And swiche he was yprevéd often sithes. Ful loth were him to cursen for his tithes, But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, Unto his pouré parishens aboute, Of his offrìng, and eke of his substànce 1 parson parishioners proved, sinco give A Q GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 He coude in litel thing have suffisance. Wide was his parish, and houses fer asonder But he ne left nought for no rain ne thonder, In sikenesse and in mischief to visìte trouble farthest, little The ferrest in his parish, moche and lite, Upon his fete, and in his hand a staf. This noble ensample to his shepe he yaf, That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. Out of the Gospel he the wordés caught, And this figure he added yet therto, That if gold rusté, what shuld iren do? For if a preest be foule, on whom we trust, No wonder is a lewed man to rust. ← Wel ought a preest ensample for to yeve, By his cleennessé, how his shepe shulde live. He setté not his benefice to hire, And lette his shepe acombred in the mire, And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, To seken him a chanterie for soules, Or with a brotherhede to be withold; But dwelt at home, and kepte wel his fold, So that the wolf ne made it not miscarie. He was a shepherd, and no mercenàrie. And though he holy were, and vertuous, He was to sinful men not dispitòus; Ne of his speché dangerous ne digne, But in his teching discrete and benigne. To drawen folk to heven with fairéness, By good ensample, was his besinesse: But it were any persone obstinat, What so he were of highe, or low estat, Him wolde he snibben sharply for the nonés. A better preest I trowe that nowher non is. He waited after no pompe ne reverence, Ne makéd him no spicéd consciènce, But Cristés lore, and his apostles twelve, He taught, but first he folwed it himselve. gave give left singing endowment unpitying sparing, proud occasion GOOD COUNSAIL. FLY fro the presse, and dwell with sothfastnesse, Suffise unto thy good though it be small, For horde hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse, uncertainty Prease hath envy, and wele is blent over all, wealth, blind truth of THOMAS THE RHYMER. 3 M | AUTO | Savour no more than thee behové shall, Rede well thy selfe that other folk canst rede, And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. Peiné thee not ech crooked to redresse, In trust of her that tourneth as a ball; Great reste standèth in little businesse, Beware also to spurne againe a nall, Strive not as doth a crocké with a wall, Demé thy selfe that demest others' dede, And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. desire, benefit counsel each fortune nail earthen pitcher judge That thee is sent receive in buxomnesse, The wrastling of this world asketh a fall, Here is no home, here is but wildernesse, Forth, pilgrime! forth, beast, out of thy stall! Looke up on high, and thanké God of all! Weivé thy lusts, and let thy ghost thee lede, forsake, spirit And trouth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. humility Thomas the Rhymer. THOMAS OF ERCILDOUNE, commonly called Thomas the Rhymer, lived about the year 1300, and was born at his father's patrimonial estate of Ercildoune or Earlston, now a small village in Scotland. Few personages are more renowned than he in tradition, having been, shortly after his death, placed in the highest position both as a poet and a prophet. The popular tale bears "that he was carried away to Fairyland at an early age, where he acquired the knowledge and gifts which made him so famous. After seven years' residence there he was permitted to return to earth, and astonish his countrymen by his powers and prophecies. After some time, while making merry in his Tower of Ercildoune, a person came running in and told him that a hart and hind were slowly parading the street of the village; Thomas rose, and left his house, and followed the animals to the forest, whence he never returned. About 1300. INCIPIT PROPHESIA THOMÆ DE ERSELDOUN. IN a lande as I was lent; In the gryking of the day Ay alone as I went, In Huntle bankys me for to play; I saw the throstyl, and the jay, Ye mawes movyde of her song, Ye wodwale sange notes gay, That al the wod about range. In that longyng as I lay, Undir nethe a dern tre, I was war of a lady gay lying peeping mavis wood shady aware 1 4 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. f ? Come rydyng ouyr a fair le: Zogh I suld sitt to domysday, With my tong to wrabbe and wry, Certenly all hyr aray, It beth neuyer discryuyd for me. Hyr palfra was dappyll gray, Sycke on say neuer none; As the son in somers day, All abowte that lady schone. Hyr sadel was of a rewel bone; A semly syght it was to se, Bryght with mony a precyous stone, And compasyd all with crapste; Stones of oryens, gret plente, Her hair about her hede it hang, She rode ouer the farnyle, He sayd Yonder is Mary of Might, That bar the child that died for me. Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tre. Thomas rathly up him rase, And ran ouer mountayn hye, If it be sothe the story says, He met her euyn at Eldyn Tre. Thomas knelyd down on his kne Undir nethe the grenewood spray, And sayd, Lovely lady, thou rue on me, Queen of Heaven as you may well be. Tak thy leue, Thomas, at son and mone, At gresse, and at euery tre, This twelmonth sall you with me gone, Medyl erth you sall not se. Alas, he seyd, ful wo is me, lonely lea though twist I trow my dedes will werke me care. Jesu, my sole tak to ye, Whedir so euyr my body sal farc. She rode furth with all her mizt, Undir nethe the derne lee, It was as derke as at midnizt, And euyr in water unto the kne; Through the space of days thre, He herde but swowyng of a flode; Thomas sayd, Ful wo is me, Now I spyll for fawte of fode; such, saw Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright, Myd my hert will breke in three; I schal me hye with all my might, vory crimson orrent lonely lea bore haste quickly even pity leave every might below ground ever dashing faint, want M THOMAS THE RHYMER. 5 To a garden she lede him tyte, There was fruyte in grete plente, Peyres and appless ther wer rype, The date and the damese, The figge and als fylbert tre; The nyghtyngale bredyng in her neste, The papigaye about gan fle, The throstylcock sang wald hafe no rest. He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand, As man for faute that was faynt; Sees thou, Thomas, yon secund way That lygges lawe undir the ryse? Streight is the way, sothly to say, To the joyes of paradyce. Sees Thou, Thomas, yon thyrd way, That lygges ouyr yon how? Wide is the way, sothly to say, To the brynyng fyres of helle. Sees thou, Thomas, yone fair castell, That standes ouyr yone fair hill? Of town and tower it beereth the belle, In middell erth is none like theretill. When thou comyst in yone castell gaye, I pray thee curteis man to be; What so any man to you say, Loke thu answer none but me. My lord is servyd at yche messe, With xxx kniztes feir and fre; I shall say syttyng on the dese, I toke thy speche beyone the le. Thomas stode as still as stone, And behelde that ladye gaye; Than was sche fayr,, and ryche anone, And also ryal on hir palfreye. The grewhoundes had fylde thaim on the dere The raches coupled, by my fay, soon want She sayd, Thomas, lat al stand, Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt. Sche seyd, Thomas, I thee hyzt, To lay thy hede upon my kne, And thou shalt see fayrer syght, Than euyr sawe man in their kintre Sees thou, Thomas, yon fayr way, That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn? Yonder is the way to heuyn for ay, Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne. suffered rising haste lies hollow courteous eachi knights dais royal deer dogs 6 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ! She blewe her horne Thomas to chere, To the castell she went her way. The layde into the hall went, Thomas folowyd at her hand; Thar kept her mony a lady gent, With curtasy and lawe. Harp and fedyl both he fande, The getern and the sawtry, Lut and rybid ther gon gan, Thair was al maner of mynstralsy, The most fertly that Thomas thoght, When he com emyddes the flore, Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre, All that leue long day. Ladyes that were gret of gre, Sat and sang of rych aray. Thomas sawe much more in that place, Than I can descryve, Til on a day, alas, alas, My lovelye layde sayd to me, Busk ye, Thomas, you must agayn, Here you may no longer be: Hy then zerne that you were at hame, I sal ye bryng to Eldyn Tre. Thomas answered with heuy And said, Lowely ladye, lat ma be, For I say ye certenly here Haf I be bot the space of dayes three. Sothly, Thomas, as I telle ye, You hath ben here three yeres, And here you may no longer be; And I sal tele ye a skele, To-morrowe of helle ye foule feude Amang our folke shall chuse his fee; For you art a larg man and an hende Trowe you wele he will chuse thee. Fore all the golde that may be, Fro hens unto the worldes ende, Sall you not be betrayed by me, And thairfor sall yon hens wende. She broght hym euyn to Eldyn Tre, Undir nethe the grene wode spray. In Huntle bankes was fayr to be, Ther breddes syng both nyzt and day. Ferre ouyr yon montayns gray, Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way. low fiddle amidst haste even birds JOHN BARBOUR. 7 A! FREDOME is a nobill thing! Fredome mayse man to haiff liking! Fredome all solace to man giffis: He levys at ese that frely levys! A noble hart may haiff nane ese, Na ellys nocht that may him plese, Gyff fredome failythe: for fre liking Is yearnyt our all othir thing Na he, that ay hase levyt fre, May nocht knaw weill the propyrte, The angyr, na the wrechyt dome, That is cowplyt to foule thyrldome. Bot gyff he had assayit it, Than all perquer he suld it wyt; And suld think fredome mar to pryse Than all the gold in warld that is. Born 1320. Died 1395. John Barbour. JOHN BARBOUR, Archdeacon of Aberdeen, was a Scotchman, and contemporary with Chaucer. He is chiefly known for his epic nar- rative "The Bruce," which is a history of the memorable times in which King Robert I. asserted the independence of Scotland. Bar- bour was born in 1320, and died in 1395, in his seventy-fifth year. FREEDOM. makes lives, ease nor, else if DEATH OF SIR HENRY DE BOHUN. (From "The Bruce.") AND when the king wist that they were In hale battle, comand sae near, His battle gart he weel array. He rade upon a little palfrey, Lawcht and joly arrayand His battle, with an ax in hand. And on his bassinet he bare An hat of tyre aboon ay where; And, thereupon, into takin, Ane high crown, that he was king. And when Gloster and Hereford were With their battle approachand near, Before them all there came ridand, With helm on heid and spear in hand, over doom but heartily, avoid more complete caused low tiara, above token riding head 8 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Sir Henry the Boon, the worthy, That was a wicht knicht, and a hardy, And to the Earl of Hereford cousin; Armed in arms gude and fine; Came on a steed a bowshot near, Before all other that there were: And knew the king, for that he saw Him sae range his men on raw, And by the crown that was set Also upon his bassinet. And towards him he went in hy. And the king sae apertly Saw him come, forouth all his fears, In hy till him the horse, he steers. And when Sir Henry saw the king Come on, foroutin abasing, Till him he rode in great hy. He thought that he should weel lichtly Win him, and have him at his will, Sin' he him horsit saw sae ill. Sprent they samen intill a lyng; Sir Henry missed the noble king; And he that in his stirrups stude, With the ax, that was hard and gude, With sae great main, raucht him a dint, That nouther hat nor helm micht stint The heavy dush, that he him gave, That near the head till the harns clave. The hand-ax shaft frushit in tway; And he down to the yird gan gae All flatlings, for him failit micht. This was the first straik of the ficht, That was performit douchtily. And when the king's men sae stoutly Saw him, richt at the first meeting, Forouten doubt or abasing, Have slain a knicht sae at a straik, Sic hard❜ment thereat gan they tak, That they come on richt hardily. When Englishmen saw them sae stoutly Come on, they had great abasing; And specially for that the king Sae smartly that gude knicht has slain, That they withdrew them everilk ane, And durst not ane abide to ficht: Sae dreid they for the king's micht. strong row haste plainly before, companions haste, to not put about very easily horsed sprang, together, line strength, reached neither, might dash brains shivered, two earth, began, go failed fight not put about stroke encouragement depression every dread JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 9 When that the king repairit was, That gart his men all leave the chase, The lordis of his company Blamed him, as they durst, greatumly, That he him put in aventure, To meet sae stith a knicht and stour, In sic point as he then was seen. For they said weel, it micht have been Cause of their tynsal everilk ane. The king answer has made them nane, But mainit his hand-ax shaft sae Was with the straik broken in tway. returned caused stout, strong such, state destruction lamented two James J. of Scotland. Born 1394. { Mur'd 1437. BEWAILING in my chamber, thus alone, Despaired of all joy and remedy, For-tired of my thought, and wo-begone, And to the window gan I walk in hy To see the world and folk that went forbye, As, for the time, though I of mirthis food Might have no more, to look it did me good. Now was there made, fast by the Towris wall, A garden fair; and in the corners set Ane arbour green, with wandis long and small Railed about, and so with trees set Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, That lyf was none walking there forbye, That might within scarce any wight espy, 1 THIS accomplished prince of the house of Stuart was born in 1394. Scotland was at the time in a state of complete anarchy; and to save James from the hands of his uncle Albany, he was, while only eleven years of age, sent privately in a vessel to France. The vessel was seized by the English, and, to the disgrace of Henry IV. of England, the young prince was kept for eighteen years a prisoner in England; Henry, however, treated him well, and James became learned in all the accomplishments of the English Court. Chaucer he studied closely; and he soothed his confinement by writing poetry. His principal poems are "The King's Quhair" (book), and Christis Kirk on the Grene." James was released in 1423, and married Lady Jane. On his return to Scotland he set himself vigorously to repress the disorders there; but a conspiracy of the lawless nobility having been formed against him, he was assassi- nated at Perth in 1437. JAMES I., A PRISONER IN WINDSOR, SEES LADY JOAN BEAUFORT. began, haste life, past ¦ 1* 10 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. + So thick the boughis and the leavis green Beshaded all the alleys that there were, And mids of every arbour might be seen The sharpe greene sweete juniper, Growing so fair with branches here and there, That as it seemed to a lyf without, The boughis spread the arbour all about. And on the smalle greene twistis sat The little sweete nightingale, and sung So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrat Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the gardens and the wallis rung Right of their song. Cast I down mine eyes again Where as I saw, walking under the Tower, Full secretly, new comen hear to plain, The fairest and the freshest young flower That ever I saw, methought, before that hour, For which sudden abate, anon astart, The blood of all my body to my heart. And though I stood abasit tho a lite, No wonder was; for why? my wittis all Were so o'ercome with pleasance and delight, Only through letting of my eyen fall, That suddenly my heart became her thrall, For ever of free will-for of menace There was no token in her sweete face. And in my head I drew right hastily, And eftesoons I leant it out again, And saw her walk that very womanly With no wight mo', but only women twain. Then gan I study in myself, and sayn: 'Ah, sweet! are ye a worldly creature, Or heavenly thing in likeness of nature? went and came 'Or are ye god Cupidis own princess, And comin are to loose me out of band? Or are ye very Nature the goddess, That have depainted with your heavenly hand, This garden full of flowers as they stand? What shall I think, alas! what reverence Shall I mister unto your excellence? 1 twiga little eyes shortly say JAMES I. OF SCOTLAND. 11 'If ye a goddess be, and that ye like To do me pain, I may it not astart: If ye be warldly wight, that doth me sike Why list God make you so, my dearest heart, To do a seely prisoner this smart, That loves you all, and wot of nought but wo? And therefore mercy, sweet! sin' it is so.' Of her array the form if I shall write, Towards her golden hair and rich attire, In fretwise couchit with pearlis white And great balas leaming as the fire, With mony ane emeraut and fair sapphire; And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue, Of plumis parted red, and white, and blue. Full of quaking spangis bright as gold, Forged of shape like to the amorets, So new, so fresh, so pleasant to behold The plumis eke like to the flower jonets; And other of shape, like to the flower jonets; And above all this, there was, well I wot, Beauty enough to make a world to dote. About her neck, white as the fire amail, A goodly chain of small orfevory, Whereby there hung a ruby, without fail, Like to ane heart shapen verily, That as a spark of lowe so wantonly Seemed burning upon her white throat, Now if there was good party, God it wot. And when she walked had, a little thraw, Under the sweete greene boughis bent, Her fair fresh face, as white as any snaw, She turned has, and furth her wayis went; But tho began mine aches and torment, To see her part and follow I na might; Methought the day was turned into night. inlaid stones, glittering CHRIST'S KIRK OF THE GREEN. Was never in Scotland heard nor seen Sic dancing nor deray, Nouther at Falkland on the Green, Nor Peebliss at the Play, fly sigh wretched spangles love-knots lily enamel gold work flame match turn merriment games STAL 1 12 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. As was of wooers, as I ween, At Christ's Kirk on ane day: There came our Kittys, washen c.ean, In their new kirtles of gray, Full gay, At Christ's Kirk of the Green that day. To dance thir damsellis them dight, Thir lasses light of laits, Their gloves were of the raffel right, Their shoon were of the Straits, Their kirtles were of Lincoln light, Weel prest with many plaits, They were so nice when men them nicht, They squealit like ony gaits Sa loud At Christ's Kirk of the Green that day. Of all thir maidens mild as mead, Was nane so jimp as Gillie, As ony rose her rood was red, Her lyre was like the lily, Fu' yellow, yellow was her head, But she of love was silly; Though all her kin had sworn her dead, She would have but sweet Willie Alane, At Christ's Kirk of the Green that day. flaunted manners deerskin shoes, morocco neared goats smart complexion bosom death Blind Harry. Or this Scottish minstrel poet little is known, but that he was blind from his earliest years, and that he gained his living by reciting and singing his compositions before company. "The Adventures of Sir William Wallace," written about 1450, is still a great favourite with the Scottish peasantry, who regard it as the trumpet-note of liberty, a modernised Scotch version having been made some time ago by Hamilton of Gilbertfield. The poem is evidently founded on the traditions current at that time, a century and half after the times of Wallace. About 1450. WALLACE FISHING IN IRVINE WATER. So on a time he desired to play In Aperil the three-and-twenty day, Till Irvine water fish to tak he went, Sic fantasy fell in his intent. 2+ BLIND HARRY. 13 To lead his net a child furth with him yede; But he, or noon, was in a fellon dread. His swerd he left, so did he never again; It did him gude, suppose he suffered pain. Of that labour as than he was not slie, Happy he was, took fish abundantly. Or of the day ten hours o'er couth pass. Ridand there came, near by where Wallace was, The Lord Percy, was captain than of Ayr; Frae then' he turned, and couth to Glasgow fare. Part of the court had Wallace' labour seen, Till him rade five, clad into ganand green, went ere, fearful And said soon: 'Scot, Martin's fish we wald have!' Wallace meekly again answer him gave: 'It were reason, methink, ye should have part, Waith should be dealt, in all place, with free heart.' He bade his child, 'Give them of our waithing.' The Southron said; As now of thy dealing We will not tak; thou wald give us o'er small.' He lighted down and frae the child took all. Wallace said then: 'Gentlemen gif ye be, Leave us some part, we pray for charity. Ane aged knight serves our lady to-day: Gude friend, leave part, and tak not all away.' "Thou shalt have leave to fish and tak thee mae, All this forsooth shall in our flitting gae. craft could riding sport if more go go We serve a lord; this fish shall till him gang.' Wallace answered, said: 'Thou art in the wrang.' 'Wham thous thou, Scot? in faith thou 'serves a blaw.' blow Till him he ran, and out a swerd gan draw. William was wae he had nae wappins there But the poutstaff, the whilk in hand he bare. Wallace with it fast on the cheek him took, With sae gude will, while of his fect he shook. The swerd flew frac him a fur-breid on the land. Wallace was glad, and hint it soon in hand; And with the swerd awkward he him gave Under the hat, his craig in sunder drave. By that the lave lighted about Wallace, He had no help, only but God's grace. On either side full fast on him they dang, Great peril was gif they had lasted lang. Upon the head in great ire he strak ane; The shearand swerd glade to the collar bane. Ane other on the arm he hit so hardily, While hand and swerd baith in the field gan lie. sorry fishing-rod seized neck rest if one PARA ANTAL) 14 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. C The tother twa fled to their horse again; He stickit him was last upon the plain. Three slew he there, twa fled with all their might After their lord; but he was out of sight, Takand the muir, or he and they couth twine. Till him they rade anon, or they wald blin, And cryit: 'Lord abide; your men are martyred down Right cruelly, here in this false region. Five of our court here at the water bade, Fish for to bring, though it nae profit made. We are scaped, but in field slain are three.' The lord speirit: 'How mony might they be?' 'We saw but are that has discomfist us all.' Then leugh he loud, and said: 'Foul mot you fall! Sin' ane you all has put to confusion. Wha meins it maist the devil of hell him drown! This day for me, in faith, he bees not sought.' When Wallace thus this worthy wark had wrought, Their horse he took, and gear that left was there, Gave ower that craft, he yede to fish nae mair. Richard Sheale. THE author of this remarkable ballad is Richard Sheale, an English- man, but the date is unknown. This modernised version was made about 1420 to 1460. CHEVY-CHASE. GoD prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall. To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day. The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take; The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase To kill and bear away. About 1420 to 1460. RICHARD SHEALE. 15 These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay: Who sent Earl Percy present word He would prevent his sport. The English Earl, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright. The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deer: On Monday they began to hunt, When daylight did appear; And long before high noon they had A hundred fat bucks slain; Then having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again. The bowmen mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; And all their rear, with special care, That day was guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deer to take; That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make. Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here: But if I thought he would not come, No longer would I stay;" With that a brave young gentleman Thus to the Earl did say: "Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, His men in armour bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight; All men of pleasant Teviotdale, Fast by the river Tweed:" 16 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. I "Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, "And take your bows with speed: And now with me my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For never was there champion yet, In Scotland or in France, That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear. Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armour shone like gold. "Show me," said he, " said he, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer." The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy he; Who said, "We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be: Yet will we spend our dearest blood, Thy chiefest harts to slay." Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say— 1 "Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall die: I know thee well, an earl thou art, Lord Percy, so am I. But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offence to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill. Let you and me the battle try, And set our men aside." "Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, "By whom this is denied." Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name, RICHARD SHEALE. 17 ¿ Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame, That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on. You two be earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone: I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand: While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand.' Our English archers bent their bows, Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew. Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, As chieftain stout and good: As valiant captain, all unmoved, The shock he firmly stood. His host he parted had in three, As leader ware and tried; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore down on every side. Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound; But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground. And throwing straight their bows away, They grasped their swords so bright; And now sharp blows, a heavy shower On shields and helmets light. They closed full fast on every side, No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. In truth! it was a grief to see How each one chose his spear, And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear. At last these two stout earls did meet, Like captains of great might: ļ : 18 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight: They fought until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel; Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel. "Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said; "In faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king: Thy ransom I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see." "No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born." With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow; Who never spake more words than these- Fight on, my merry men all; ،، For why my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall." Then leaving life, Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land. In truth! my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take.' "" A knight amongst the Scots there was, Who saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Percy: Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright, f SIR PATRICK SPENS. 19 Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight; And past the English archers all, Without a dread or fear; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear; With such vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth yard and more. * * * And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die: Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, Under the greenwood tree. * * 1 * * Sir Patrick Spens. THE following Ballad probably refers to the fate of the Scottish nobles on their return from Norway after having, in 1281, conveyed Margaret, daughter of Alexander III., to her nuptials with King Eric of Norway. It is supposed to have been written in the fifteenth century, author unknown. THE BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENS. THE King sits in Dunfermline toun, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whaur shall I get a skeely skipper, To sail this ship of mine?" Then up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the King's right knee; "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sailed the sea. "" The King has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens Was walking on the sand. 20 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. of "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The King's daughter to Noroway, It's thou maun tak' her hame." The first line that Sir Patrick read, A loud laugh laughèd he, The next line that Sir Patrick read, The tear came to his e'e. "O wha is this has done this deed, This ill deed done to me, To send us out at this time o' the year To sail upon the sea?" They hoisted their sails on a Monday morn, Wi' a' the haste they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon the Wodensday. "Make haste, make haste, my merry men all, Our ship shall sail the morn," "Now ever, alack, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm. I saw the new moon late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And I fear, I fear, my master dear, That we shall come to harm!" They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league, but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ropes they brak, and the top-masts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. O laith, laith were our guid Scots lords To weet their leathern shoon, But lang ere a' the play was o'er, They wat their heads abune. O lang, lang may the ladies sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Or e'er they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the land. WILLIAM DUNBAR. 21 O lang, lang may their ladies sit, Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their aim dear lords, For them they'll see nae mair. Half owre, half owre to Aberdour, It's fifty fathom deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. 0 Born 1465. William Dunbar. {Bied about 1525. Dame Nature ordered every bird and beast Before her Highness sould anon compear, And every flower of virtue, most and least, DUNBAR, one of the greatest of the elder Scottish poets, was educated in St. Andrews, where he took his degree. He became a friar of the Franciscan order, and being a favourite with James IV.. he was employed on various important missions. He was one of those sent to London to bring to Scotland the Princess Margaret, daughter of Henry VII., the bride of the Scottish king, and he wrote on the marriage the beautiful poem, "The Thrissil and the Rosc. His poems embrace a wide range of subjects-descriptive, allegor- ical, satirical. comic, and moral. He is supposed to have died at the age of sixty. ASSEMBLAGE OF THE BEASTS AND FLOWERS. From the "Thrissil and the Rose." WITH that this lady soberly did smile, And said: Uprise, and do thy observance; Thou did promit, in Mayis lusty while, For to describe the Rose of most pleasance. Go see the birdis how they sing and dance, Illumined our with orient skyis bright, Enamelled richly with new azure light. And every herb by field, or far or near, As they had wont in May, from year to year, To her their Maker to make obedience, Full low inclining with due reverence. All present were in twinkling of an ee, Baith beast, and bird, and flower, before the queen; And first the lion, greatest of degree, Was called there, and he most fair to sene, With a full hardy countenance and keen, Before dame Nature came, and did incline, With visage bold, and courage leonine. eye 22. GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. This lady liftit up his clawis clear, And let him lightly lean upon her knee, And crownit him with diadem full dear, Of radiant stones most royal for to see; Saying, The king of beastis mak I thee, And the chief protector in woods and shaws; Unto thy lieges go forth and keep the laws. Then called she all the flowers that grew in field, Discerning all their fashions and effeirs; Upon the awful Thrissil she beheld, qualities thistle And saw him kepit with a bush of spears; guarded wars Considering him so able for the weirs, A radiant crown of rubies she him gave, And said, In field go forth and find the lave; Nor hold none other flower in sic denty, such regard As the fresh Rose, of colour red and white: For if thou do, hurt is thine honesty; Considering that no flower is so perfyt, So full of virtue, pleasure, and delight, So full of blissful angelic beautie, Imperial birth, honour, and dignity. Then to the Rose she turned her visage, And said, O lusty daughter most benign Above the lily's illustrious lineage, From the stock royal rising fresh and ying, Without one spot or blemish doing spring: Come, bloom of joy with genius to be crowned, For o'er the lave thy beauty is renowned. young Then all the birdis sang with voice on hicht, Whose mirthful sound was marvellous to hear; The mavis sang: Hail Rose, most rich and right, That does upflourish under Phoebus' spear; Hail plant of youth, hail prince's daughter dear, Hail blossom breaking out of the blood-royal, Whose precious virtue is imperial. rest The merle she sang: Hail Rose of most delight, Hail of all flowers. queen and sovereign: The lark she sang: Hail Rose, both red and white, Most pleasant flower of mighty colours vain: The nightingale sang: Hail Nature's suffragan, In beauty, nurture, and every nobleness, In rich array, renown, and gentleness. rest high GAVIN DOUGLAS. 23 : The common voice uprose of birdis small, Upon this ways, O blessed be the hour That thou wast chosen to be our principal: Welcome to be our princess of honour, Our pearl, our pleasure, and our lover, Our peace, our play, our plain felicity— Christ thee conserve from all adversitie! Gavin Douglas. A YOUNGER Son of the Earl of Angus, he was educated for the church, and rose to be Bishop of Dunkeld. He wrote a long poem, "The Palace of Honour," and made a translation of Virgil's Eneid into Scottish verse. 1 S Born 1474. Died 1522. MORNING IN MAY. As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse, Ished of her saffron bed and ivor house, In cram'sy clad and grained violate With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate, Unshet the windows of her large hall, Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal And eke the heavenly portis chrystalline Unwarps braid, the warld till illumine; The twinkling streamers of the orient Shed purpour spraings, with gold and azure ment Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red, Above the seas liftis furth his head, Of colour sore, and somedeal brown as berry, For to alichten and glad our emispery; The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls, So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. While shortly, with the bleezand torch of day, Abulyit in his lemand fresh array, apparelled, glittering Furth of his palace royal ishit Phœbus, With golden crown and visage glorious, Crisp hairs, bricht as chrysolite or topaz; For whase hue micht nane behald his face. The auriate vanes of his throne soverane With glitterand glance o'erspread the oceane; The largé fludes, lemand all of licht, But with ane blink of his supernal sicht. For to behald, it was ane glore to see The stabled windis and the calmed sea, The soft season, the firmament serene, The loune illuminate air and firth amene. tranquil, pleasant issued crimson opened yellow hemisphere nostrils might golden veins 24 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And lusty Flora did her bloomis spread Under the feet of Phoebus' sulyart steed; The swarded soil embrode with selcouth hues, Wood and forest, obnumbrate with bews. Towers, turrets, kirnals, and pinnacles hie, Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair citie, Stude painted, every fane, phiol, and stage, Upon the plain ground by their awn umbrage Of Eolus' north blasts havand no dreid, The soil spread her braid bosom on-breid; The corn crops and the beir new-braird With gladsome garment revesting the yerd. SOVEREIGN, I mean of thir side tails, Whilk through the dust and dubs trails, Three quarters lang behind their heels, Express again' all commonweals. Though bishops, in their pontificals, Have men for to bear up their tails, For dignity of their office; Richt so ane queen or ane emprice; Howbeit they use sic gravity, Conformand to their majesty, Though their robe-royals be upborne, I think it is ane very scorn, That every lady of the land Should have her tail so side trailand: Howbeit they been of high estate, The queen they should not counterfeit. sultry uncommon boughs battlements Wherever they go it may be seen; How kirk and causay they soop clean. The images into the kirk May think of their side tails irk; each cupola Own Sir David Lindsay. "THE Lyon King-at-arms," Sir David Lindsay of the Mount was born in Fife about the year 1490. On leaving the university he became a great favourite of James V., who knighted him. He pos- sessed great poetical talents, especially for satire. The evils of his time, both political and ecclesiastical, are handled with an unspar- ing hand; and his writings are believed to have had a powerful ef- fect in promoting the Scottish Reformation. He died at his seat, the Mount, in the sixty-seventh year of his age. IN CONTEMPTION OF SIDE TAILS. barley earth Born 1490. › Died 1557. complain causeway annoyed : SIR DAVID LINDSAY. 25 P For when the weather been maist fair, The dust flies highest into the air, And all their faces does begary, Gif they could speak, they wald them wary. But I have maist into despite Poor claggocks clad in Raploch white, Whilk has scant twa merks for their fees, Will have twa ells beneath their knees. Kittock, that cleckit was yestreen, The morn, will counterfeit the queen. In baron nor byre she will not bide, Without her kirtle tail be side. In summer, when the streets dries, They raise the dust aboon the skies; Nane may gae near them at their ease, Without they cover mouth and neese. I think maist pane after ain rain, To see them tuckit up again: For dread some duddron me despite: Notwithstanding, I will conclude, That of side tails can come nae gude, Sider nor may their ankles hide, The remanent proceeds of pride, And pride proceeds of the devil, Thus alway they proceed of evil. begrime curse draggle-tails Then when they step furth through the street, Their fauldings flaps about their feet; Of tails I will no more indite, Ane other fault, sir, may be seen- They hide their face all bot the een; When gentlemen bid them gude-day, Without reverence they slide away. Without their faults be soon amended, My flyting, sir, shall never be ended; But wald your grace my counsel tak, Ane proclamation ye should mak, Baith through the land and burrowstouns, To shaw their face and cut their gowns. Women will say, this is nae bourds, To write sic vile and filthy words; But wald they clenge their filthy tails, Whilk over the mires and middings trails, Then should my writing clengit be, None other mends they get of me. 2 scarce born to-morrow barn nose slut towns jest clean 26 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. SATIRE ON THE THREE ESTATES. My potent pardons ye may see, Come frae the Cham of Tartary, Weel sealed with oyster-shells; Though ye have no discretion, Ye shall have full remission, With help of books and bells. Here is a relic lang and braid Of Fin-mac-Coul the right chaft blade, With teeth and all togidder; Of Colin's cow here is a horn, For eating of Makammel's corn Was slain inro Balquhidder. Here is the cord, baith great and lang, Whilk hanged Johnnie Armstrang, Of gude hemp saft and sound; Gude haly people, I stand for't, Whae'er be hanged in this cord, Needs never to be drowned! The culum of St. Bride's cow, The gruntle of St. Antone's sow, Whilk bore his haly bell; Whaever hears this bell clink Give me a ducat to the drink, He shall never gang till hell— Without he be with Belial born: Masters, trow ye that this be scorn? Come, win this pardon, come! Wha loves their wives not with their heart, I have power them to depart: Methink you deaf and dumb. Has none of you cursed wicked wives, That halds you into sturt and strifes? Come take my dispensation; Of that cummer I shall make you quit, Howbeit yourself be in the wyte, And make ane false narration. jaw together Come win the pardon! Now let see For meal, for malt, or for money- For cock, hen, goose, or grise, Of relics here I have a hunder, Why come ye not? This is a wonder; I trow ye be not wise. holy trouble gossip blame SIR THOMAS WYATT. 27 Sir Thomas Wyatt. A DISTINGUISHED courtier in the reign of Henry VIII., he was secretly attached to Anne Boleyn, whom he has commemorated in his verse. He was fortunate in escaping the suspicion and tyranny of Henry, and died while on a mission for him in France. His poet- ical pieces were few. THE LOVER'S LUTE. BLAME not my Lute! for he must sound Of this or that as liketh me; For lack of wit the Lute is bound To give such tunes as pleaseth me; Though my songs be somewhat strange, And speak such words as touch my change, Blame not my Lute! My Lute, alas! doth not offend, Though that per force he must agree To sound such tunes as I intend To sing to them that heareth me; Then though my songs be somewhat plain, And toucheth some that use to feign, Blame not my Lute! My Lute and strings may not deny, But as I strike they must obey; Break not them so wrongfully, But wreak thyself some other way; And though the songs which I indite Do quit thy change with rightful spite, Blame not my Lute! Spite asketh spite, and changing change, And falsed faith must needs be known; The faults so great, the case so strange; Of right it must abroad be blown: Then since that by thine own desert My songs do tell how true thou art, Blame not my Lute! Blame but thyself that hast misdone, And well deserved to have blame; Change thou thy way, so evil begone, And then my Lute shall sound that same; But if till then my fingers play, By thy desert their wonted way, Blame not my Lute! Born 1503. Died 1541. 28 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. * Farewell! unknown; for though thou break My strings in spite with great disdain, Yet have I found out for thy sake, Strings for to string my Lute again: And if perchance this silly rhyme Do make thee blush at any time, Blame not my Lute! Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. THIS accomplished nobleman was the eldest son of the Duke of Nor- folk; he was born about the year 1517, but much obscurity rests on his early life. Surrey bore a distinguished part in the wars with Scotland and France. He was committed to the Tower by the arbitrary Henry VIII., and on a mock charge of quartering the royal arms of Edward the Confessor on his escutcheon, he was beheaded on 21st January, 1546. His works consist of songs and son- nets, which are remarkable for correctness of style and purity of expression. He has the distinction of being the first to introduce blank verse into our poetry. Born 1517. Died 1546. PRISONER IN WINDSOR. So cruel prison how could betide, alas! As proud Windsor? where I, in lust and joy, With a king's son, my childish years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's son of Troy: Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour! The large green courts where we were wont to hove, With eyes cast up into the Maiden tower, And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue; The dances short, long tales of great delight, With words and looks that tigers could but rue, Where each of us did plead the other's right. The palm-play, where, despoiled for the game, With dazed eyes oft we, by gleams of love, Have missed the ball and got sight of our dame, To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. The gravel ground, with sleeves tied on the helm Of foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts; With cheer, as though one should another whelm, Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts; HENRY HOWARD. 29 ; With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length: The secret groves which oft we made resound, Of pleasant plaint and of our ladies' praise, Recording oft what grace each one had found, What hope of speed, what dread of long delays: The wild forest, the clothed holts with green, With reins availed and swift ybreathed horse; With cry of hounds and merry blasts between, Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. The wide vales, eke, that harboured us each night, Wherewith, alas, reviveth in my breast, The sweet accord such sleeps as yet delight, The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest: The secret thoughts imparted with such trust, The wanton talk, the divers change of play, The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just; Wherewith we passed the winter night away. And with this thought, the blood forsakes the face, The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue, The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas, Upsupped have, thus I my plaint renew: O place of bliss! renewer of my woes, Give me accounts, where is my noble fere; Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose; To other leef, but unto me most dear: Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue, Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint. Thus I alone, where all my freedom grew, In prison pine with bondage and restraint, And with remembrance of the greater grief To banish the less, I find my chief relief. > 30 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Anne Askewe. ONE of the victims of the persecuting Henry VIII., she was burnt to death at Smithfield in 1546. The following was made and sung by her while a prisoner in Newgate. LIKE as the armed Knighte, Appointed to the fielde, With this world wil I fight, And faith shall be my shilde. Faith is that weapon stronge, Which wil not faile at nede; My foes therefore amonge, Therewith wil I procede. As it is had in strengthe, And forces of Christes waye, It wil prevaile at lengthe, Though all the Devils saye naye. Faithe of the fathers olde Obtained right witnèss, Which makes me very bolde To fear no worldes distress. I now rejoice in harte, And hope bides me do so; For Christ will take my part, And ease me of my wo. Thou sayst, Lord, whoso knocke, To them wilt Thou attende; Undo, therefore, the locke, And thy stronge power sende. More enemies now I have Than heeres upon my head; Let them not me deprave, But fight Thou in my steade. On Thee my care I cast, For all their cruell spight; I set not by their hast, For Thou art my delight. Born 1520. Burnt 1546. I am not she that list My anker to let fall For every drislinge mist; My shippe's substancial. RICHARD EDWARDS. 31 + Not oft I use to wright In prose, nor yet in ryme; Yet wil I shewe one sight, That I sawe in my time. I sawe a royall throne, Where Justice shulde have sitte; But in her steade was One Of moody cruell witte. Absorpt was rightwisness, As by the raginge floude; Sathan, in his excess Sucte up the guiltlesse bloude. Then thought I,-Jesus, Lorde, When Thou shalt judge us alì, Harde is it to recorde On these men what will fall. Yet, Lorde, I Thee desire, For that they doe to me, Let them not taste the hire Of their iniquitie. Richard Edwards. MASTER of the singing boys of the Chapel Royal, he published some pieces under the title of "Amantium Irae," of which the following has been much admired. 1523 to 1566. RENEWING OF LOVE. IN going to my naked bed, as one that would have slept, I heard a wife sing to her child, that long before had wept. She sighed sore, and sang full sweet, to bring the babe to rest, That would not cease, but cried still, in sucking at her breast. She was full weary of her watch, and grieved with her child; She rocked it, and rated it, until on her it smiled; Then did she say: "Now have I found the proverb true to prove, The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love." Then took I paper, pen, and ink, this proverb for to write, In register for to remain of such a worthy wight. 32 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. As she proceeded thus in song unto her little brat, Much matter uttered she of weight in place whereas she sat; And proved plain, there was no beast, nor creature bear- ing life, Could well be known to live in love without discórd and strife: Then kissed she her little babe, and sware by God above, "The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love." "I marvel much, pardie," quoth she, "for to behold the rout, To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss the world about, Some kneel, some crouch, some beck, some check, and some can smoothly smile, And some embrace others in arms, and there think many a wile. Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble, and some stout, Yet are they never friends indeed until they once fall out." Thus ended she her song, and said, before she did remove: The falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love." Sir Walter Raleigh. THIS unfortunate, though distinguished statesman, warrior, scholar, and poet, was born in 1552 in Devonshire. After serving in the army in various parts of the world with distinction, he prosecuted the dis- coveries in America, and settled a colony in that country, which he named Virginia. On his return to Europe he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth. During the Spanish invasion he acted a most prominent part, and seemed as if he were fast advancing to the summit of greatness, when by an intrigue at court he was dismissed in dis- grace.. He again rose to a high command, but again by base cal- umny he was charged with treason, and sent to the Tower, where he remained for twelve years. At last he was released, but without a pardon having been granted. His first act was to endeavour to plant a colony in Guiana, and obtained a patent under the great seal; but failing in his attempts on the Spanish settlements there, his crews became dispirited, and they returned home. To the eter- nal disgrace of James, he was sentenced on the old conviction to be beheaded, which was carried out on 29th October, 1618, at Palace Yard. Some of Raleigh's poems have been lost, and little is known respecting those that have come down to us. THE LIE. Go, soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand; Born 1552 Behd. 1618. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 33 p A Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant; Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Go, tell the court it glows, And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the church it shows What's good, and doth no good: If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates they live Acting by others' action, Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction. If potentates reply, Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate. And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it lacks devotion, Tell love it is but lust, Tell time it is but motion, Tell flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth, Tell honour how it alters, Tell beauty how she blasteth, Tell favour how it falters. And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness: i 2* 34 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness. And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness, Tell skill it is pretension, Tell charity of coldness, Tell law it is contention. And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness, Tell nature of decay, Tell friendship of unkindness, Tell justice of delay. And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming, Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming. If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it fled the city, Tell how the country erreth, Tell, manhood shakes off pity, Tell, virtue least preferreth. And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing; Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing; Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soul can kill. THE PILGRIMAGE. GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon; My scrip of joy, immortal diet; My bottle of salvation; f • SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 35 1 My gown of glory, hope's true gauge, And thus I'll take my pilgrimage! Blood must be my body's 'balmer, No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of Heaven; Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains. There will I kiss the bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before, But after, it will thirst no more. Then by that happy blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk apparelled fresh like me. I'll take them first to quench their thirst, And taste of nectar's suckets At those clear wells where sweetness dwells Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. And when our bottles and all we Are filled with immortality, Then the blest paths we'll travel, Strewed with rubies thick as gravel— Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors, High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. From thence to Heaven's bribeless hall, Where no corrupted voices brawl; No conscience molten into gold, No forged accuser, bought or sold, No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, For there Christ is the King's Attorney; Who pleads for all without degrees, And he hath angels, but no fees And when the grand twelve million jury Of our sins, with direful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, Unblotted lawyer, truc proceeder! Thou giv'st salvation even for alms- Not with a bribed lawyer's palms. And this is mine eternal plea To Him that made heaven, carth, and That since my flesh must die so soon, sca, 36 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. По 1 And want a head to dine next noon, Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread, Set on my soul an everlasting head: Then am I, like a palmer, fit To tread those blest paths which before I writ. Of death and judgment, heaven and hell, Who oft doth think, must needs die well. Edmund Spenser. SPENSER was one of the great men who, from age to age, mark out the general course of poetry, and who take a place among the few selected from the illustrious of every age, whom we look up to as the instructors of all time. He claimed to be descended from a noble family, though the chief evidence of the truth of the assertion is, that he took his place in Queen Elizabeth's court as a gentleman of birth. He was born in East Smithfield about the year 1553, in humble cir- cumstances. In his sixteenth year he was entered as a sizar at Cambridge, where he continued seven years, and where he took the degree of A.M. After leaving Cambridge he obtained an introduc- tion to Sir Philip Sidney, to whom he dedicated his first poem, "The Shepherd's Calendar," published in 1579. In 1580 he was appointed Secretary to the Viceroy of Ireland; and six years afterwards he obtained a grant of forfeited land in the county of Cork, where he fixed his residence in the Old Castle of Kilcolman. Here he brought home his wife, the "Elizabeth" of his sonnets; and here he wrote the greater part of his immortal poem, the Faery Queen. The first part was published in 1589, and met with an enthusiastic reception. Queen Elizabeth at once settled a pension of £50 a year on the poet. In 1596 the second part of the Faery Queen issued from the press. It was intended to have been continued, but was never completed. But fortune, which had so long befriended him. now changed; the Tyrone rebellion broke out in 1598, his house was burned, and his infant child perished in the flames. He had to flee with his wife to England in the greatest destitution, and, dejected and heart-broken, he died in the following year, in the forty fifth year of his age, in a small lodging in London. His remains were laid beside those of Chaucer in Poet's Corner. "The term Faery is used by Spenser to denote something existing in the regions of fancy, and the Faery Queen is the impersonation of glory; the knights of Faeryland are the twelve virtues, who are the champions of the queen. :) Born 1553. Died 1599. UNA AND THE RED-CROSS KNIGHT. A GENTLE knight was pricking on the plaine, Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde, Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, The cruel markes of many a bloody fielde; Yet armes till that time did he never wield: His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield: Full jolly knight he seemed, and faire did sit, As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt. EDMUND SPENSER. 37 K And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead, as living ever, him adored: Upon his shield the like was also scored, For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had. Right faithfull, true he was in deede and word; But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad. Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gave (That greatest, glorious Queene of Faery-lond), To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have, Which of all earthly things he most did crave: And ever, as he rode, his hart did earne To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learne Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and stearnę. A lovely ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly asse more white then snow; Yet she much whiter; but the same did hide Under a vele, that wimpled was full low; And over all a blacke stole shee did throw, As one that inly mournd; so was she sad, And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow; Seeméd in heart some hidden care she had; And by her in a line a milke-white lambe she lad. So pure and innocent, as that same lambe, She was in life and every vertuous lore; And by descent from royall lynage came dreaded Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd, in being ever last, Or weariéd with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, And angry Iove an hideous storme of raine Did poure into his lemans lap so fast, yearn folded robe Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, And all the world in their subjection held; Till that infernal feend, with foule uprore, Forwasted all their land, and them expeld; Whom to avenge, she had this knight from far compeld. sweetheart 39. GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. That everie wight to shroud it did constrain; And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starr; And all within were pathes and alleies wide, With footing worne, and leading inward farr: Faire harbour that them seems; so in they entred ar. And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, Which therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemed in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, The sayling Pine, the Cedar proud and tall, The vine-propp Elme, the Poplar never dry, The builder Oake, sole king of forrests all, The Aspine good for staves, the Cypresse funerall; The Laurell, meed of mightie conquerours, And poets sage; the Firre that weepeth still; The Willow, worne of forlorne paramours, forsaken lovers The Eugh, obedient to the benders will, yew The Birch for shafts, the Sallow for the mill, The Mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike Beech, the Ash for nothing ill, The fruitful Olive, and the Platane round, The carver Holme, the Maple seldom inward sound. oak plane Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustering storme is overblowne; When, weening to returne, whence they did stray, thinking They cannot find that path, which first was showne, But wander too and fro in waies unknowne, Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, That makes them doubt their wits be not their own; So many pathes, so many turnings seene, That which of them to take in diverse doubt they been. EDMUND SPENSER. 39 UNA AND THE LION. ONE day, nigh wearie of the yrksome way, From her unhastie beast she did alight; And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all men's sight; From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside: her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place: Did never mortal eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortunéd, out of the thickest wood A ramping lyon rushéd suddeinly, Hunting full greedy after salvage blood; Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have attonce devourd her tender corse: But to the pray when as he drew more n'y, His bloody rage aswagéd, with remorse, And, with the sight amazed, forgat his furious forse. Instead thereof he kist her weary feet, And lickt her lily hands with fawning tong; As he her wronged innocence did weet. O how can beautie maister the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong! Whose yielded pride and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long, Her heart gan melt in great compassion; And drizling teares did shed for pure affection. "" The lyon, lord of everie beast in field,” Quoth she, "his princely puissance doth abate, And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, Forgetfull of the hungry rage, which late Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate:- But he, my lyon, and my noble lord, How does he find in cruell hart to hate Her, that him loved, and ever most adord As the god of my life? why hath he me abhord?" Redounding tears did choke th' end of her plaint, Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood; And, sad to see her sorrowful constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; 40 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. With pittie calind, downe fell his angry mood. At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, Arose the virgin borne of heavenly brood, And to her snowy palfrey got agayne, To seeke her strayéd champion if she might attayne. The lyon would not leave her desolate, But with her went along, as a strong gard Of her chast person, and a faythfull mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward And when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her will prepard; From her fayre eyes he took commandément, And ever by her lookes conceivéd her intent. THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. AND is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is: else much more wretched were the case Of men then beasts: but O the exceeding grace Of Highest God! that loves his creatures so, And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with goldon pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant! They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward And their bright squadrons round about us plant; And all for love, and nothing for reward; O why should hevenly God to men have such regard! THE BOWER OF BLISS. THERE the most daintie paradise on ground Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye, In which all pleasures plenteously abownd, And none does others happinesse envye; clouds fighting duly S EDMUND SPENSER. 41 The painted flowers; the trees upshooting hye; The dales for shade; the hilles for breathing space; The trembling groves; the christall running by; And, that which all faire works doth most aggrace, The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place. One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scornéd parts were mingled with the fine,) That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Art, and that Art at Nature did repine; So striving each the other to undermine, Each did the others worke more beautify So differing both in wills, agreed in fine: So all agreed, through sweete diversity, This gardin to adorne with all variety. And over all, of purest gold, was spred A trayle of yvie in his native hew; For the rich metall was so colouréd, followed And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, 1 Of richest substance that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny, that the silver flood Through every channell running one might see; Most goodly it with curious ymageree Was overwrought, and shapes of naked boys, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid ioyes. bathe That wight, who did not well avised it vew, Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew: Low his lascivious armes adowne did creepe, That themselves dipping in the silver dew, Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe, Which drops of christall seemed for wantones to weep. loose Infinit streames continually did well Out of this fountain, sweete and faire to see, The which into an ample laver fell, And shortly grew to so great quantitie That like a little lake it seemd to bee; Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight, That through the waves one might the bottom see, All pavd beneath with jaspar shining bright, That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright. Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound Of all that mote delight a daintie ear, presently 42 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ך Such as attonce might not on living ground, Save in this paradise, be heard elsewhere: Right hard it was for wight which did it heare To read what manner musicke that mote bee; For all that pleasing is to living eare, Was there consorted in one harmonee; Birdes, voices, instruments, windes, waters, all agree: The ioyous birdes, shrouded in chearefull shade, Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet; The angelical soft trembling voyces made To the instruments divine respondence meet; The silver-sounding instruments did meet With the base murmure of the waters fall: The waters fall, with difference discreet, Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call: The gentle warbling wind low answeréd to all. ON HEAVENLY LOVE. LOVE, lift me up upon thy golden wings From this base world unto thy Heaven's hight, Where I may see those admirable things Which there thou workest by thy soveraine might, Farre above feeble reach of earthly sight, That I thereof an heavenly hymne may sing Unto the God of Love, high Heaven's King. BEFORE THIS WORLD'S GREAT FRAME, in which all things Are now containd, found any being place, Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings About that mightie bound which doth embrace The rolling spheres, and parts there houres by space That high Eternall Powre, which now doth move In all these things, moved in it selfe by love. It loved it selfe, because it selfe was faire (For fair is loved); and of itself begot Like to it selfe his eldest Sonne and Heire, Eternall, pure, and voide of sinfull blot, The firstling of his ioy, in whom no iot Of love's dislike or pride was to be found, Whom he therefore with equal honour crownd. With him he raigned, before all time prescribed, In endlesse glorie and immortall might, & EDMUND SPENSER. 43 -ε Together with that Third from them derived, Most wise, most holy, most almightie Spright! Whose kingdomes throne no thoughts of earthly wight Can comprehend, much lesse my trembling verse With equall words can hope it to reherse. Yet being pregnant still with powrefull grace, And full of fruitfull Love, that Loves to get Things like himselfe, and to enlarge his race, His second brood, though not of powre so great, Yet full of beautie, next he did beget, An infinite increase of angels bright, All glistring glorious in their Maker's light. To them the Heaven's illimitable hight, (Not this round Heaven, which we from hence behold, Adornd with thousand lamps of burning light, And with ten thousand gemmes of shyning gold,) He gave as their inheritance to hold, That they might serve him in eternal bliss, And be partakers of those ioyes of his. There they in their trinall triplicities About him wait, and on his will depend, Either with nimble wings to cut the skies, When he them on his messages doth send, Or on his owne dread presence to attend, Where they behold the glorie of his light, And caroll hymnes of love both day and night. Both day and night is unto them all one; For he his beames doth unto them extend, That darknesse there appeareth never none; Ne hath their day, ne hath their blisse, an end, But there their termelesse time in pleasure spend; Ne ever should their happinesse decay, Had not they dared their Lord to disobay. But pride, impatient of long resting peace, Did puffe them up with greedy bold ambition, That they gan cast their state how to increase Above the fortune of their first condition, And sit in God's own seat without commission The brightest angel, even the child of light, Drew millions more against their God to fight. The Almighty, seeing their so bold assay, Kindled the flame of his consuming yre, } 41 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. * * And with his onely breath them blew away From Heaven's hight, to which they did aspyre, To deepest Hell, and lake of damned fyre, Where they in darknesse and dread horror dwell, Hating the happie light from which they fell. But that Eternall Fount of love and grace, Still flowing forth his goodnesse unto all, Now seeing left a waste and emptie place In his wyde pallace, through those angels' fall Cast to supply the same, and to enstall A new unknowen colony therein, Whose root from earth's base groundworke should begin. Therefore of clay, base, vile, and next to nought, Yet form'd by wondrous skill, and by his might, According to an heavenly patterne wrought, Which he had fashiond in his wise foresight, He man did make, and breathed a living spright Into his face, most beautifull and fayre, Endewd with wisedome's riches, heavenly, rare. Such he him made, that he resemble might Himselfe, as mortall thing immortall could; Him to be lord of every living wight He made by love out of his owne like mould, In whom he might his mightie selfe behould: For love doth love the thing beloved to see, That like it selfe in lovely shape may bee. But man, forgetfull of his Maker's grace, No lesse than angels, whom he did ensew, Fell from the hope of promist heavenly place, Into the mouth of Death, to sinners dew, And all his off-spring into thraldome threw, Where they for ever should in bonds remaine, Of never-dead yet ever-dying paine. Till that great Lord of Love, which him at first Made of meere love, and after liked well, Seeing him lie like creature long accurst In that deep horror of despeyred Hell, Him, wretch, in doole would let no longer dwell, But cast out of that bondage to redeeme, And pay the price, all were his debt extreeme. Out of the bosome of eternall blisse, In which he reigned with his glorious syre, 1 EDMUND SPENSER. 45 He downe descended, like a most demisse And abiect thrall, in fleshe's fraile attyre, That he for him might pay sinne's deadly hyre, And him restore unto that happie state In which he stood before his haplesse fate. In flesh at first the guilt committed was, Therefore in flesh it must be satisfyde; Nor spirit, nor angel, though they man surpass, Could make amends to God for man's misguyde, But onely man himselfe, who selfe did slyde: So, taking flesh of sacred virgin's wombe, For man's deare sake he did a man become. And that most blessed bodie, which was borne Without all blemish or reproachfull blame, He freely gave to be both rent and torne Of cruell hands, who with despightfull shame Revyling him, that them most vile became, At length him nayled on a gallow-tree, And slew the iust by most uniust decree. 1 O blessed Well of Love! O Floure of Grace! O glorious Morning-Starre! O Lampe of Light! Most lively image of thy Father's face, Eternal King of Glorie, Lord of Might, Meeke Lambe of God, before all worlds behight, How can we thee requite for all this good? Or what can prize that thy most precious blood. Yet nought thou ask'st in lieu of all this love, But love of us, for guerdon of thy paine: Ay me! what can us lesse than that behove? Had he required life for us againe, Had it beene wrong to ask his owne with gaine? He gave us life, he it restored lost; Then life were least, that us so little cost. But he our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band; Ne ought demaunds but that we loving bee, As he himselfe hath loved us afore-hand, And bound thereto with an eternall band, Him first to love that was so dearly bought, And next our brethren, to his image wrought. With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Thou must him love, and his beheasts embrace; ↓ 46 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. All other loves, with which the world doth blind Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thy selfe unto Him full and free, That full and freely gave himselfe to thee. Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest, And ravisht with devouring great desire Of his dear selfe, that shall thy feeble brest Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire With burning zeale, through every part entire, That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight, But in his sweet and amiable sight. Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee dye, And all Earthe's glorie, on which men do gaze, Seeme durt and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye, Compared to that celestiall beautie's blaze, Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze With admiration of their passing light, Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright. Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired bee With heavenly thoughts, farre above humane skill, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see The idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweete enragement of celestiall love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above. Born 1554. Killed 1586. Sir Philip Sidney. SIDNEY is known both for his prose and poetical writings. He was born at Penshurst in Kent of noble parentage, his father being Sir Henry Sidney, and his mother a daughter of the Duke of Northum- berland. When a boy, his genius attracted general notice; and when he was presented at court, his fascinating manners and com- manding figure speedily won the favour of Queen Elizabeth, who conferred on him the honour of knighthood. So much did he become necessary to her, that she used her influence to prevent him from being elected King of Poland. Sidney afterwards com- manded in a battle before the walls of Zutphen in Gueldres, where he was mortally wounded, and died at the early age of thirty-two. It is related of him that as he was borne from the field faint from loss of blood, he asked for water; but just as the bottle was put to his lips he saw a dying soldier looking wistfully at it, and resigned it, saying, “Thy necessity is greater than mine.” SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. 47 } SONNETS. WITH how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, How silently, and with how wan a face! What may it be, that even in heavenly place That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace To me that feel the like thy state descries. Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? Are beauties there as proud as here they be? Do they above love to be loved, and yet Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting-place of wit, the balm of wo, ! The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low. With shield of proof shield me from out the prease Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw; O make in me those civil wars to cease; I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed; A chamber deaf to noise, and blind to light; A rosy garland, and a weary head. And if these things, as being thine by right, Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well, that I obtained the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes, And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance; Townfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race. 48 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear! I saw thee with full many a smiling line Upon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear, While those fair planets on thy streams did shine. The boat for joy could not to dance forbear; While wanton winds, with beauties so divine Ravished, staid not, till in her golden hair They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine: And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay Have made; but, forced by Nature still to fly, First did with puffing kiss those locks display. She, so dishevelled, blushed. From window I, With sight thereof, cried out: "O fair disgrace; Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place." Robert Southwell. AN English Jesuit. A victim to the persecuting laws of that period, he wrote some poems in prison, which were very popular at the time. The following piece, Ben Jonson says, is so written that he could destroy many of his own. THE BURNING BABE. As I in hoary winter's night Stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat, Which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye To view what fire was near, A pretty Babe all burning bright, Did in the air appear; Who, scorchèd with excessive heat, Such floods of tears did shed, As though his floods should quench his flames, Which with his tears were bred. "Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born, In fiery heats I fry, Born 1560. Exec. 1595. Yet none approach to warm their hearts Or feel my fire, but I; My faultless breast the furnace is, The fuel, wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, The ashes, shames and scorns; The fuel justice layeth on, And mercy blows the coals; CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 49 of i The metal in this furnace wrought Are men's defiled souls: For which, as now on fire I am, To work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath, To wash them in my blood:" With this he vanished out of sight, And swiftly shrunk away, And straight I called unto mind That it was Christmas Day. Born Christopher Marlowe. {illed 1501 ONE of the greatest of the dramatists contemporary with Shake- speare, he was born at Canterbury on 26th February, 1564. His father was a shoemaker, but some kind friends enabled him to at- tend the King's school in Canterbury, where he received a good education. From thence he proceeded to Cambridge, where he took his degree of A.M. While at Cambridge he wrote his first play, "Tamburlaine," which at once became a great favourite. Faustus," his second play, abounds in passages of thrilling power. His power of depicting the terrible is unsurpassed; and that highest attribute of genius, originality, was possessed by him in the greatest degree. Shakespeare has founded many of his finest pieces on the suggestions of Marlowe. But Marlowe's great promise was cut short by his being killed in a discreditable brawl in the twenty- ninth year of his age. FAUSTUS. FAUSTUS alone. - The Clock strikes Eleven. Faust. Oh, Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live, And then thou must be damn'd perpetually. Stand still, you ever-moving spheres of heaven, That time may cease and midnight.never come. Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day! or let this hour be but A year, a month, a week, a natural day, That Faustus may repent and save his soul. O lente lente currite, noctis equi. The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd. Oh, I will leap to heaven: who pulls me down? See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament: One drop of blood will save me: Oh, my Christ, Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ. Yet will I call on him: O spare me, Lucifer. 3 50 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Where is it now? 'tis gone! And see a threat'ning arm and angry brow. Mountains and hills, come, come, and fall on me, And hide me from the heavy wrath of heaven. No? then I will headlong run into the earth: Gape earth. Oh no, it will not harbour me. You stars that reigned at my nativity, Whose influence have allotted death and hell, Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud; That when you vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths, But let my soul mount and ascend to heaven. The Watch strikes. Oh, half the hour is past: 'twill all be past anon. Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin, Impose some end to my incessant pain. Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at the last be saved: No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? Oh, Pythagoras! metempsychosis, were that true, This soul should fly from me, and I be changed Into some brutish beast. All beasts are happy, for when they die, Their souls are soon dissolved in elements; But mine must live still to be plagued in hell. Curst be the parents that engendered me! No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. The Clock strikes Twelve. It strikes, it strikes; now, body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. Oh soul, be changed into small water-drops, And fall into the ocean: ne'er be found. Thunder, and enter the Devils. Oh mercy, heaven, look not so fierce on me. Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while: Ugly hell gape not; come not, Lucifer: I'll burn my books: Oh, Mephistophiles! $ : WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 51 William Shakespeare. SHAKESPEARE was born on 23d April, 1564, in Henley Street, Stratford- upon-Avon, and though looked on, even in his day, as the greatest poet England had ever produced, the materials of his biography are of the most scanty kind. His father was a wool-dealer and butcher, and though in humble, was never in straitened circumstances. Shakespeare received only a plain education, having at school made no progress beyond the rudiments of Latin. While only eighteen he married Anne Hathaway, the daughter of a small far- mer at Shottery, near Stratford. She was considerably older than himself. Nothing is known of his occupation at this period, ex- cepting that he was making a figure in the justice of peace-court for deer-stealing. After one of these visits to the justice-court he appears to have written a satirical ballad on the justice, which he affixed to his park gate. The ballad has been lost, but it is said to have been so bitter that Shakespeare had at last to flee to London, where he began his career at the theatres by holding horses for gentlemen who came to the play. He afterwards was admitted in side the theatres to act the humbler parts of the drama. From this moment he rose rapidly, and although all details are awanting, it is known that in his twenty-fifth year he was a sharer in the profits of the representations. In 1593 appeared his first poem, “Vēnus and Adonis," and in 1594 “Lucrece. About the same time he appears to have become part proprietor of the Globe Theatre, and on the fair way to fortune. His plays were now issued in rapid succession. The latter years of Shakespeare's life were spent in ease and retire- ment; he had accumulated a fortune and retired to his native vil- lage, where he passed the remainder of his life. He had three children by Anne Hathaway, two girls and a boy; the daughters only survived their parent. Shakespeare died in his fifty-second year, on his birthday, April 23, 1616. He was buried in the parish church of Stratford, where his monument may still be seen. MURDER OF KING DUNCAN. MACBETH and a Servant. Macbeth. Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. [Exit Servant. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight?—or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle towards my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made th' fools o' th' other senses, Or else worth all the rest, I see thee still; Born 1564. Died 1616. : 3 52 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. £ And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing. It is the bloody business, which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er one half the world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtained sleep: now witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder, Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sound and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whilst I threat, he lives- Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. A bell rings. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me: Hear it not Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell. [Exit. LOVE SCENE. Romeo. He jests at scars that never felt a wound- But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks; It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! [Juliet appears above at a window. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief, That thou her maid are far more fair than she; Be not her maid since she is envious; Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it; cast it off- It is my lady; O! it is my love; O that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it- I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks: Two of the fairest stars of all the heav'n, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars, As daylight doth a lamp: her eyes in heaven WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 53 Would through the airy region stream so bright, That birds would sing, and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! Oh that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! OTHELLO RELATES HIS COURTSHIP TO THE SENATE. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters; That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little blest with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now, some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field; 1 And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle; And therefore shall I little grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet by your gracious patience I will a round unvarnished tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic— For such proceeding I am charged withal— I won his daughter with. Her father loved me, oft invited me; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have past. I ran it through, ev'n from my boyish days, To the very moment that he bade me tell it: Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hairbreadth 'scapes i' th' imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history. Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my lot to speak, such was the process; And of the cannibals that each other eat, & 54 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence: Which ever as she could with haste despatch, She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse: which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears, When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffered. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore-in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful- She wished she had not heard it, yet she wished That Heaven had made her such a man:-she thanked me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story; And that would woo her. On this hint I spake; She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them. LIFE AND DEATH. To be, or not to be, that is the question- Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them? To die-to sleep- No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to!-'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die-to sleep- To sleep!-perchance to dream!-ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause-there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, } WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 55 • The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To groan and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death- That undiscovered country from whose bourne No traveller returns-puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. FEAR OF DEATH. I Ay, but to die, and go we know not where: To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become Hamlet. A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprisoned in the viewless winds, 'And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts Imagine howling: 'tis too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life, That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment, Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death. Measure for Measure. THE DECEIT OF APPEARANCES. THE world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow 56 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple, but assumes Some mark of virtue on its outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward searched, have livers white as milk! And these assume but valour's excrement, To render them redoubted. Look on beauty, And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight. Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it. So are those crisped, snaky, golden locks, Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness, often known To be the dowry of a second head, The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on T' entrap the wisest: therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee: Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge "Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I; joy be the consequence. Merchant of Venice. MERCY. THE quality of mercy is not strained; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. "Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His sceptre shows the force of temporal pow'r, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings. But mercy is above the sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute to God himself; WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 57 1 And earthly power doth then show likest God's. When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though Justice be thy plea, consider this- That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. Merchant of Venice. THE WORLD COMPARED TO A STAGE. ALL the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms: And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the loyer, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, the soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel ; Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shanks; and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion: Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. As You Like It. CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL. CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. 3* 58 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee; Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, tho' thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition; By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; And, pr'ythee, lead me in: There, take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny: 'tis the king's: My robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served the king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies! Henry VIII. MUSIC. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our cars; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica; look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st, But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn: With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music. SIR ROBERT AYTON. 59 1 Jes. I'm never merry when I hear sweet music. Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive; For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud-- Which is the hot condition of their blood- If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand; Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted. Merchant of Venice. IMAGINATION. LOVERS and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet's eye. in a fine frenzy rolling, i Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, to poet's pen Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Midsummer Night's Dream. Born 1570. Died 163. Sir Robert Ayton. A SCOTTISH poet and courtier, whose few pieces evince a delicacy of fancy rarely equalled; they are also written in the purest English. 60 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more, Thine be the grief as is the blame; Thou are not what thou wast before, What reason I should be the same? He that can love unloved again, Hath better store of love than brain: God send me love my debts to pay, While unthrifts fool their love away. Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom did recall, That if thou might elsewhere inthral; And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain? When new desires had conquered thee, And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so, Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice, Thy choice of his good-fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, To see him gain what I have lost; The height of my disdain shall be, To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A begging to a beggar's door, Born 1573. Died 1631. Dr. John Donne. DEAN of St. Paul's, and founder of the Metaphysical School of poetry. His father was a London merchant, descended from an ancient family in Wales. Donne_received a liberal education, and travelled in Spain and Italy. On his return he was appointed secretary to Lord Chancellor Ellesmere. Unfortunately he fell in love with a niece of the Chancellor, whom he privately married. This brought on his dismissal from his situation, and a whole train DR. JOHN DONNE. 61 of troubles. He afterwards obtained a reconciliation with his wife's friends; and having won King James's favour, he was made Dean of St. Paul's, and afterwards obtained other livings, which enabled him to live in affluence. He died in 1631. THE WILL. BEFORE I sigh my last gasp, let me breathe, Great Love, some legacies: I here bequeath Mine eyes to Argus, if mine eyes can see; If they be blind, then, Love, I give them thee; My tongue to Fame; to ambassadors mine ears; To women, or the sea, my tears; Thou, Love, hast taught me heretofore, By making me serve her who had twenty more, That I should give to none but such as had too much before. My constancy I to the planets give; My truth to them who at the court do live; Mine ingenuity and openness To Jesuits; to buffoons my pensiveness; My silence to any who abroad have been; My money to a Capuchin. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by appointing me To love there, where no love received can be, Only to give to such as have no good capacity. f My faith I give to Roman Catholics; All my good works unto the schismatics Of Amsterdam; my best civility And courtship to an university; My modesty I give to soldiers bare; My patience let gamesters share; Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her that holds my love disparity, Only to give to those that count my gifts indignity. I give my reputation to those Which were my friends; mine industry to foes; To schoolmen I bequeath my doubtfulness; My sickness to physicians, or excess; To Nature all that I in rhyme have writ! And to my company my wit: Thou, Love, by making me adore Her who begot this love in me before, Taught'st me to make as though I gave, when I do but restore. + 62 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. To him for whom the passing bell next tolls I give my physic book; my written rolls Of moral counsels I to Bedlam give; My brazen medals, unto them which live In want of bread; to them which pass among All foreigners, my English tongue: Thou, Love, by making me love one Who thinks her friendship a fit portion For younger lovers, dost my gifts thus disproportion. Therefore I'll give no more, but I'll undo The world by dying, because love dies too. Then all your beauties will be no more worth Than gold in mines, where none doth draw it forth, And all your graces no more use shall have Than a sun-dial in a grave. Thou, Love, taught'st me, by making me Love her who doth neglect both me and thee, To invent and practise this one way to annihilate all three. Ben Jonson. BENJAMIN JONSON, of the family of the Johnstones of Annandale, was born at Westminster in 1574. His father was a clergyman. Jonson was educated at Westminster School; and after leaving it, enlisted as a soldier, and served with the army in Flanders. At the age of 20 we find him again in London, married, first acting, and then writing plays. In 1598 his first play was acted at the Globe Theatre, Shakespeare being one of the actors. His plays were very successful, and brought him greatly into notice; and he was ap- pointed Poet Laureate, with a pension ultimately raised to £100 a year. Jonson was often in quarrels and trouble from a too free use of his pen. On one occasion be assisted in writing a piece called Eastward Hoe," which so greatly libelled the Scotch that James I. had him arrested, and with the other authors put in prison; from which, however, he was very soon released. His plays number about fifty in all, and were the beginning of a new style of English Comedy. He died 16th August, 1637, and is buried in Westminster Abbey, where on his tablet is inserted, "O rare Ben Jonson.” 46 TO CELIA. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst that from the soul doth rise, Doth ask a drink divine; But might I of Jove's nectar sup, I would not change for thine. Born 1574. Died 1637, BEN JONSON. 63 ↓ I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring thee, As giving it a hope that there It could not withered be. But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. ADVICE TO A RECKLESS YOUTH. ↓ WHAT Would I have you do? I'll tell you, kinsman: Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive, That would I have you do; and not to spend Your coin on every bauble that you fancy, Or every foolish brain that humours you. I would not have you to invade each place, Nor thrust yourself on all societies, Till men's affections, or your own desert, Should worthily invite you to your rank. He that is so respectless in his courses, Oft sells his reputation at cheap market. Nor would I you should melt away yourself In flashing bravery, lest, while you affect To make a blaze of gentry to the world, A little puff of scorn extinguish it, And you be left like an unsavoury snuff, Whose property is only to offend. I'd ha' you sober, and contain yourself; Not that your sail be bigger than your boat; But moderate your expenses now (at first) As you may keep the same proportion still. Nor stand so much on your gentility, Which is an airy and mere borrowed thing, From dead men's dust and bones; and none of yours, Except you make, or hold it. THE PLEASURES OF HEAVEN. THERE all the happy souls that ever were, Shall meet with gladness in one theatre; And each shall know there one another's face, By beatific virtue of the place. 64 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. There shall the brother with the sister walk, And sons and daughters with their parents talk; But all of God: they still shall have to say, But make him all in all their theme that day; That happy day that never shall see night! Where he will be all beauty to the sight; Wine or delicious fruits unto the taste; A music in the cars will ever last; Unto the scent, a spicery or balm; And to the touch, à flower, like soft as palm, He will all glory, all perfection be, God in the Union and the Trinity! That holy, great, and glorious mystery, Will there revealed be in majesty, By light and comfort of spiritual grace; The vision of our Saviour face to face, In his humanity! to hear him preach The price of our redemption, and to teach, Through his inherent righteousness in death, The safety of our souls and forfeit breath! What fulness of beatitude is here! What love with mercy mixed doth appear! To style us friends, who were by nature foes! Adopt us heirs by grace, who were of those Had lost ourselves; and prodigally spent Our native portions and possessed rent! Yet have all debts forgiven us; an advance By imputed right to an inheritance In his eternal kingdom, where we sit Equal with angels, and co-heirs of it. S Born 1574. Died 1656.. Joseph Hall, BISHOP OF NORWICH. Author of several satires published under the title of Vergidemi- arum in 1597. THE POOR GALLANT. SEEST thou how gaily my young master goes, Vaunting himself upon his rising toes; And pranks his hand upon his dagger's side; And picks his glutted teeth since late noon-tide? 'Tis Ruffio: Trow'st thou where he dined to day? JOSEPH HALL. 65 In sooth I saw him sit with Duke Humphrey. Many good welcomes, and much gratis cheer, Keeps he for every straggling cavalier; An open house, haunted with great resort; Long service mixt with musical disport. Many fair younker with a feathered crest, Chooses much rather be his shot-free guest, To fare so freely with so little cost, Than stake his twelvepence to a meaner host. Hadst thou not told me, I should surely say He touched no meat of all this livelong day. For sure methought, yet that was but a guess, His eyes seemed sunk for very hollowness, But could he have-as I did it mistake-- So little in his purse, so much upon his back? So nothing in his maw? yet seemeth by his belt That his gaunt gut no too much stuffing felt. Seest thou how side it hangs beneath his hip? Hunger and heavy iron makes girdles slip. Yet for all that, how stiffly struts he by, All trapped in the new found bravery. The nuns of new-won Calais his bonnet lent, In lieu of their so kind a conquerment. What needed he fetch that from farthest Spain, His grandame could have lent with lesser pain! Though he perhaps ne'er passed the English shore, Yet fain would counted be a conqueror. His hair, French-like, stares on his frighted head, One lock amazon-like dishevelled, As if he meant to wear a native cord, If chance his fates should him that bane afford. All British bare upon the bristled skin, Close notched is his beard, both lip and chin; His linen collar labyrinthian set, Whose thousand double turnings never met: His sleeves half hid with elbow pinionings, As if he meant to fly with linen wings. But when I look, and cast mine eyes below, What monster meets mine eyes in human show? So slender waist with such an abbot's loin, Did never sober nature sure conjoin. Like'st a strawn scarecrow in the new-sown field, Reared on some stick, the tender corn to shield, Or, if that semblance suit not every deal, Like a broad shake-fork with a slender steel. 66 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Beaumont b. 1615. Beaumont and Fletcher. {Fletcher b. 1576, d. 1625. FRANCIS BEAUMONT and John Fletcher have been conspicuous for a literary partnership in the composition of dramas to an extent here- tofore unknown. The number issued under their joint authorship was above fifty, and embraced a period of ten years. It is said that "Beaumont found the judgment, and Fletcher the fancy," so con- spicuous in these dramas. Though both these authors wrote poems published under their respective names, they are now chiefly known from the plays which have blended their genius in indissoluble con- nection. Beaumont was a descendant of an ancient family in Lei- cester, and Fletcher was son of the Bishop of London. FROM PHILASTER. HUNTING the buck, I found him sitting by a fountain-side, Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst, And paid the nymph again as much in tears. A garland lay him by, made by himself, Of many several flowers, bred in the bay, Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Delighted me: But ever when he turned His tender eyes upon them he would weep, As if he meant to make them grow again. Secing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story. He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields, Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses; and the sun, Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country people hold, Did signify; and how all, ordered thus, Expressed his grief; and to my thoughts did read The prettiest lecture of his country art That could be wished; so that methought I could Have studied it. I gladly entertained him, Who was as glad to follow. Philip Massinger. A TALENTED but unfortunate tragic poet, born near Salisbury, and a dependent of the Earl of Pembroke. Little is known of his life, ex- cept from the incidental notices of his misfortunes. His plays are still known in the theatrical world. He died in March, 1640. Born 1584. | Died 1640. f PHILIP MASSINGER. 67 ARISTOCRATIC TYRANNY. BRIEFLY thus, then, Since I must speak for all; your tyranny Drew us from our obedience. Happy those times When lords were styled fathers of families, And not imperious masters! when they numbered Their servants almost equal with their sons, Or one degree beneath them! when their labours Were cherished and rewarded, and a period Set to their sufferings; when they did not press Their duties or their wills beyond the power And strength of their performance! all things ordered With such decorum as wise lawmakers, I From each well-governed private house derived The perfect model of a commonwealth. Humanity then lodged in the hearts of men, And thankful masters carefully provided For creatures wanting reason. The noble horse, That, in his fiery youth, from his wide nostrils Neighed courage to his rider, and brake through Groves of opposed pikes, bearing his lord Safe to triumphant victory; old or wounded, Was set at liberty, and freed from service. The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew Marble, hewed for the temples of the gods, The great work ended, were dismissed, and fed At the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found Their sepulchres; but man, to man more cruel, Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave; Since pride steps in and riot, and o'erturned This goodly frame of concord, teaching masters To glory in the abuse of such as are Brought under their command; who, grown unuseful, Are less esteemed than beasts.-This you have practised, Practised on us with rigour; this hath forced us To shake our heavy yokes off; and, if redress Of these just grievances be not granted us, We'll right ourselves, and by strong hand defend What we are now possessed of. 68 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ل William Drummond. THIS Scottish Poet was born at his patrimonial seat, Hawthornden, near Edinburgh, 13th December, 1535. He received his education in Edinburgh University, his parents expecting he would prosecute the profession of the law; but his father dying in 1610, he thought his paternal estate sufficient for his wants, and he therefore fol- lowed out his own tastes by devoting himself to literary pursuits. His poems are replete with beauty and classic elegance, and he ranks high among the reformers of versification. In his forty-fifth year Drummond married the granddaughter of Sir Robert Logan of Restalrig, and died in 1649. A SOLITARY LIFE. THRICE happy he who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own. Thou solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. Born 1585. Died 1649. O how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve! O how more sweet is Zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold, Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath! How sweet are streams to poison drank in gold! The world is full of horror, troubles, slights: Wood's harmless shades have only true delights. TO A NIGHTINGALE. SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care. Well pleased with delights which present arc, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers; To rocks, to springs, to rills from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that low'rs. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs- Attired in sweetness-sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, An lift a reverend eye and thought to heaven? Sweet artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 69 THE RIVER FORTH FEASTING. WHAT blustering noise now interrupts my sleeps? What echoing shouts thus cleave my crystal deeps? And seem to call me from my watery court? What melody, what sounds of joy and sport, Are conveyed hither from each night-born spring? With what loud murmurs do the mountains ring, Which in unusual pomp on tiptoes stand, And, full of wonder, overlook the land? Whence come these glitterings throngs, these meteors bright, This golden people glancing in my sight? Whence doth this praise, applause and love arisc; What loadstar draweth us all eyes? Am I awake, or have some dreams conspired To mock my sense with what I most desired? View I that living face, see I those looks, Which with delight were wont t' amaze my brooks? Do I behold that worth, that man divine, This age's glory, by these banks of mine? Then find I true what I long wished in vain; My much beloved prince is come again. So unto them whose zenith is the pole, When six black months are past, the sun does roll. So after tempest to sea-tossed wights, Fair Helen's brothers show their clearing lights: So comes Arabia's wonder from her woods, And far, far off is seen by Memphis' floods; The feathered silvans, cloud-like, by her fly, And with triumphing plaudits beat the sky; Nile marvels, Serap's priests entranced rave, And in Mygdonian stone her shape engrave; In lasting cedars they do mark the time In which Apollo's bird came to their clime. Let mother-earth now decked with flowers be seen, And sweet-breathed zephyrs curl the meadows green: Let heaven weep rubies in a crimson shower, Such as on India's shores they used to pour: Or with that golden storm the fields adorn Which Jove rained when his blue eyed maid was born. May never hours the web of day outweave; May never night rise from her sable cave! Swell proud my billows, faint not to declare Your joys as ample as their causes are: 70 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp, Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp; And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair, Strew all your springs and grots with lilies fair. Some swiftest footed, get them hence, and pray Our floods and lakes may keep this holiday; Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run, Which see the rising or the setting sun, Which drink stern Grampus' mists, or Ochil's snows: Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne, tortoise-like, that flows; The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey, Wild Severn, which doth see our longest day; Ness, smoking sulphur, Leve, with mountains crowned, Strange Lomond for his floating isles renowned; The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr, The snaky Doon, the Orr with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nith, loud bellowing Clyde, Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide; Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their names; To every one proclaim our joys and feasts, Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests; And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall, Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival; This day shall by our currents be renowned; Our hills about shall still this day resound: Nay, that our love more to this day appear, Let us with it henceforth begin our year. THE ASCENSION OF CHRIST. "BRIGHT portals of the sky, Emboss'd with sparkling stars; Doors of eternity, With diamantine bars, Your arras rich uphold; Loose all your bolts and springs, Ope wide your leaves of gold; That in your roofs may come the King of kings. "Scarf'd in a rosy cloud, He doth ascend the air; Straight doth the Moon him shroud With her resplendent hair: WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 71 The next encrystall'd light Submits to him its beams; And he doth trace the height Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams. "He towers those golden bounds He did to Sun bequeath; The higher wandering rounds Are found his feet beneath: The milky-way comes near, Heaven's axle seems to bend, Above each turning sphere That, robed in glory, Heaven's King may ascend. "O Well-spring of this all! Thy Father's image vive; Word, that from nought did call What is, doth reason, live! The soul's eternal food, Earth's joy, delight of Heaven, All truth, love, beauty, good, To Thee, to Thee, be praises ever given. "What was dismarshall'd late In this thy noble frame, And lost the prime estate, Hath re-obtain'd the same, Is now most perfect seen; Streams, which diverted were (And, troubled, stray'd, unclean) From their first source, by thee home turned are. "By thee, that blemish old Of Eden's leprous prince, Which on his race took hold, And him exiled from thence, Now put away is far; With sword, in ireful guise, No cherub more shall bar Poor man the entrance into Paradise. "Now each ethereal gate To him hath open'd been; And Glory's King in state His palace enters in: Now come is this High Priest In the most holy place, 1 1 The 72 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Not without blood addrest, With glory Heaven, the Earth to crown with grace. "Stars, which all eyes were late, And did with wonder burn, His name to celebrate, In flaming tongues them turn; Their orby crystals move More active than before, And entheate from above, Their sovereign prince laud, glorify, adore. "The choirs of happy souls, Waked with that music sweet, Whose descant care controls, Their Lord in triumph meet; The spotless spirits of light His trophies do extol, And, arch'd in squadrons bright, Greet their great Victor in his capitol. "O glory of the Heaven! O sole delight of Earth! To Thee all power be given, God's uncreated birth; Of mankind lover true, Endurer of his wrong, Who dost the world renew, Still be thou our salvation, and our song." From top of Olivet such notes did rise, When man's Redeemer did transcend the skies. Robert Herrick. BORN in London in 1591. He was presented to the vicarage of Dean Prior in Devonshire by Charles I. During the civil wars he was ejected by Cromwell, but at the Restoration was again replaced in his vicarage, where he died in 1674. The poetical works of Herrick were neglected for many years after his death, but since then some of his short lyrical pieces have been set to music, and are still sung, such as Cherry Ripe, ""Gather the Rosebuds." He is also the author of some Hyinns. 46 TO BLOSSOMS. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do you fall so fast? Your date is not so past, Born 1591. Died 1674. I ROBERT HERRICK. 73 But you may stay yet here awhile, To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Tis pity nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth,. And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. TO PRIMROSES, Filled with Morning Dew. WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn Teemed her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower That mars a flower, Nor felt the unkind 1 Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep; Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss 74 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. From that sweet heart to this? No, no; this sorrow shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read- "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." FOR COMFORT IN DEATH. IN the hour of my distresse, When temptations me oppresse, And when I my sins confesse; Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When I lie within my bed, Sick in heart and sick in head, And with doubts disquieted; Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drown'd in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep; Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the passing-bell doth toll, And the Furies, in a shoal, Come to fright my parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When, God knowes, I'm tost about, Either with despair or doubt, Yet before the glasse be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the Tempter me pursu'th With the sins of all my youth, And half-damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the judgment is reveal'd, And that open'd which was seal'd, When to Thee I have appeal'd, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. .1 FRANCIS QUARLES. 75 Francis Quarles. BORN near Romford, Essex; was cup bearer to Elizabeth of Bo- hemia; afterwards secretary to Archbishop Usher in Ireland, where he lost most of his wealth in the Rebellion of 1641. He joined Charles in the civil wars; and having had all his property seques- trated by Parliament, and his MS. plundered, he took the matter so much to heart that it hastened his death, which took place in 1644. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure; Born 1592. Died 1644. THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. FALSE world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favours cannot gain a friend, They are so slight: Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven; fond earth, thou boast'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her: There's none can want where thou supply'st: There's none can give where thou deny'st. Alas! fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, No change, no measure: What well-advised ear regards What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. 76 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. A painted cask, but nothing in't, Nor wealth, nor pleasure: Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st With man; vain man! that thou rely'st On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. What mean dull souls, in this high measure, To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Is dross and trash? The height of whose enchanting pleasure. Is but a flash? Are these the goods that thou supply'st Us mortals with? Are these the high'st? Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st. DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. I LOVE and have some cause to love-the earth: She is my Maker's creature; therefore good: She is my mother, for she gave me birth; She is my tender nurse-she gives me food; But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee? Or what's my mother or my nurse to me? I love the air: her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me; Her shrill-mouthed quire sustains me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me: But what's the air or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee? I love the sea: she is my fellow-creature, My careful purveyor; she provides me store: She walls me round; she makes my diet greater; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore: But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me? To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye; Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky: But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee? Without thy presence heaven's no heaven to me. FRANCIS QUARLES. rying Without thy presence earth gives no refection; Without thy presence sea affords no treasure; Without thy presence air's a rank infection; Without thy presence heaven itself no pleasure: If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me? The highest honours that the world can boast, Are subjects far too low for my desire; The brightest beams of glory are-at most- But dying sparkles of thy living fire: The loudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightly glowworms, if compared to thee. Without thy presence wealth is bags of cares; Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet-sadness: Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness; Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have they being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not thee, what have I? Not having thee, what have my labours got? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I? And having thee alone, what have I not? I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee. DECAY OF LIFE. THE day grows old, the low pitched lamp hath made No less than treble shade, And the descending damp doth now prepare To uncurl bright Titan's hair; Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold Her purples, fringed with gold, To clothe his evening glory, when the alarms Of rest shall call to rest in restless Thetis' arms. Nature now calls to supper, to refresh The spirits of all flesh; The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams, To taste the slipp'ry streams; The droiling swineherd knocks away, and feasts Ilis hungry whining guests: The boxbill, ouzle, and the dappled thrush, Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush. 78 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. C And now the cold autumnal dews are seen To cobweb every green; And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear The fast declining year: The sapless branches doff their summer suits And wain their winter fruits; And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze. Our wasted taper now hath brought her light To the next door to-night; Her sprightless flame grown with great snuff, doth turn Sad as her neighb'ring urn: Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains, Lights but to further pains, And in a silent language bids her guest Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest. Now careful age hath pitched her painful plough Upon the furrowed brow; And snowy blasts of discontented care Have blanched the falling hair: Suspicious envy mixed witli jealous spite Disturbs his weary night: He threatens youth with age; and now, alas! He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was. Grey hairs peruse thy days, and let thy past Read lectures to thy last: Those hasty wings that hurried them away Will give these days no day: The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire Until her works expire: That blast that nipped thy youth will ruin thee; That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike the tree. FLEEING FROM WRATH. AH! whither shall I fly? what path untrod Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod Of my offended, of my angry God? Where shall I sojourn? what kind sea will hide My head from thunder? where shall I abide, Until his flames be quench'd or laid aside? ! • · GEORGE HERBERT. 79 ļ 1 What, if my feet should take their hasty flight, And seek protection in the shades of night? Alas! no shades can blind the God of light. What, if my soul should take the wings of day, And find some desert? If she springs away, The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they. What, if some solid rock should entertain My frighted soul? can solid rocks restrain The stroke of Justice, and not cleave in twain? Nor sea, nor shade, nor shield, nor rock, nor cave, Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, What flame-ey'd fury means to smite, can save. 'Tis vain to flec, till gentle Mercy show Her better eye; the farther off we go, The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow. The ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh, And quenches with his tears her flaming eye. Great God! there is no safety here below; Thou art my fortress, thou that seem'st my foe, 'Tis thou, that strik'st the stroke, must guard the blow. George Herbert. HERBERT was of noble birth, being descended from the Earls of Pem- broke. His elder brother was Lord Herbert of Cherbury. Herbert was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales, on 3d April. 1593, and was educated to push his way at court; but in 1626 circumstances in- duced him to enter into sacred orders, and he was settled as prebend of Layton Ecclesia, near Spalding. In uncertain health, he after- wards was made rector of Bemerton, near Salisbury, where he passed the remainder of his short life in the exercise of the duties of his office, with saintlike zeal and devotion. Here he wrote his poems, which breathe in verse the rules laid down by himself for his own direction as a country parson. He died in 1632. VERTUE. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridall of the earth and skie: The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Born 1593. Died 1632. ĭ 1 80 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Sweet rose, whose hue angrie 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 dayes and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. ! LIFE. I MADE a posie, while the day ran by: Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie My life within this band. But Time did becken 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 minde to smell my fatall day, Yet sugring the suspicion. Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly 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. THE SEARCH. WHITHER, O, whither art thou fled, My Lord, my Love? My searches are my daily bread; Yet never prove. : GEORGE HERBERT. 81. My knees pierce th' earth, mine eies the skie: And yet the sphere And centre both to me denie That thou art there. Yet can I mark how herbs below Grow green and gay; As if to meet thee they did know, While I decay. Yet can I mark how starres above Simper and shine, As having keyes unto thy love, While poore I pine. I sent a sigh to seek thee out, Deep drawn in pain, Wing'd like an arrow: but my scout Returns in vain. I tun'd another (having store) Into a grone, Because the search was dumbe before: But all was one. Lord, dost thou some new fabrick mold Which favour winnes, And keeps the present, leaving th' old Unto their sinnes? Where is my God? what hidden place Conceals thee still? What covert dare eclipse thy face? Is it thy will? O let not that of any thing: Let rather brasse, Or steel, or mountains be thy ring, And I will passe. To it all Thy will such an intrenching is, As passeth thought: strength, all subtilties Are things of nought. Thy will such a strange distance is, As that to it East and West touch, the poles do kisse, And parallels meet. 4* 82 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Since then my grief must be as large As is thy space, Thy distance from me; see my charge, Lord, see my case. O take these barres, these lengths away: Turn, and restore me: Be not Almightie, let me say, Against, but for me. When thou dost turn, and wilt be neare; What edge so keen, What point so piercing can appeare To come between? For as thy absence doth excell All distance known: So doth thy nearnesse bear the bell, Making two one. 1 THE QUIP. THE merrie world did on a day With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together, where I lay, And all in sport to geere at me. First, Beautie crept into a rose; Which when I pluckt not, Sir, said she, Tell me, I pray, Whose hands are those? But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then Money came, and chinking still, What tune is this, poore man? said he: I heard in Musick you had skill: But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came brave Glorie puffing by In silks that whistled, who but hel He scarce allow'd me half an eic: But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came quick Wit and Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration: But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Ф I GEORGE HERBERT. 83 Yet when the houre of thy designe To answer these fine things shall come; Speak not at large, say, I am thine, And then they have their answer home. 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 winde 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 lookt the clouds immediately Did break and scatter. Then went I to a garden and did spy A gallant flower, The crown Imperiall: Sure, said I, Peace at the root must dwell. But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devoure What show'd so well. At length I met a rev'rend 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 liv'd; yet sweetnesse 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 vertue lies therein; 84 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. $ A secret vertue, bringing peace and mirth By flight of sinne. Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, And grows for you; Make bread of it: and that repose And peace, which ev'ry where With so much earnestnesse you do pursue Is onely there. James Shirley. "" A DISTINGUISHED dramatist, of whom it was said by the Censor that his plays were free from "oaths, profaneness, or obsceneness. He was born in London in 1596, and was designed for holy orders. He officiated as curate at St. Albans, but resigned the curacy on becoming a Roman Catholic. He then removed to London, where he became a successful writer for the stage. Thirty-nine plays came successively from his pen, besides a volume of poems. He lost all his property at the great fire of London, and died amid the distress occasioned by it in 1666. DEATH THE CONQUEROR OF ALL. THE glories of our mortal state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against Fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings; Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Born 1596. Died 1666. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at length must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to Fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now, See where the victor-victim bleeds: All heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom from the dust. EDMUND WALLER. 85 } Edmund Waller. AN English Poet, born at Coleshill in 1605. While yet a child he was left heir to an estate of £3000 a year. His mother was a Hampden, and also related to Oliver Cromwell. Waller wrote his first poem in his eighteenth year. His intellectual powers were of the highest order; and being graceful in his manners and sprightly in conversation, he was a general favourite. Waller was utterly destitute of politi- cal principle, siding with the Parliament in the civil war, and seeking to betray them to the King; writing praises on Cromwell when in power; and on Charles II. and James II. after the restoration, and carrying off his apostasy with a flow of sparkling wit which made his peace with all. Charles challenged him for having written a panegyric on him inferior to that on Cromwell; "It is more easy for poets to write fiction than truth," was the reply. Waller was a keen observer of political matters, and is said to have given James II. much good advice. He died on 21st October, 1697, at Beaconsfield, Born 1605. Died 1687. ÓN LOVE. ANGER, in hasty words or blows, Itself discharges on our foes; And sorrow, too, finds some relief In tears, which wait upon our grief: So ev'ry passion, but fond love, Unto its own redress does move; But that alone the wretch inclines To what prevents his own designs; Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep Disordered, tremble, fawn, and creep; Postures which render him despised, Where he endeavours to be prized. For women-born to be controlled- Stoop to the forward and the bold; Affect the haughty and the proud, The gay, the frolic, and the loud. Who first the gen'rous steed opprest, Not kneeling did salute the beast; But with high courage, life, and force, Approaching, tamed th' unruly horse. Unwisely we the wiser East Pity, supposing them opprest With tyrant's force, whose law is will, By which they govern, spoil, and kill; Each nymph, but moderately fair, Commands with no less rigour here. Should some brave Turk, that walks among His twenty lasses, bright and young, 26 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Behold as many gallants here, With modest guise and silent fear, All to one female idol bend, While her high pride does scarce descend To mark their follies, he would swear That these her guard of eunuchs were, And that a more majestic queen, Or humbler slaves, he had not seen. All this with indignation spoke, In vain I struggled with the yoke Of mighty Love: that conqu'ring look, When next beheld, like lightning strook My blasted soul, and made me bow Lower than those I pitied now. So the tall stag, upon the brink Of some smooth stream about to drink, Surveying there his armed head, With shame remembers that he fled The scorned dogs, resolves to try The combat next; but if their cry Invades again his trembling ear, He straight resumes his wonted care; Leaves the untasted spring behind, And, winged with fear, outflies the wind. THE BRITISH NAVY. WHEN Britain, looking with a just disdain Upon this gilded majesty of Spain, And knowing well that empire must decline Whose chief support and sinews are of coin, Our nation's solid virtue did oppose To the rich troublers of the world's repose. And now some months, encamping on the main Our naval army had besieged Spain: They that the whole world's monarchy designed, Are to their ports by our bold fleet confined, From whence our Red Cross they triumphant see, Riding without a rival on the sea. Others may use the ocean as their road, Only the English make it their abode, Whose ready sails with every wind can fly, And make a covenant with the inconstant sky: Our oaks secure, as if they there took root, We tread on billows with a steady foot. EDMUND WALLER. 87 AT PENSHURST, WHILE in this park I sing, the list'ning deer Attend my passion, and forget to fear; When to the beeches I report my flame, They bow their heads, as if they felt the same. To gods appealing, when I reach their bowers With loud complaints, they answer me in showers. To thee a wild and cruel soul is given, More deaf than trees, and prouder than the heav'n! Love's foe professed! why dost thou falsely feign Thyself a Sidney? from which noble strain He sprung, that could so far exalt the name Of Love, and warm our nation with his flame; That all we can of love or high desire, Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidney's fire. Nor call her mother who so well does prove One breast may hold both chastity and love. Never can she, that so exceeds the spring In joy and bounty, be supposed to bring One so destructive. To no human stock We owe this fierce unkindness, but the rock; That cloven rock produced thee, by whose side Nature, to recompense the fatal pride Of such stern beauty, placed those healing springs Which not more help than that destruction brings. Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone, I might, like Orpheus, with my num'rous moan Melt to compassion; now my trait'rous song With thee conspires to do the singer wrong; While thus I suffer not myself to lose The memory of what augments my woes, But with my own breath still foment the fire, Which flames as high as fancy can aspire! This last complaint the indulgent ears did pierce Of just Apollo, president of verse; Highly concerned that the Muse should bring Damage to one whom he had taught to sing: Thus he advised me: "On yon aged tree Hang up thy lute, and hie thee to the sea, That there with wonders thy diverted mind Some truce, at least, may with this passion find." Ah, cruel nymph! from whom her humble swain Flies for relief unto the raging main, And from the winds and tempests does expect A milder fate than from her cold neglect! 88 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove Blest in her choice; and vows this endless love Springs from no hope of what she can confer, But from those gifts which Heav'n has heaped on her. John Milton. THIS, the most illustrious of the whole line of English poets, was born in his father's house, the Spread Eagle, in Bread Street, Lon- don, on the 9th December, 1608. His father was a scrivener, or money-broker, who had embraced the Protestant faith, and who appears to have been a man of considerable parts. The scrivener seems to have been most anxious to give his son a good education, and placed him early under private tuition; from thence he was sent to St. Paul's School, and afterwards to Christ's College, Cam- bridge. It is believed that his intense study at college laid the seeds of his future blindness. After leaving Cambridge he retired to Horton, in Buckinghamshire, where his father had purchased a small estate. Here he composed some of his beautiful minor pieces. At twenty-one he composed his magnificent "Hymn on the Nativi- ty," and at twenty-six he produced his "Comus," founded on an occurrence to the family of the Earl of Bridgewater. When about thirty he went to Italy, where he was received with the greatest honour. On the breaking out of the civil wars he returned to Eng- land, and ranged himself on the side of the Parliament; and as the literary champion of the Commonwealth, he published many con- troversial pieces. In 1645 he published his Allegro and Penseroso. The poet's eyesight had been failing for some years past, and at last in 1652 he became totally blind. Milton had inarried in 1643 Mary Powel, the daughter of a Royalist gentleman. She died in 1656, leaving three daughters, who survived their father, and of whom Milton says they were often "undutiful and unkind." In 1656 he married Katherine Woodcock, a London lady, with whom he lived happily, but who died in 1658. The Restoration, in 1660, changed completely the position and prospects of Milton, who was deprived of all his public employments. Milton now devoted himself to a great work which he had for some time contemplated, and which he had lately commenced,-"Paradise Lost," which appeared in 1667. For this immortal poem he only received £15. In 1671 ap- peared "Paradise Regained." Milton had in 1663 contracted a third marriage--Elizabeth Marshall, his own cousin, was the lady. She was only twenty-four when she was married, and survived the poet fifty-three years. He had been for some time suffering from hered- itary disease, and tranquilly passed away from this life in Artil- lery Walk, Bunhill Row, on 8th November, 1674, in his sixty-sixth year. He was buried in the parish church of St. Giles', Cripplegate. FROM HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born Child Born 1608. Died 1674. All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathise: JOHN MILTON. 89 It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing: And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by, But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then, That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. 90 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook; Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The air, such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. SATAN'S SOLILOQUY. (From "Paradise Lost," Book I.) "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime, Said then the lost archangel, "this the seat That we must change for heaven; this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since he, Who now is Sovereign, can dispose and bid What shall be right; farthest from him is best, Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, Where joy for ever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail, Infernal world! and thou profoundest hell, Receive thy new possessor; one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time: The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be; all but less than He Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure, and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in hell: Better to reign in hell, than serve in heaven. But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, The associates and copartners of our loss, Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool, And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion; or once more With rallied arms to try what may be yet Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell?” "" JOHN MILTON. 91 SPEECH OF MOLOCH. (From "Paradise Lost," Book II.) "My sentence is for open war: of wiles, More unexpert, I boast not; them let those Contrive who need, or when they need, not now; For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest, Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend, sit lingering here Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark, opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his tyranny who reigns By our delay? No, let us rather choose, Armed with hell flames and fury, all at once, O'er heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the torturer; when to meet the noise Of his almighty engine he shall hear Infernal thunder; and, for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his angels! and his throne itself Mixed with Tartarean sulphur, and strange fire, His own invented torments. But perhaps The way seems difficult and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe. Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our proper motion we ascend Up to our native seat: descent and fall To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight We sunk thus low? The ascent is easy then; The event is feared; should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction; if there be in hell Fear to be worse destroyed: what can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe; Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end, The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorable, and the torturing hour, Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus, 92 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. We should be quite abolished, and expire. What fear we then? what doubt we to incense His utmost ire? which, to the height enraged, Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential; happier far Than miserable to have eternal being: Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne; Which, if not victory, is yet revenge. "" SPEECH OF BELIAL. (From "Paradise Lost," Book II.) "I SHOULD be much for open war, O peers, As not behind in hate; if what was urged Main reason to persuade immediate war, Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole success; When he, who most excels in fact of arms, In what he counsels, and in what excels, Mistrustful grounds his courage on despair And utter dissolution, as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge? The towers of heaven are filled With armed watch, that render all access Impregnable: oft on the bordering deep Encamp their legions; or, with obscure wing, Scout far and wide into the realm of night, Scorning surprise. Or could we break our way By force, and at our heels all hell should rise With blackest insurrection, to confound Heaven's purest light; yet our great enemy, All incorruptible, would on his throne Sit unpolluted; and the ethereal mould, Incapable of stain, would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope Is flat despair: We must exasperate The almighty Victor to spend all his rage, And that must end us; that must be our cure, JOHN MILTON. 93 To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry foe Can give it, or will ever? how he can, Is doubtful; that he never will, is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, Belike through impotence, or unaware, To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger, whom his anger saves To punish endless? Wherefore cease we then? Say they who counsel war, We are decreed, Reserved, and destined, to eternal woe; Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse? Is this then worst, Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What, when we fled amain, pursued, and struck With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The deep to shelter us? this hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds: or when we lay Chained on the burning lake? that sure was worse What if the breath, that kindled those grim fires, Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, And plunge us in the flames? or, from above, Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us? What if all Her stores were opened, and this firmament Of hell should spout her cataracts of fire, Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall One day upon our heads; while we perhaps, Designing or exhorting glorious war, Caught in a fiery tempest shall be hurled Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey Of wracking whirlwinds; or for ever sunk Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains; There to converse with everlasting groans, Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse. War therefore, open or concealed, alike My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile With Him, or who deceive His mind, whose eye Views all things at one view? He from Heaven's height All these our motions vain sees and derides; 94 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Not more almighty to resist our might, Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. Shall we then live thus vile, the race of heaven Thus trampled, thus expell'd to suffer here Chains and these torments? Better these than worse, By my advice; since fate inevitable Subdues us, and omnipotent decree, The Victor's will." SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. (From "Paradise Lost," Book IV.) '0 THOU, that, with surpassing glory crowned, Look'st from thy sole dominion like the god Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call, But with no friendly voice, and add thy name, O sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere; Till pride and worse ambition threw me down, Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless King: Ah, wherefore? he deserved no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright eminence, and with his good Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. What could be less than to afford him praise, The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks, How due! yet all his good proved ill in me, And wrought but malice; lifted up so high I 'sdained subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude, So burdensome still paying, still to owe: Forgetful what from him I still received, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and discharged; what burden then? O had his powerful destiny ordained Me some inferior angel, I had stood Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised Ambition. Yet why not? some other power As great might have aspired, and me, though mean, Drawn to his part; but other powers as great JOHN MILTON. 95 1 • Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within Or from without, to all temptations armed. Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand? Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse, But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all? Be then his love accursed, since love or hate, To me alike, it deals eternal woe. Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will Chose freely what it now so justly rues. Me miserable! which way shall I fly Infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep Still threatening to devour me opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. O, then, at last relent: is there no place Left for repentance, none for pardon left? None left but by submission; and that word Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced With other promises and other vaunts Than to submit, boasting I could subdue The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know How dearly I abide that boast so vain; Under what torments inwardly I groan, While they adore me on the throne of hell. With diadem and sceptre high advanced, The lower still I fall, only supreme In misery: such joy ambition finds. But say I could repent, and could obtain, By act of grace, my former state; how soon Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay What feigned submission swore! Ease would recant Vows made in pain, as violent and void. For never can true reconcilement grow Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep; Which would but lead me to a worse relapse And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear Short intermission bought with double smart. This knows my punisher; therefore as far From granting he, as I from begging peace: All hope excluded thus, behold, instead Of us out-cast, exiled, his new delight, Mankind created, and for him this world. So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear, Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost; 96 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Evil, be thou my good: by thee at least Divided empire with heaven's King I hold, By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign; As man ere long, and this new world shall know." PARADISE. (From "Paradise Lost," Book IV.) "So on he fares, and to the border comes Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, Now nearer, crowns with her inclosure green, As with a rural mound, the champaign head Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild, Access denied; and overhead up-grew Insuperable height of loftiest shade, Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, A sylvan scene; and, as the ranks ascend Shade above shade, a woody theatre Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops The verdurous wall of Paradise up-sprung: Which to our general sire gave prospect large Into his nether empire neighbouring round: And higher than that wall a circling row Of goodliest trees, loaden with fairest fruit, Blossoms and fruits at once of golden hue, Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed; On which the sun more glad impressed his beams Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow, When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seemed That landscape: and of pure, now purer air Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires Vernal delight and joy, able to drive All sadness but despair: now gentle gales, Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole Those balmy spoils." ADAM'S ADDRESS TO EVE. (From “Paradise Lost," Book IV.) "SOLE partner, and sole part of all these joys, Dearer thyself than all; needs must the Power That made us, and for us this ample world, JOHN MILTON. 97 of Be infinitely good, and of his good As liberal and free as infinite; That raised us from the dust, and placed us here In all this happiness, who at his hand Have nothing merited, nor can perform Aught whereof he hath need; he who requires From us no other service than to keep This one, this easy charge; of all the trees In Paradise that bear delicious fruit So various, not to taste that only tree Of knowledge, planted by the tree of life; So near grows death to life, whate'er death is, Some dreadful thing no doubt; for well thou knowest God has pronounced it death to taste that tree, The only sign of our obedience left Among so many signs of power and rule Conferred upon us, and dominion given Over all other creatures that possess Earth, air, and sea. Then let us not think hard One easy prohibition, who enjoy Free leave so large to all things else, and choice Unlimited of manifold delights: But let us ever praise him, and extol His bounty, following our delightful task, To prune these growing plants, and tend these flowers, Which, were it toilsome, yet with thee were sweet." EVE'S ACCOUNT OF HERSELF. (From “Paradise Lost,” Book IV.) THAT day I oft remember, when from sleep I first awaked, and found myself reposed Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where And what I was, whence thither brought, and how. Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound Of waters issued from a cave, and spread Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went With unexperienced thought, and laid me down On the green bank, to look into the clear Smooth lake, that to me seemed another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite A shape within the watery gleam appeared, Bending to look on me: I started back, 5 98 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ¦ I started back; but pleased I soon returned, Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks Of sympathy and love: there I had fixed Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire, Had not a voice thus warned me: What thou seest, What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself; With thee it came and goes; but follow me, And I will bring thee where no shadow stays Thy coming, and thy soft embraces, he Whose image thou art; him thou shalt enjoy Inseparably thine, to him shalt bear Multitudes like thyself, and thence be called Mother of human race. What could I do, But follow straight, invisibly thus led? Till I espied thee, fair indeed and tall, Under a plantain, yet methought less fair, Less winning soft, less amiably mild, Than that smooth watery image: back I turned; Thou following criedst aloud, Return, fair Eve; Whom flyest thou? whom thou flyest, of him thou art, His flesh, his bone; to give thee being I lent Out of my side to thee, nearest my heart, Substantial life, to have thee by my side Henceforth an individual solace dear; Part of my soul, I seek thee, and thee claim My other half. With that thy gentle hand Seized mine: I yielded; and from that time see How beauty is excelled by manly grace, And wisdom, which alone is truly fair." EVENING IN PARADISE. (From "Paradise Lost," Book IV.) 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 glowed the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 1 f JOHN MILTON. 99 Kadapa K MORNING IN PARADISE. (From "Paradise Lost," Book V.) Now morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song Of birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwakened Eve With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek, As through unquiet rest: he, on his side Leaning half-raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamoured, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces: then with voice Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, Her hand soft touching whispered thus: "Awake, My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever-new delight! Awake: the morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us; we lose the prime to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colours, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet." ADAM AND EVE'S MORNING HYMN. (From "Paradise Lost," Book V.) “THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good: Almighty! Thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair: Thyself how wondrous then, Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these heavens To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven, PORNO NAS BONDAGE CAN CHO AN 100 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. of \ On earth join all ye creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climbest, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fallest. Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now flies, With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies; And ye five other wandering fires, that move In mystic dance not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness called up light. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great Author rise; Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. Ilis praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise, Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds, That singing up to heaven-gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us only good; and if the night Have gathered aught of evil or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.” JOHN MILTON. 101 〃 THE EXPULSION FROM HEAVEN. (From "Paradise Lost," Book VI.) "So spake the Son, and into terror changed His countenance too severe to be beheld, And full of wrath bent on his enemies. At once the four spread out their starry wings With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs Of his fierce chariot rolled, as with the sound Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. He on his impious foes right onward drove, Gloomy as night: under his burning wheels The steadfast empyréan shook throughout, All but the throne itself of God. Full soon Among them he arrived; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in their souls infixed Plagues: they, astonished, all resistance lost, All courage; down their idle weapons dropt; O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostráte, That wished the mountains now might be again Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire. Nor less on either side tempestuous fell His arrows, from the four-fold visaged four Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels Distinct alike with multitude of eyes; One spirit in them ruled; and every eye Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire Among the accursed, that withered all their strength, And of their wonted vigour left them drained, Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. Yet half his strength he put not forth, but checked His thunder in mid volley; for he meant Not to destroy, but root them out of heaven: The overthrown he raised, and as a herd Of goats or timorous flock together thronged, Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursued With terrors and with furies, to the bounds And crystal wall of heaven; which, opening wide, Rolled inward, and a spacious gap disclosed Into the wasteful deep: the monstrous sight Struck them with horror backward, but far worse Urged them behind: headlong themselves they threw Down from the verge of heaven; eternal wrath Burnt after them to the bottómless pit." KANAN ma 102 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. EXPULSION FROM PARADISE. (From "Paradise Lost," Book XII.) THE archangel stood; and from the other hill To their fixed station, all in bright array, The cherubim descended; on the ground Gliding meteorous, as evening mist Risen from a river o'er the marish glides, And gathers ground fast at the labourer's heel Homeward returning. High in front advanced, The brandished sword of God before them blazed, Fierce as a comet; which with torrid heat, And vapour as the Libyan air adust, Began to parch that temperate clime; whereat In either hand the hastening angel caught Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast To the subjected plain; then disappeared. They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, Waved over by that flaming brand; the gate With dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms. Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way. THE THUNDERSTORM. (From "Paradise Regained,” Book IV.). THE tempter watched, and soon with ugly dreams Disturbed his sleep. And either tropic now 'Gan thunder, and both ends of heaven; the clouds From many a horrid rift, abortive poured Fierce rain with lightning mixed, water with fire In ruin reconciled: nor slept the winds Within their stony caves, but rushed abroad From the four hinges of the world, and fell On the vexed wilderness, whose tallest pines, Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest oaks, Bowed their stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts Or torn up sheer. Ill wast thou shrouded then, JOHN MILTON. 103 O patient Son of God, yet only stoodest Unshaken! Nor yet staid the terror there; Infernal ghosts and hellish furies round Environed thee, some howled, some yelled, some shrieked, Some bent at thee their fiery darts, while thou Satest unappalled in calm and sinless peace! GLORY. (From "Paradise Regained,” Book III.) FOR what is glory but the blaze of fame, The people's praise, if always praise unmixed? And what the people but a herd confused, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise? They praise, and they admire, they know not what, And know not whom, but as one leads the other; And what delight to be by such extolled, To live upon their tongues, and be their talk, Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise, His lot who dares be singularly good? The intelligent among them and the wise Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised. This is true glory and renown: when God, Looking on the earth, with approbation marks The just man, and divulges him through heaven To all his angels, who with true applause Recount his praises. FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES." Samson. Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased, Inferior to the vilest now become Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me; They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, Within doors, or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own; Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse 104 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Without all hope of day! O first-created beam, and thou great Word, 'Let there be light, and light was over all;" Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree? The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night, Hid in her vacant interlunar cave. Since light so necessary is to life, And almost life itself, if it be true That light is in the scul, She all in every part; why was this sight To such a tender ball as the eye confined, So obvious and so easy to be quenched? And not, as feeling, through all parts diffused, That she might look at will through every pore? Then had I not been thus exiled from light, As in the land of darkness, yet in light, To live a life half dead, a living death, And buried; but, O yet more miserable! Myself my sepulchre, a moving grave; Buried, yet not exempt, By privilege of death and burial, From worst of other evils, pains, and wrongs: But made hereby obnoxious more To all the miseries of life, Life in captivity Among inhuman foes. FROM "COMUS." Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, My best guide now: methought it was the sound Of riot and ill-managed merriment, Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, Stirs up among the loose unlettered hinds, When for their teaming flocks, and granges full In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth, To meet the rudeness, and swilled insolence, Of such late wassailers; yet O! where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet In the blind mazes of this tangled wood? My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge JOHN MILTON. 105 Under the spreading favour of these pines, Stept, as they said, to the next thicket-side, To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labour of my thoughts; 'tis likeliest They had engaged their wandering steps too far; And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stole them from me: else, O thievish night, Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end, In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars, That nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps With everlasting oil, to give due light To the misled and lonely traveller? This is the place, as well as I may guess, Whence even now the turult of loud mirth Was rife, and perfect in my listening ear; Yet nought but single darkness do I find. What might this be? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And aery tongues that syllable men's names On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses. These thoughts may startle well, but not astound, The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended By a strong siding champion, Conscience. O welcome, pure-eyed Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings, And thou, unblemished form of Chastity! I see ye visibly, and now believe That he, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill Are but as slavish officers of vengeance, Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, To keep my life and honour unassailed. Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night? I did not err, there does a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night, And casts a gleam over this tufted grove: I cannot halloo to my brothers, but Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest I'll venture; for my new-enlivened spirits Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off. 5* 106 1 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM "L' ALLEGRO.” HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There, under ebon shades and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, ** * Come, and trip it, as you go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And, if I give thee honour duc, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and hor Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill, ** And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse; Such as the meeting soul may pierce, • 1 JOHN MILTON. 107 In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony. FROM "IL PENSEROSO." HENCE, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams; Or likest hovering dreams, The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; * * Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypress lawn, Over thy decent shoulder drawn. Come, but keep thy wonted state With even step, and musing gait; And looks commércing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There, held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet. * * Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited morn appear, : 108 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 ! Not tricked and frounced as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kerchieft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves, And, when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvar loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude ax, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, While the bee with honeyed thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feathered sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture displayed Softly on my eyelids laid. And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high-embowed roof, With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light: There let the pealing organ blow, . To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 7+ SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 109 1 ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide; "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?” I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.” } Sir John Suckling. A POET and courtier, celebrated in the court of Charles I. He be- came implicated in the political troubles of the age, and fled to France, where he died in 1641. FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. THE maid, and thereby hangs a tale, For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring; It was too wide a peck: And, to say truth--for out it must—- It looked like the great collar-just- About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. Born 1609. Died 1641. p f 110 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison; Who sees them is undone: For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that's next the sun. Her lips were red; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin, Some bee had stung it newly; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get: But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. Richard Crashaw. A RELIGIOUS poet born in London, but the date unknown. During the civil wars, having refused to conform to the rules of the Parlia- ment, he was ejected from a fellowship he enjoyed. He removed to France, where he became a Roman Catholic. He was afterwards made canon in the church of Loretto, in Rome, where he died about 1650. He wrote a volume of Latin poems, as well as several volumes of English poetry. HYMN TO THE NAME OF JESUS. I SING the Name which none can say, But touched with an interior ray; The name of our new peace; our good; Our bliss, and supernatural blood; The name of all our lives and loves Hearken and help, ye holy doves! The high-born brood of day; you bright Candidates of blissful light, Born 16- Died 1650. The heirs-elect of love; whose names belong Unto the everlasting life of song; All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast Of this unbounded Name build your warm nest. Awake, my glory! soul-if such thou be, And that fair word at all refer to thee- Jo RICHARD CRASHAW. K 111 Awake and sing, And be all wing! Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee. O thou art poor Of noble powers, I see, And full of nothing else but empty me; Narrow and low, and infinitely less Than this great morning's mighty business. One little world or two, Alas! will never do; We must have store; Go, soul, out of thyself, and seek for more; Go and request Great Nature for the key of her huge chest Of heav'ns, the self-involving set of spheres, Which dull mortality more feels than hears; Then rouse the nest Of nimble art, and traverse round The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound: And beat a summons in the same All-sovereign name, To warn each several kind And shape of sweentess-be they such As sigh with supple wind Or answer artful touch- Come, lovely name! life of our hope! Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope! Unlock thy cabinet of day, Dearest sweet, and come away. That they convene and come away To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious day. } That hopes to be All heaven by thee, Leaps at thy birth The attending world, to wait thy rise, First turned to eyes; Lo, how the thirsty lands Gasp for thy golden show'rs, with long-stretched hands! Lo, how the labouring earth, And then, not knowing what to do, Turned them to tears, and spent them too. Come, royal name! and pay the expense Of all this precious patience: Oh, come away And kill the death of this delay. 112 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Oh see, so many worlds of barren years Melted and measured out in seas of tears! Oh, see the weary lids of wakeful hope- Love's eastern windows-all wide ope With curtains drawn, To catch the daybreak of thy dawn! Oh, dawn at last, long-looked-for day! Take thine own wings and come away. Lo, where aloft it comes! It comes among The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng Like diligent bees, and swarm about it. Oh, they are wise, And know what sweets are sucked from out it. It is the hive By which they thrive, Where all their hoard of honey lies. Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves. Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day! Unfold thy fair conceptions; and display The birth of our bright joys. Oh, thou compacted Body of blessings! spirit of souls extracted! Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers, Cloud of condensed sweets! and break upon us In balmy showers! Oh, fill our senses, and take from us All force of so profane a fallacy, To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee, Fair flow'ry name! in none but thee, And thy nectareal fragrancy, Hourly there meets An universal synod of all sweets; By whom it is defined thus— That no perfume For ever shall presume To pass for odoriferous, But such alone whose sacred pedigree Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee Sweet name! in thy each syllable A thousand blest Arabias dwell; A thousand hills of frankincense; Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices, And ten thousand paradises, The soul that tastes thee takes from thence. How many unknown worlds there are 1 RICHARD CRASHAW. 113 ↓ Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping! How many thousand mercies there In pity's soft lap lie a-sleeping! Happy he who has the art To awake them, And to take them Home, and lodge them in his heart. Oh, that it were as it was wont to be, When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee, Fought against frowns with smiles; gave glorious chase To persecutions; and against the face Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave And sober pace march on to meet a grave. On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee; In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee, Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach thee. Little, alas! thought they Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends, Their fury but made way For thee, and served them in thy glorious ends. What did their weapons, but with wider pores Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers, More freely to transpire That impatient fire The heart that hides thee hardly covers? What did their weapons, but set wide the doors For thee? fair purple doors, of love's devising; The ruby windows which enriched the east Of thy so oft-repeated rising. Each wound of theirs was thy new morning, And re-enthroned thee in thy rosy nest, With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning It was the wit of love o'erflowed the bounds Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adored name! For sure there is no knee That knows not thee; Or if there be such sons of shame, Alas! what will they do, When stubborn rocks shall bow, And hills hang down their heav'n-saluting heads To seek for humble beds Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night, Next to their own low nothing they may lie, And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty 114 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. They that by love's mild dictate now Will not adore thee, Shall then, with just confusion, bow And break before thee. TWO WENT UP TO THE TEMPLE TO PRAY. Two went to pray? O rather say, One went to brag, the other to pray: One stands up close and treads on high, Where the other dares not lend his eye. One nearer to God's altar trod, The other to the altar's God. Dr. Samuel Butler. THE only work of note written by Butler is "Hudibras," a burlesque upon the Puritans. It is a witty, comic poem on the model of "Don Quixote," and of course gives a very extravagant view of the pecu- liarities of the Puritan times. Butler was born in 1612 at Strens- ham, in Worcestershire. His father was only able to give him a limited education, and it appears that Butler's whole life was a struggle with poverty. He seems to have made little or nothing by his work, which was originally published in parts; the first part in 1663, the second three years later, and the third not till 1678. He died in London in 1680. RELIGION OF HUDIBRAS. For his religion, it was fit To match his learning and his wit. 'Twas Presbyterian true blue; For he was of that stubborn crew Of errant saints, whom all men grant To be the true church militant; Such as do build their faith upon The holy text of pike and gun; Decide all controversies by Infallible artillery; And prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks; Call fire, and sword, and desolation, A godly, thorough reformation, J Born 1612. Died 1680. f DR. SAMUEL BUTLER. 115 Which always must be carried on, And still be doing, never done; As if religion were intended For nothing else but to be mended; A sect whose chief devotion lies In odd perverse antipathies; In falling out with that or this, And finding somewhat still amiss; More peevish, cross, and splenetic, Than dog distraught or monkey sick; That with more care keep holiday The wrong, than others the right way; Compound for sins they are inclined to, By damning those they have no mind to. Still so perverse and opposite, As if they worshipped God for spite; The self-same thing they will abhor One way, and long another for; Freewill they one way lisavow, Another, nothing else allow; All piety consists therein In them, in other men all sin; Rather than fail, they will defy That which they love most tenderly; Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge; Fat pig and goose itself oppose, And blaspheme custard through the nose. Th' apostles of this fierce religion, Like Mahomet's, were ass and widgeon, To whom our knight, by fast instinct Of wit and temper, was so linked, As if hypocrisy and nonsense Had got th' advowson of his conscience, THE ELEPHANT IN THE MOON (Abridged). (A Satire upon the Royal Society.) A LEARNED Society of late, The glory of a foreign state, Agreed, upon a summer's night, To search the moon by her own light; To take an invent'ry of all Her real estate, and personal; 116 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. дво And make an accurate survey Of all her lands, and how they lay, As true as that of Ireland, where The sly surveyors stole a shire; This was the purpose of their meeting, For which they chose a time as fitting, When, at the full, her radiant light And influence too were at their height. And now the lofty tube, the scale With which they heav'n itself assail, Was mounted full against the moon, And all stood ready to fall on, Impatient who should have the honour To plant an ensign first upon her. When one, who for his deep belief Was virtuoso then in chief, Approved the most profound, and wise, To solve impossibilities, Advancing gravely, to apply To th' optic glass his judging eye, Quoth he: 'Th' inhabitants o' the moon, Who, when the sun shines hot at noon, Do live in cellars under ground, Of eight miles deep and eighty round— In which at once they fortify Against the sun and th' enemy- Which they count towns and cities there, Because their people's civiller Than those rude peasants that are found To live upon the upper ground, Called Prevolvans, with whom they are Perpetually in open war; And now both armies, highly enraged, Are in a bloody fight engaged, And many fall on both sides slain, As by the glass 'tis clear and plain. Look quickly then, that every one May see the fight before 'tis done.' With that a great philosopher, Admired and famous far and near, As one of singular invention, But universal comprehension, Applied one eye and half a nose Unto the optic engine close; Observed his best, and then cried out: "The battle's desperately fought; DR. SAMUEL BUTLER. 117 ! The gallant Subvolvani rally, And from their trenches make a sally Upon the stubborn enemy, Who now begin to rout and fly.' While thus the learned man entertains Th' assembly with the Prevolvans, Another, of as great renown, And solid judgment, in the moon, That understood her various soils, And which produced best jennet-mules, And in the register of fame Had entered his long-living name, After he had pored long and hard I' th' engine, give a start, and stared- Quoth he: A stranger sight appears Than e'er was seen in all the spheres; A wonder more unparalleled Than ever mortal tube beheld; An elephant from one of those Two mighty armies is broke loose, And with the horror of the fight Appears amazed, and in a fright: Look quickly, lest the sight of us Should cause the startled beast t' emboss.? Meanwhile the rest had had a sight Of all particulars o' the fight, And ev'ry man, with equal care, Perused of th' elephant his share; When one, who, for his excellence In height'ning words and shad'wing sense, And magnifying all he writ With curious microscopic wit, Was magnified himself no less In home and foreign colleges, Began, transported with the twang Of his own trillo, thus t' harangue: 'Most excellent and virtuous friends, This great discov'ry makes amends For all our unsuccessful pains, And lost expense of time and brains; For, by this sole phenomenon, We've gotten ground upon the moon, And gained a pass, to hold dispute With all the planets that stand out; To carry this most virtuous war Home to the door of every star, 107 118 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. က And plant the artillery of our tubes Against their proudest magnitudes; And since it is uncertain when Such wonders will occur again, Let us as cautiously contrive To draw an exact narrative Of what we ev'ry one can swear Our eyes themselves have seen appear, That, when we publish the account, We all may take our oaths upon't.” This said, they all with one consent Agreed to draw up th' instrument, And, for the gen❜ral satisfaction, To print it in the next transaction; But whilst the chiefs were drawing up This strange memoir, o' th' telescope, One peeping in the tube by chance, Beheld the elephant advance, And from the west side of the moon To th' east was in a moment gone. This being related, gave a stop To what the rest were drawing up; And ev'ry man, amazed anew How it could possibly be true, That any beast should run a race So monstrous, in so short a space, Resolved, howe’er, to make it good, At least as possible as he could, And rather his own eyes condemn, Than question what he 'ad seen with them. But while they were diverted all With wording the memorial, The footboys, for diversion too, As having nothing else to do, Seeing the telescope at leisure, Turned virtuosis for their pleasure: Began to gaze upon the moon, As those they waited on had done, With monkeys' ingenuity, That love to practise what they see; When one, whose turn it was to peep, Saw something in the ngine creep, And, viewing well, discovered more Than all the learned had done before. For he had scarce applied his eye To th' engine, but immediately ** ! DR. SAMUEL BUTLER. 119 He found a mouse was gotten in The hollow tube, and, shut between The two glass windows in restraint, Was swelled into an elephant, And proved the virtuous occasion Of all this learned dissertation: And, as a mountain heretofore Was great with child, they say, and bore A silly mouse, this mouse, as strange, Brought forth a mountain in exchange. Meanwhile the rest in consultation Had penned the wonderful narration, And set their hands, and seals, and wit, T' attest the truth of what they 'ad writ, When this accursed phenomenon Confounded all they'd said or done: Some swore, upon a second view, That all they 'ad seen before was true, And that they never would recant One syllable of th' elephant; Avowed his snout could be no mouse's, But a true elephant's proboscis. Others began to doubt and waver, Uncertain which o' th' two to favour, Others conceived it much more fit T'unmount the tube, and open it, And for their private satisfaction, To re-examine the transaction, And after explicate the rest, As they should find cause for the best. To this, as th' only expedient, The whole assembly gave consent; But ere the tube was half let down, It cleared the first phenomenon; For, at the end, prodigious swarms Of flies and gnats, like men in arms, Had all passed muster, by mischance, Both for the Sub- and Prevolvans. This being discovered, put them all Into a fresh and fiercer brawl, Ashamed that men so grave and wise Should be chaldesed by gnats and flies, And take the feeble insect's swarms For mighty troops of men at arms; But when they had unscrewed the glass, To find out where the imposter was, ¡ 120 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 And saw the mouse, that, by mishap, Had made the telescope a trap, Amazed, confounded, and afflicted, To be so openly convicted, Immediately they get them gone, With this discovery alone, That those who greedily pursue Things wonderful, instead of true, And explicate appearances, Not as they are, but as they please; In vain strive nature to suborn, And, for their pains, are paid with scorn. LOVE.- LOVE is too great a happiness For wretched mortals to possess; For could it hold inviolate Against those cruelties of fate Which all felicities below By rigid laws are subject to; It would become a bliss too high For perishing mortality; Translate to earth the joys above; For nothing goes to Heaven but Love. All love at first, like generous wine, Ferments and frets until 'tis fine; For when 'tis settled on the lee, And from the impurer matter free, Becomes the richer still the older, And proves the pleasanter the colder. As at the approach of winter, all The leaves of great trees use to fall, And leave them naked, to engage With storms and tempests when they rage, While humbler plants are found to wear Their fresh green liveries all the year; So when their glorious season's gone With great men, and hard times come on, The greatest calamities oppress The greatest still, and spare the less. ! ! SIR JOHN DENHAM. 121 Sir John Denham. He was born at Dublin in 1615, and on his father's promotion in the English Exchequer he was sent to Oxford, where he acquired a taste for gambling which he never overcame, and his happiness, in consequence, consisted chiefly in the enjoyment of low pleasures. He died at the age of fifty-three. COOPER'S HILL. My eye, descending from the hill, surveys Where Thames among the wanton valleys strays. Thames! the most loved of all the ocean's sons By his old sire, to his embraces runs, Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea, Like mortal life to meet eternity. ! Born 1615. Died 1668. Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold: His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but 'survey his shore, O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing, And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring; Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay, Like mothers who their infants overlay; Nor with a sudden and impetuous wave, Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave. No unexpected inundations spoil The mower's hopes, or mock the ploughman's toil; But godlike his unwearied bounty flows; First loves to do, then loves the good he does. Nor are his blessings to his banks confined, But free and common as the sea or wind: When he to boast or to disperse his stores, Full of the tributes of his grateful shores, Visits the world, and in his flying towers Brings home to us, and makes both Indies ours; Finds wealth where 'tis, bestows it where it wants, Cities in deserts, woods in cities, plants. So that to us no thing, no place, is strange, While his fair bosom is the world's exchange. Oh, could I flow like thee! and make thy stream My great example, as it is my theme; Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full. The stream is so transparent, pure, and clear, That had the self-enamoured youth gazed here, 6 122 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. So fatally deceived he had not been, While he the bottom, not his face, had seen. But his proud head the airy mountain hides Among the clouds; his shoulders and his sides A shady mantle clothes; his curled brows Frown on the gentle stream, which calmly flows, While winds and storms his lofty forehead beat- The common fate of all that's high or great. Low at his foot a spacious plain is placed, Between the mountain and the stream embraced, Which shade and shelter from the hill derives, While the kind river wealth and beauty gives. And in the mixture of all these appears Variety, which all the rest endears. Richard Baxter. THIS eminent divine, though well known for his prose writings, especially his "Saint's Everlasting Rest," is scarcely known to have been a writer of verse, yet many of his pieces are exceedingly beautiful, and breathe the very essence of Christian piety. FAITH AMIDST TRIALS. I TURN'D my back on worldly toys, And set my face towards glory's shore; Where Thou hast promised highest joys, And blessedness for ever more. I took my leave of sin and earth; What I had loved, I now did hate; Ashamed of my former birth, I gave my life a newer date. But since that time, how I am tost! Afraid of every storm and wave, Almost concluding I am lost, As if Thou wouldst not help and save. If I look out beyond thine ark, Nothing but raging floods I see; On this side heaven all's deep and dark, But I look farther unto Thee. Spare Lord, and pity thy poor dust, That fled into thy ark for peace; O cause my soul on Thee to trust! And do not my distress increase. Born 1615. Died 1691. RICHARD BAXTER. 123 O keep up life and peace within, If I must feel thy chastening rod! Yet kill not me, but kill my sin; And let me know, Thou art my God. Why art thou, fainting soul, cast down? And thus disquieted with fears? Art thou not passing to thy crown, Through storms of pain and floods of tears? Fear not, O thou of little faith! Art thou not in thy Saviour's hand? Remember what his promise saith; Life and death are at his command. To Him I did myself intrust, When first I did for heaven embark, And he hath proved kind and just; Still I am with him in his ark. Couldst thou expect to see no seas? Nor feel no tossing 'wind or wave? It is enough that from all these Thy faithful pilot will thee save. Lord, let me not my covenant break; Once I did all to Thee resign; Only the words of comfort speak, And tell my soul that I am thine. It is no death when souls depart, If Thou depart not from the soul: Fill with thy love my fainting heart, And I'll not fading flesh condole. My God, my love, my hope, my life! Shall I be loath to see thy face? As if this world of sin and strife, Were for my soul a better place? O give my soul some sweet foretaste Of that which I shall shortly see! Let faith and love cry to the last, Come, Lord, I trust myself with Thee. 124 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. T Abraham Cowley. COWLEY was exceedingly popular in his own times, though he is somewhat neglected now. He began to write poetry in early life, having published a volume of poems in his thirteenth year. Cowley was born in London in 1618, and after receiving his early education at Westminster, he was sent to Cambridge, in which University he obtained a fellowship. He resided there till 1643, when he was ejected by the parliamentary visitors as being a royalist. He joined Charles II. in France, but was very coldly received. After the Restoration he was more kindly treated, and obtained a grant or lease of some lands, which yielded him £300 a-year. He retired on this income to Chertsey, where he lived for seven years. He died 28th July, 1667. Born 1618. Died 1667. ON THE DEATH OF MR. CRASHAW. POET and saint! To thee alone are given The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; The hard and rarest union which can be, Next that of Godhead, with humanity. Long did the Muses banished slaves abide, And build vain pyramids to mortal pride; Like Moses thou-though spells and charms withstand- Hast brought them nobly home, back to their holy land. * * * * How well, blest swan, did Fate contrive thy death. And make thee render up thy tuneful breath In thy great mistress' arms! Thou most divine And richest offering of Loretto's shrine, Where, like some holy sacrifice t'expire, A fever burns thee, and Love lights the fire. Angels, they say, brought the famed chapel there, And bore the sacred load in triumph through the air. 'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and they And thou, their charge, went singing all the way. Pardon, my mother-church, if I consent That angels led him when from thee he went; For even in error sure no danger is, When joined with so much piety as his. Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't and grief; Ah, that our greatest faults were in belief! And our weak reason were ev'n weaker yet, Rather than thus our wills too strong for it. His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right; And I myself a Catholic will be, So far, at least, great saint, to pray to thee. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 125 Hail, bard triumphant, and some care bestow On us the poets militant below, Opposed by our old enemy, adverse chance, Attacked by envy and by ignorance, Enchained by beauty, tortured by desires, Exposed by tyrant love to savage beasts and fires; Thou from low earth in nobler flames didst rise, And, like Elijah, mount, alive, the skies! HEAVEN AND HELL. (From the Davideis.) SLEEP on! Rest, quiet as thy conscience, take, For though thou sleep'st thyself, thy God's awake. Above the subtle foldings of the sky, Above the well-set orbs' soft harmony; Above those petty lamps that gild the night, There is a place o'erflown with hallowed light; Where heaven, as if it left itself behind, Is stretched out far, nor its own bounds can find: Here peaceful flames swell up the sacred place, Nor can the glory contain itself in th' endless space. For there no twilight of the sun's dull ray Glimmers upon the pure and native day. No pale-faced moon does in stolen beams appear, Or with dim tapers scatter darkness there. On no smooth sphere the restless seasons slide, No circling motion doth swift time divide; Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last. Beneath the silent chambers of the earth, Where the sun's fruitful beams give metals birth, Where he the growth of fatal gold does see— Gold which above more influence has than he- Beneath the dens where unfledged tempests lie, And infant winds their tender voices try; Beneath the mighty ocean's wealthy caves; Beneath the eternal fountain of the waves, Where their vast court the mother-waters keep, And, undisturbed by moons, in silence sleep, There is a place, deep, wondrous deep below, Which genuine Night and Horror does e'erflow; No bound control the unwearied space but hell, Endless as those dire pains that in it dwell. 126 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Here no dear glimpse of the sun's lovely face Strikes through the solid darkness of the place; No dawning morn does her kind red display; One slight weak beam would here be thought the day; No gentle stars, with their fair gems of light, Offend the tyrannous and unquestioned night. Here Lucifer, the mighty captive, reigns, Proud 'midst his woes, and tyrant in his chains. Once general of a gilded host of sprites, Like Hesper leading forth the spangled nights; But down like lightning which him struck he came, And roared at his first plunge into the flame. Myriads of spirits fell wounded round him there; With dropping lights thick shone the singed air. HYMN TO LIGHT. FIRST born of Chaos, who so fair didst come From the old negro's darksome womb, Which, when it saw the lovely child, The melancholy mass put on kind looks and smiled. Thou tide of glory which no rest doth know, But ever ebb and ever flow! Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and heaven to earth make love! Say, from what golden quivers of the sky Do all thy winged arrows fly? Swiftness and power by birth are thine; From thy great Sire they come, thy Sire, the Word Divine. Thou in the moon's bright chariot, proud and gay, Dost thy bright wood of stars survey, And all the year dost with thee bring Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal spring. Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above The sun's gilt tent for ever move, And still, as thou in pomp dost go, The shining pageants of the world attend thy show. # ABRAHAM COWLEY. 127 THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE AND UNCERTAINTY OF RICHES. WHY dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or, what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou'rt to fly, Oh, man! ordained to die? Why dost thou build up stately rooms on high, Thou who art under ground to lie? Thou sow'st and plantest, but no fruit must see, For Death, alas! is reaping thee. Suppose thou Fortune couldst to tameness bring, And clip or pinion her wing; Suppose thou couldst on Fate so far prevail, As not to cut off thy entail; Yet Death at all that subtlety will laugh; Death will that foolish gard'ner mock, Who does a slight and annual plant ingraff Upon a lasting stock. Thou dost thyself wise and industrious deem; A mighty husband thou would seem; Fond man! like a bought slave, thou all the while Dost but for others sweat and toil. Officious fool! that needs must meddling be In bus'ness that concerns not thee; For when to future years thou extend'st thy cares, Thou deal'st in other men's affairs. Ev'n aged men, as if they truly were Children again, for age prepare; Provisions for long travel they design, In the last point of their short line. Wisely the ant against poor winter hoards The stock which summer's wealth affords; In grasshoppers, that must at autumn die, How vain were such an industry! Of power and honour the deceitful light Might half excuse our cheated sight, If it of life the whole small time would stay, And be our sunshine all the day. 128 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Like lightning that, begot but in a cloud— Though shining bright, and speaking loud- Whilst it begins, concludes its violent race, And where it gilds, it wounds the place. Oh, scene of fortune! which dost fair appear Only to men that stand not near: Proud Poverty, that tinsel brav'ry wears, And, like a rainbow, painted tears! Be prudent, and the shore in prospect keep! In a weak boat trust not the deep; Placed beneath envy-above envying rise; Pity great men-great things despise. The wise example of the heav'nly lark, Thy fellow-poet, Cowley! mark; Above the clouds let thy proud music sound; Thy humble nest build on the ground. THE WISH. WELL, then, I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly' joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy. And they, methinks, deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings, The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings Of this great hive, the city. Ah! yet, ere I descend to the grave, May I a small house and large garden have, And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since love ne'er will from me flee, A mistress moderately fair, And good as guardian angels are, Only beloved, and loving me! Oh fountains! when in you shall I Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy? Oh fields! oh woods! when, when shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade? Here's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood, ANDREW MARVEL. 129 + Where all the riches lie, that she Has coined and stamped for good. Pride and ambition here Only in far-fetched metaphors appear; Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter, And nought but Echo flatter. The gods, when they descended hither From heaven, did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say, That 'tis the way too thither. How happy here should I, And one dear She live, and embracing die! She who is all the world, and can exclude In deserts solitude. I should have then this only fear, Lest men, when they my pleasures see, Should hither throng to live like me, And so make a city here. DEATH OF THE FAWN. THE wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! They cannot thrive Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst, alive, Them any harm; alas! nor could Thy death to them do any good. I'm sure I never wished them ill, Nor do I for all this; nor will: But, if my simple pray'rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But O my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's king Keeps register of everything, Andrew Marvel. A DISTINGUISHED senator, known better for his prose writings than his poetry, which, however, sparkles with wit and humour. He satir- ised the licentious court of Charles II. with much freedom. Some of his pieces abound in touches of great beauty. He was born at Winestead, in Lincolnshire, on 2d March, 1620, and died in 1678. $ Born 1620. Died 1678. 6* 130 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. į And nothing may we use in vain; Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain; Else men are made their deodands. Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean; their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain, There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. Inconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit, One morning, I remember well, Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me: nay, and I know What he said then-I'm sure I do. Said he: 'Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his deer.' But Sylvio soon had me beguiled: This waxed tame, while he grew wild, And, quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away With this; and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game: it seemed to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind to a beast that loveth me! Had it lived long, I do not know Whether it, too, might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false, or more, than he. For I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better than The love of false and cruel man: With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nursed; And as it grew so every dày, It waxed more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! and oft I blushed to see its foot more soft, f ANDREW MARVEL. 131 And white, shall I say? than my hand- Than any lady's of the land! It was a wondrous thing how fleet "Twas on those little silver feet. With what a pretty, skipping grace, It oft would challenge me the race; And when 't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown, And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It loved only to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself should rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed; And then to me 't would boldly trip, And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill; And its pure virgin lips to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within. THE EMIGRANTS IN THE BERMUDAS. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In th' ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along, The list'ning winds received their song:- 'What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Apmak 1 132 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. of Where He the huge sea-monsters racks, That lift the deep upon their backs; He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shade the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shews. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet. But apples, plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon he stores the land; And makes the hollow seas that roar, Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast of which we rather boast-- The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name. Oh let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexic bay.' Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. K 1 Born 1621. { Died 1695. Henry Vaughan. AUTHOR of a number of poems, chiefly devotional. He was intended for the bar, but in consequence of the civil wars he returned to his native place, Newton in Brecknock, where he followed the pro- fession of physician, and where he died in 1695. EARLY RISING AND PRAYER. WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty: true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun: NA HENRY VAUGHAN. Give him thy first thoughts then, so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in him sleep. Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Dawn with the day: there are set awful hours "Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good After sun-rising; far day sullies flowers: Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but hath his morning-hymn; each bush And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing! O leave thy cares and follies! Go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Serve God before the world; let him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him, and remember who Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine; Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on, and have an eye to heav'n. Mornings are mysteries; the first, the world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, Shroud in their births; the crown of life, light, truth, Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food: Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move—they make us holy, happy, rich. When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, Keep well thy temper, mix not with each clay; Despatch necessities; life hath a load Which must be carried on, and safely may; Yet keep those cares without thee; let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the better part. 133 THE NATIVITY. AWAKE, glad heart! get up, and sing! It is the birth-day of thy King; Awake! awake! The sun doth shake Light from his locks, and all the way, Breathing perfumes, doth spice the day. 134 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Awake! awake! hark, how th' wood rings; Winds whisper, and the busy springs A concert make! Awake! awake! Man is their high-priest, and should rise To offer up the sacrifice. I would I were some bird or star, Flutt'ring in woods, or lifted far Above this inn And road of sin! Then either star or bird should be Shining, or singing still to thee. I would I had in my best part Fit rooms for thee! or that my heart Were so clean as Thy manger was! But I am all filth and obscene; Yet, if thou wilt, thou canst make clean. Sweet Jesu! will then; let no more This leper haunt and soil thy door; Cure him, ease him, O release him! And let once more, by mystic birth, The Lord of life be born in earth. Born 1631. Died 1701. John Dryden. "" His contemporaries having left his life unwritten, nothing now can be known of this great poet beyond what uncertain tradition has supplied. John Dryden was born at Aldwinkle, near Oundle, in Northamptonshire. He was first sent to Westminster School, and afterwards to Cambridge. His college life gave few indications of his future greatness, and it was not till 1658, when in his twenty- seventh year, that he became a public candidate for fame. He then wrote heroic stanzas on the death of Cromwell. In 1666 he published a long poem, "Annus Mirabilis, an account of the events of 1666, which is esteemed one of his most elaborate works. He was now so much talked of that he succeeded Davenant as poet-laureate and royal historiographer, for each of which posts he received £100 a year. About 1673 Dryden had his complacency put to a severe test by the publication of a play by Elkanah Settle, which became very successful on the stage, and which threatened the supremacy of Dryden. Dryden could not repress his temper, and wrote such a criticism of the play as could only be the result of malignant jealousy. From this time play after play issued from Dryden's In 1681 Dryden prolific pen and were generally well received. united politics with his poetry, and wrote a memorable satire called "Absalom and Achitophel," on the faction of which Shaftesbury JOHN DRYDEN. DO 135 "" and Monmouth were the heads. The reception this satire met with was extraordinary; the allusions were quite understood, and the attractions of wit, elegance, and harmony filled every mind with delight; the Duke of Monmouth was Absalom, the Earl of Shaftes- bury was Achitophel, the Duke of Buckingham was Zimri. In an- other poem he lashes Settle under the name of Loeg. Dryden seems to have been a time-server; to please James VII., he became a Roman Catholic. The first public fruits of the change was the "Hind and Panther,' an allegorical poem in which the main argu- ments of the Roman Church are fully stated; the poem is sharr and unsparing in its wit and satire. The Hind represents the Papacy, and the Panther the Church of England. The Revolution of 1688 deprived Dryden of his offices, and as notwithstanding all he had written he remained poor, necessity still urged him forward, and in his declining years he produced some of his noblest works. Among these may be mentioned his immortal Ode to St. Cecilia, or Alexander's Feast, which has never been surpassed. It shed a lustre on the last days of the poet, who died in Gerard Street, on 1st May, 1701. A subscription was made for a public funeral, and he was interred with great pomp in Westminster Abbey. FROM "ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL." CHARACTER OF SHAFTESBURY. Or these the false Achitophel was first; A name to all succeeding ages cursed: For close designs, and crooked counsels fit; Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit; Restless, unfix'd in principles and place; In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace: A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pigmy-body to decay, And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit. Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide; Else why should he, with wealth and honour blest, Refuse his age the needful hours of rest? Punish a body which he could not please; Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease? And all to leave what with his toil he won, To that unfeather'd two-legg'd thing, a son; Got, while his soul did huddled notions try; And born a shapeless lump, like anarchy. In friendship false, implacable in hate; Resolved to ruin or to rule the state. To compass this the triple bond he broke; " 136 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The pillars of the public safety shook; And fitted Israel for a foreign yoke: Then seized with fear, yet still affecting fame, Usurp'd a patriot's all-atoning name. So easy still it proves, in factious times, With public zeal to cancel private crimes. How safe is treason, and how sacred ill, Where none can sin against the people's will! Where crowds can wink, and no offence be known, Since in another's guilt they find their own! Yet fame deserved no enemy can grudge; The statesman we abhor, but praise the judge. In Israel's courts ne'er sat an Abethdin With more discerning eyes, or hands more clean, Unbribed, unsought, the wretched to redress; Swift of despatch, and easy of access: Oh! had he been content to serve the crown, With virtues only proper to the gown; Or had the rankness of the soil been freed From cockle, that oppress'd the noble seed; David for him his tuneful harp had strung, And heaven had wanted one immortal song. But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand,. And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land. Achitophel, grown weary to possess A lawful fame, and lazy happiness, Disdain'd the golden fruit to gather free, And lent the crowd his arm to shake the tree Now, manifest of crimes contrived long since, He stood at bold defiance with his prince; Held up the buckler of the people's cause Against the crown, and skulk'd behind the laws. The wish'd occasion of the plot he takes; Some circumstances finds, but more he makes. By buzzing emissaries fills the ears Of listening crowds with jealousies and fears Of arbitrary counsels brought to light, And proves the king himself a Jebusite. Weak arguments! which yet he knew full well, Were strong with people easy to rebel. For, govern'd by the moon, the giddy Jews Tread the same track when she the prime renews; And once in twenty years, their scribes record, By natural instinct they change their lord. Achitophel still wants a chief, and none Was found so fit as warlike Absalom. JOHN DRYDEN. 137 1 Not that he wish'd his greatness to create, For politicians neither love nor hate: But, for he knew his title not allow'd, Would keep him still depending on the crowd: That kingly power, thus cbbing out, might be Drawn to the dregs of a democracy. Him he attempts with studied arts to please, And sheds his venom in such words as these: ACHITOPHEL'S ADDRESS TO MONMOUTHI, AND HIS REPLY. "Auspicious prince, at whose nativity Some royal planet ruled the southern sky; Thy longing country's darling and desire; Their cloudy pillar and their guardian fire: Their second Moses, whose extended wand Divides the seas, and shows the promised land: Whose dawning day, in every distant age, Has exercised the sacred prophet's rage: The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young men's vision, and the old men's dream! Thee, Saviour, thee the nation's vows confess, And, never satisfied with seeing, bless: Swift unbespoken pomps thy steps proclaim, And stammering babes are taught to lisp thy name. How long wilt thou the general joy detain, Starve and defraud the people of thy reign! Content ingloriously to pass thy days, Like one of virtue's fools that feed on praise; Till thy fresh glories, which now shine so bright, Grow stale, and tarnish with our daily sight! Believe me, royal youth, thy fruit must be Or gather'd ripe, or rot upon the tree. Heaven has to all allotted, soon or late, Some lucky revolution of their fate: Whose motions if we watch and guide with skill, (For human good depends on human will,) Our fortune rolls as from a smooth descent, And from the first impression takes the bent: But, if unseized, she glides away like wind, And leaves repenting folly far behind. Now, now she meets you with a glorious prize, And spreads her locks before her as she flies. Had thus old David, from whose loins you spring, Not dared when fortune call'd him to be king, At Gath an exile he might still remain, And Heaven's anointing oil had been in vain. 138 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Let his successful youth your hopes engage; But shun the example of declining age: Behold him setting in his western skies, The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise. He is not now, as when on Jordan's sand The joyful people thronged to see him land, Covering the beach, and blackening all the strand." He thus replied:-" And what pretence have I To take up arms for public liberty? My father governs with unquestion'd right; The faith's defender, and mankind's delight; Good, gracious, just, observant of the laws; And Heaven by wonders has espoused his cause. Whom has he wrong'd in all his peaceful reign! Who sues for justice to his throne in vain? What millions has he pardon'd of his foes, Whom just revenge did to his wrath expose! Mild, easy, humble, studious of our good, Inclined to mercy, and averse from blood. If mildness ill with stubborn Israel suit, His crime is God's beloved attribute. What could he gain his people to betray, Or change his right for arbitrary sway? Let haughty Pharaoh curse with such a reign His fruitful Nile, and yoke a servile train. If David's rule Jerusalem displease, The dog-star heats their brains to this disease. Why then should I, encouraging the bad, Turn rebel and run popularly mad? Were he a tyrant, who, by lawless might Oppress'd the Jews and raised the Jebusite, Well might I mourn; but nature's holy bands Would curb my spirit and restrain my hands: The people might assert their liberty; But what was right in them were crime in me. His favour leaves me nothing to require, Prevents my wishes, and out-runs desire; What more can I expect while David lives? All but his kingly diadem he gives: Why should I then repine at Heaven's decree, Which gives me no pretence to royalty? Yet, oh that fate, propitiously inclined, Had raised my birth, or had debased my mind; To my large soul not all her treasure lent, And then betray'd it to a mean descent! I find, I find my mounting spirits bold, ✩ 1 JOHN DRYDEN. 139 And David's part disdains my mother's mould. Why am I scanted by a niggard birth? My soul disclaims the kindred of her earth; And, made for empire, whispers me within, Desire of greatness is a godlike sin.' CHARACTER OF BUCKINGHAM, Some of their chiefs were princes of the land; In the first rank of these did Zimri stand; A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But, in the course of one revolving moon, Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking, Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, With something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual themes; And both, to show his judgment, in extremes: So over-violent, or over-civil, That every man with him was God or Devil. In squandering wealth was his peculiar art; Nothing went unrewarded but desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late; He had his jest, and they had his estate. He laugh'd himself from court, then sought relief By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief: For, spite of him, the weight of business fell On Absalom, and wise Achitophel: Thus, wicked but in will, of means bereft, He left no faction, but of that was left. RELIGIO LAICI. DIM as the borrow'd beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, Is Reason to the soul: and as on high, Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Not light us here; so Reason's glimmering ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upward to a better day. | 140 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And as those nightly tapers disappear, When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere; So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight; So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light. Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led From cause to cause, to nature's secret head; And found that one first principle must be But what, or who, that UNIVERSAL HE; Whether some soul incompassing this ball, Unmade, unmoved; yet making, moving all; Or various atoms' interfering dance Leap'd into form, the noble work of chance; Or this great all was from eternity; Not even the Stagirite himself could see: And Epicurus guess'd as well as he. As blindly groped they for a future state; As rashly judged of providence and fate: But least of all could their endeavours find What most concern'd the good of human kind; For happiness was never to found, But vanish'd from 'em like enchanted ground. One thought Content the good to be enjoy'd; This every little accident destroy'd: The wiser madmen did for Virtue toil, A thorny or at best a barren soil: In Pleasure some their glutton souls would steep, But found their line too short, the well too deep; And leaky vessels which no bless could keep. Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll, Without a centre where to fix the soul: In this wild maze their vain endeavors end: How can the less the greater comprehend? Or finite reason reach Infinity? For what could fathom God, were more than He. FROM "THE HIND AND PANTHER.' A MILK-WHITE Hind, immortal and unchanged, Fed on the lawns, and in the forest ranged; Without unspttoed, innocent within, She fear'd no danger, for she knew no sin. Yet had she oft been chased with horns and hounds, And Scythian shafts and many winged wounds JOHN DRYDEN. 141 Aim'd at her heart, was often forced to fly, And doom'd to death though fated not to die. Panting and pensive now she ranged alone, And wander'd in the kingdoms, once her own. The common hunt, though from their rage restrain'd By sovereign power, her company disdain'i; Grinn'd as they pass'd, and with a glaring eye Gave gloomy signs of secret enmity. 'Tis true she bounded by, and tripp'd so light, They had not time to take a steady sight. For truth has such a face and such a mien, As to be loved needs only to be seen. The Panther, sure the noblest, next the Hind, And fairest creature of the spotted kind; Oh, could her in-born stains be wash'd away, She were too good to be a beast of prey! How can I praise, or blame, and not offend, Or how divide the frailty from the friend? Her faults and virtues lie so mix'd, that she Nor wholly stands condemn'd, nor wholly free. Then, like her injured Lion, let me speak; He cannot bend her, and he would not break. Unkind already, and estranged in part, The Wolf begins to share her wandering heart: Though unpolluted yet with actual ill, She half commits, who sins but in her will. If, as our dreaming Platonists report, There could be spirits of a middle sort, Too black for heaven, and yet too white for hell, Who just dropp'd half-way down, nor lower fell; So poised, so gently she descends from high, It seems a soft dismission from the sky. Her house not ancient, whatsoe'er pretence Her clergy heralds make in her defence; A second century not half-way run, Since the new honours of her blood begun. ALEXANDER'S FEAST, 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne: : مال 142 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound; So should desert in arms be crowned. The lovely Thaïs by his side Sat, like a blooming Eastern bride, In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair; None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touched the lyre; The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, Such is the power of mighty Love! A dragon's fiery form belied the god: Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, When he to fair Olympia pressed; And while he sought her snowy breast, Then round her slender waist he curled, And stamped an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound; A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums; Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face. Now, give the hautboys breath; he comes! he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure; i JOHN DRYDEN. 143 Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain: Fought all his battles o'er again: And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And, while he heaven and earth defied, Changed his hand, and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse, Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, fall'n, Fall'n from his high estate, And welt'ring in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of fate below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree: 'Twas but a kindred sound to move; For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures; War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crowned, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 144 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. } Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, Sighed and looked, and sighed again. At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain. Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark! the horrid sound Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead, And, amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries; See the Furies arise; See the snakes that they rear! How they hiss in the air, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain; Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew: Behold how they toss their torches on high! How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods! The princes applaud, with a furious joy; And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thaïs led the way, To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, fired another Troy. Thus long ago, Ere heaving billows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute, Timotheus to his breathing flute And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, さ ​1 f 1 EARL OF ROSCOMMON. And added length to solemn sounds, With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He raised a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down. Earl of Roscommon. (6 WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon, and nephew of the celebrated Earl of Strafford. His chief poem is Essay on Trans- lated Verse," of which the following is an extract. THE MODEST MUSE. How nice the reputation of the maid! Your early kind paternal care appears By chaste instruction of her tender years. The first impression in her infant breast Will be the deepest, and should be the best. Let not austerity breed servil fear; No wanton sound offend her virgin ear. Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense. Secure from foolish pride's affected state, And specious flattery's more pernicious bait; Habitual innocence adorns her thoughts; But your neglect must answer for her faults. 145 EVENING HYMN. ALL praise to Thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light: Born 1635. Died 1685. Keep me, O keep me, King of kings, Under the shadow of thy wings. Bishop Ken. THOMAS KEN, Bishop of Bath and Wells, was born in Hertfordshire in 1637. Though a man of unyielding conscientiousness, he was made a bishop by Charles II. He was one of the seven_prelates sent to the Tower for opposing the usurpations of James II. He is chiefly known as the author of the "Morning, Evening, and Midnight Hymns.' Born 1637. Died 1710. 17 146 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son, The ill that I this day have done, That with the world, myself, and Thee, I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. O let my soul on Thee repose, And with sweet sleep mine eyelids close; Sleep that shall me more vig'rous make To serve my God when I awake. If in the night I sleepless fie, My soul with heavenly thoughts supply; Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, No powers of darkness me molest. Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed; Teach me to die, that so I may With joy behold the judgment day. Sir Charles Sedley. ONE of the wits of the court of Charles II., with whom he was a great favourite. He wrote plays and poems greatly admired in his time. His songs are, however, his happiest compositions. TO A VERY YOUNG LADY. An! Chloris, that I now could sit As unconcerned as when Your infant beauty could beget No pleasure, nor no pain. When I the dawn used to admire, And praised the coming day, I little thought the growing fire Must take my rest away. Your charms in harmless childhood lay Like metals in a mine; Age from no face took more away, Than youth concealed in thine. But as your charms insensibly To their perfection prest, Fond love as unperceived did fly, And in my bosom rest. Born 1639. Died 1701. "13 مل ¡ THOMAS OTWAY. 147 My passion with your beauty grew, And Cupid at my heart, Still as his mother favoured you, Threw a new flaming dart. Each gloried in their wanton part; To make a lover, he Employed the utmost of his art- To make a beauty, she. Though now I slowly bend to love, Uncertain of my fate, If your fair self my chains approve, I shall my freedom hate. Lovers, like dying men, may well At first disordered be, Since none alive can truly tell What fortune they must see. Thomas Otway. Or this unfortunate dramatist not much is known. He was born in Sussex on 3d March, 1651, the son of the rector of Wolbeding. He began his connection with the theatre in early life as an actor, in which he had small success; he obtained, however, an acquaintance with dramatic art which enabled him in 1675 to write a play which had a successful run at the theatres, and which he followed by oth- ers. From this time till 1685, when he wrote his last play, "Venice Preserved," he was constantly in the deepest poverty through ex- travagance. He died on 14th April, 1685, from sheer starvation. Born 1651. Died 1685. FROM "VENICE PRESERVED." Scene-St. Mark's. Enter PRIULI and JAFFIER. Pri. No more! I'll hear no more! begone, and leave me! Jaffier. Not hear me! by my sufferings but you shall! My lord--my lord! I'm not that abject wretch Pri. Have you not wronged me? Jaf. Could my nature e'er Have brooked injustice, or the doing wrongs, You think me. Patience! where's the distance throws Me back so far, but I may boldly speak In right, though proud oppression will not hear me. I need not now thus low have bent myself To gain a hearing from a cruel father. Wronged you? Pri. Yes, wronged me! in the nicest point, The honour of my house, you've done me wrong. 148 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. پل You may remember-for I now will speak, And urge its baseness-when you first came home From travel, with such hopes as made you looked on By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation; Pleased with your growing virtue, I received you; Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits; My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, My very self, was yours; you might have used me To your best service; like an open friend I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine; When, in requital of my best endeavours, You treacherously practised to undo me; Seduced the weakness of my age's darling, My only child, and stole her from my bosom. Oh! Belvidera! Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her: Childless had you been else, and in the grave Your name extinct; no more Priuli heard of. You may remember, scarce five years are past, Since in your brigantine you sailed to see The Adriatic wedded by our duke; And I was with you: your unskilful pilot Dashed us upon a rock; when to your boat You made for safety: entered first yourself; Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next, As she stood trembling on the vessel's side, Was by a wave washed off into the deep; When instantly I plunged into the sea, And buffeting the billows to her rescue, Redeemed her life with half the loss of mine. Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her, And with the other dashed the saucy waves, That thronged and pressed to rob me of my prize. I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms: Indeed you thanked me; but a nobler gratitude Rose in her soul; for from that hour she loved me, Till for her life she paid me with herself. PARTING. From "The Orphan." WHERE am I? Sure I wander 'midst enchantment, And never more shall find the way to rest. But O Monimia! art thou indeed resolved ĥ MATTHEW PRIOR. 149 To punish me with everlasting absence? Why turn'st thou from me? I'm alone already! Methinks I stand upon a naked beach Sighing to winds and to the seas complaining; Whilst afar off the vessel sails away, Where all the treasure of my soul's embarked! Wilt thou not turn? O could those eyes but speak! I should know all, for love is pregnant in them! They swell, they press their beams upon me still! Wilt thou not speak? If we must part for ever, Give me but one kind word to think upon, And please myself with, while my heart is breaking. MORNING. WISHED morning's come; and now upon the plains And distant mountains, where they feed their flocks, The happy shepherds leave their homely huts, And with their pipes proclaim the new-born day. The lusty swain comes with his well-filled scrip Of healthful viands, which, when hunger calls, With much content and appetite he eats, To follow in the field his daily toil, And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits. The beasts that under the warm hedges slept, And weathered out the cold bleak night, are up; And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow. The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees, Assemble all in choirs; and with their notes Salute and welcome up the rising sun. Matthew Prior. AN English poet, born in Dorsetshire, of humble origin; but whose abilities raised him to a position of considerable eminence in the political world. Having attracted the regards of the Earl of Dorset, he was sent to Cambridge University, where he distinguished him- self. In 1687, in conjunction with Charles Montagu, afterwards Earl of Halifax, he produced the "City Mouse and Country Mouse," a reply to Dryden's "Hind and Panther," which it is said brought tears of vexation to the eyes of Dryden. Prior was thus brought into notice, and rose to some of the most responsible posts; having been appointed successively secretary to the embassy at the Hague, secretary to the embassy at the Treaty of Ryswick, under-secretary of State, commissioner at the Board of Trade, and ultimately am- Born 1664. Died 1721. KA 150 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. bassador to France; such a career is the lot of few humble born poets. In 1715, on his recall from France, he was arrested on a charge of high treason, but after two years' confinement was set at liberty without a trial. During his confinement he wrote his poem of " Alma;" and being now left without employment or money, he had recourse to the publication of a collected edition of his poems, which was published by subscription, and which real- ised about £4000. On this he retired from public life; but died at Wimpole, the seat of the Earl of Oxford, on 18th September, 1721, in his fifty-seventh year. CHARITY. DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue Than ever man pronounced, or angels sung: Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define! And had I power to give that knowledge birth In all the speeches of the babbling earth: Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire To weary tortures and rejoice in fire: Or had I faith like that which Israel saw When Moses gave them miracles and law: Yet, gracious Charity! indulgent guest, Were not thy power exerted in my breast, Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer That scorn of life would be but wild despair; A symbol's sound were better than my voice- My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. Charity! decent, modest, easy, kind, Softens the high, and rears the abject mind: Knows with just reins and gentle hand to guide Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride. Not soon provoked, she easily forgives, And much she suffers as she much believes- Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives, She builds our quiet as she forms our lives: Lays the rough path of peevish nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven. Each other gift, which God on man bestows, Its proper bounds and due restriction knows: To one fixed purpose dedicates its power, And finishing its act, exists no more. Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees, Knowledge shall fail and Prophecy shall cease; But lasting Charity's more ample sway, Nor bound by time nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live, And endless good diffuse and endless praise receive. } MATTHEW PRIOR. 151 ! As through the artist's intervening glass Our eye observes the distant planets pass, A little we discover, but allow That more remains unseen than art can show: So, whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above) High as we may, we lift our reason up, By faith directed, and confirmed by hope; Yet are we able only to survey Dawning of beams and promises of day; Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight, Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispelled- The sun shall soon be face to face beheld, In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throne. Then constant Faith and Holy Hope shall die, One lost in certainty, and one in joy. Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity! Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, Thy office and thy nature still the same, Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame, Shalt still survive- Shalt stand before the host of heaven confest, For ever blessing, and for ever blest. THE CHAMELEON. As the Chameleon, who is known To have no colours of his own; But borrows from his neighbour's hue, His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight, As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him and his heirs-male; So the young squire, when first he comes From country school to Will's or Tom's, And equally, in truth, is fit To be a statesman, or a wit; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and down, Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad, . 152 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Admits him in among the gang; They jest, reply, dispute, harangue; He acts and talks, as they befriend him, Smeared with the colours which they lend him. Thus, merely as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances. If haply he the sect pursues, That read and comment upon news; He takes up their mysterious face; He drinks his coffee without lace; This week his mimic tongue runs o'er What they have said the week before; His wisdom sets all Europe right, And teaches Marlborough when to fight. Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit. He loves cheap port, and double kub, And settles in the Humdrum Club; He learns how stocks will fall or rise; Holds poverty the greatest vice; Thinks wit the bane of conversation; And says that learning spoils a nation. But if, at first, he minds his hits, And drinks champagne among the wits; Five deep he toasts the towering lasses; Repeats you verses wrote on glasses; Is in the chair; prescribes the law; And's loved by those he never saw. POETASTERS. DEAR Thomas, did'st thou never pop Thy head into a tinman's shop? There, Thomas, did'st thou never see ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage; The cage, as either side turned up, Striking a ring of bells at top?- Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But, here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. } JONATHAN SWIFT. 153 B So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades, In noble song and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low. Jonathan Swift. THIS extraordinary man, more famous as a political writer than a poet, was born in Dublin in 1667. He was at first a candidate for court patronage; but being somewhat unsuccessful, he took orders in the Irish Church, where he rose to be Dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin. To give even a sketch of his stirring life would exceed the limits of a simple notice. He was the idol of the Irish people. whose cause he advocated; and was a very scourge to his political adversaries, his pen being equally irresistible and unscrupulous. His "Tale of a Tub," published in 1704, created an immense sensation, and will ever be connected with his name. As a poet he never rose beyond the commonplace, his mind having little of the ideal; but he depicts the absurdities of his times with graphic power. As the author of "Gulliver's Travels," he will ever be remembered with interest. For about three years before his death his mind began to give way. He died on 17th October, 1745, and was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, amid the universal lamentations of his countrymen. Born 1667. Died 1745. A CITY SHOWER. MEANWHILE the south, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings, Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope; Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife, But, aided by the wind, fought still for life, And wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's a-broach, Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. 7* I 154 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides. Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs, Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits; And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed— Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, run them through— Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear. A MODERN LADY. THE modern dame is waked by noon (Some authors say not quite so soon), Because, though sore against her will, She sate all night up at quadrille. She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes, And asks if it be time to rise: Of headache and the spleen complains; And then, to cool her heated brains, Her night-gown and her slippers brought her, Takes a large dram of citron-water. Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray Don't I look frightfully to-day? But was it not confounded hard? Well, if I ever touch a card! Four mattadores, and lose codille! Depend upon't, I never will. But run to Tom, and bid him fix The ladies here to-night by six." Madam, the goldsmith waits below; He says, 'His business is to know If you'll redeem the silver cup He keeps in pawn?" First, show him up." "Your dressing-plate he'll be content To take, for interest cent. per cent. ܙܙ } JONATHAN SWIFT. 155 1 And, madam, there's my Lady Spade, Hath sent this letter by her maid." "Well, I remember what she won; And hath she sent so soon to dun? Here, carry down those ten pistoles My husband left to pay for coals: I thank my stars, they all are light; And I may have revenge to-night." Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream, She enters on her usual theme; Her last night's ill success repeats, Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats: "She slipped spadillo in her breast, Then thought to turn it to a jest: There's Mrs. Cut and she combine, And to each other give the sign." Through every game pursues her tale, Like hunters o'er their evening ale. LINES ON HIS OWN DEATH. THE time is not remote, when I Must by the course of nature die; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends: And, though 'tis hardly understood, Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: "See, how the dean begins to break! Poor gentleman! he droops apace! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind; Forgets the place where last he dined; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. { 156 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS- i : Faith, he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another sct be found. "For poetry, he's past his prime; He takes an hour to find a rhyme: His fire is out, his wit decayed, His fancy sunk, his muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen- But there's no talking to some men." And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years: "He's older than he would be reckoned, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach, too, begins to fail; Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing; I wish he may hold out till spring." They hug themselves and reason thus: It is not yet so bad with us. In such a case they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess- When daily how-d'ye's come of course, And servants answer: "Worse and worse!". Would please them better than to tell, That, God be praised! the dean is well. Then he, who prophesied the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: (6 You know I always feared the worst, And often told you so at first." He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his prediction prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover, But all agree to give me over. Behold the fatal day arrive! How is the dean? he's just alive. Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes. The dean is dead. Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town has run; ¡ JONATHAN SWIFT. 157 ノ ​ "Oh! may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir?” I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses. "To public uses! there's a whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all-but first he died. And had the dean in all the nation No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood!" Now Grub Street wits are all employed With elegies the town is cloyed: Some paragraph in every paper To curse the dean or bless the Drapier. The doctors, terder of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame: "We must confess his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years; From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court the dean is dead. And Lady Suffolk in the spleen Runs laughing up to tell the queen; The queen so gracious, mild, and good, Cries: "Is he gone! 'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; then let him rot! I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promised him, I own; but when? I only was the princess then; But now as consort of the king, You know 'tis quite another thing." Now Charteris, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy; 66 Why, if he died without his shoes (Cries Bob), I'm sorry for the news; Oh, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will! Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke was dead!" Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains! And then to make them pass the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. 1 # f 158 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. { He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will; my life, my letters; Revive the libels born to die, Which Pope must bear, as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love, my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day. St. John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry: ، "I'm sorry-but we all must die!" Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past; a different scene! No further mention of the dean, Who now, alas! no more is missed, Than if he never did exist. Where's now the favourite of Apollo? Departed: and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date. Some country squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot: "I have heard the name; He died a year ago. "" (เ The same." He searches all the shop in vain. "Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane. I sent them, with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past; The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff." : JOSEPH ADDISON. 159 Joseph Addison. "" ADDISON. famous both as a prose and poetical writer, was the son of the Dean of Litchfield, and born at Milston, Wiltshire, on the 1st May, 1672. He was entered at Queen's College, Oxford, at the age of fifteen, and soon distinguished himself by his classical knowledge. In 16:15 a complimentary poem, written by him on one of King William's campaigns, obtained for him a pension of £300 a-year to enable him to travel. He resided abroad for two years, where he wrote his "Poetical Letter from Italy" to Lord Halifax. In 1704 he was appointed under secretary of state, and accom- panied the Marquis of Wharton, the lord lieutenant. to Ireland. While there he contributed largely to the "Tatler," which had just been started by Steele. His career as an essayist threw all his contemporaries into the shade, and his papers in the "Spectator were read wherever English literature existed. In 1713 appeared his "Tragedy of Cato." On this his chief fame as a poet rests; it met with immense popularity, and was translated into many foreign languages. Addison is also the author of some of our finest hymns. In 1716 he married the Dowager Countess of Warwick, by whom he had one daughter. The marriage was far from being a happy one. A year after he was appointed secretary of state, but not finding the situation suited to his talents, he retired into private life with a pension of £1500 a year. In his retirement he was ever busy with the pen, and wrote many pieces of sacred poetry. Addi- son died at Holland House, on the 17th June, 1719, in the forty ninth year of his age, Born 1672. Died 1719. LETTER FROM ITALY. FOR wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise; Poetic fields encompass me around, And still I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain rears its head unsung; Renowned in verse each shady thicket grows, And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle; Or when transplanted and preserved with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents; Even the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride; Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies. 1 160 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. CR How has kind heaven adorned the happy land, And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst. O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train; Eased of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine; With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies; Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. BUT now the trumpet terrible from far In shriller clangours animates the war; Confed'rate drums in fuller concert beat, And echoing hills the loud alarm repeat: JOSEPH ADDISON. 161 Gallia's proud standards to Bavaria's joined, Unfurl their gilded lilies in the wind; The daring prince his blasted hopes renews, And while the thick embattled host he views Stretched out in deep array, and dreadful length, His heart dilates, and glories in his strength. The fatal day its mighty course began, That the grieved world had long desired in vain; States that their new captivity bemoaned, Armies of martyrs that in exile groaned, Sighs from the depth of gloomy dungeon heard, And prayers in bitterness of soul preferred; Europe's loud cries, that Providence assailed, And Anna's ardent vows, at length prevailed; The day was come when Heav'n designed to show His care and conduct, of the world below. Behold, in awful march and dread array The long extended squadrons shape their way! Death, in approaching, terrible, imparts An anxious horror to the bravest hearts; Yet do their beating breasts demand the strife, And thirst of glory quells the love of life. No vulgar fears can British minds control; Heat of revenge, and noble pride of soul, O'erlooked the foe, advantaged by his post, Lessen his numbers, and contract his host; Though fens and floods possessed the middle space, That unprovoked they would have feared to pass; Nor fens nor floods can stop Britannia's bands, When her proud foe ranged on their borders stands. But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle joined! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, The victor's shouts and dying groans confound; The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, And all the thunder of the battle rise. 'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved, That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, Examined all the dreadful scenes of war; In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, And taught the doubtful battle where to rage. So when an angel, by divine command, With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, of 162 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed, Calm and serene he drives the furious blast, And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm. FROM TRAGEDY OF CATO. IT must be so-Plato, thou reason'st well!— Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality! Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! Through what variety of untried being, Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me, But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us— And that there is, all nature cries aloud Through all her works-he must delight in virtue; And that which he delights in must be happy. But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar. I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. [Laying his hand on his sword. Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, My bane and antidote, are both before me: This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 1 What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care, Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her, 1 " I ISAAC WATTS. 163 i That my awakened soul may take her flight, Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. Dr. Isaac Watts. >" THIS distinguished divine and poet was born at Southampton, on 17th July, 1674. In early life he showed such talents, that a sub- scription was proposed to send him to the University; but being a Dissenter, and inclining to remain one, he went to an academy taught by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, where he remained till he was twenty. During this time he had been "a maker of verses, especially in Latin. After this he obtained the situation of tutor in the family of Sir John Hartopp, at Stoke-Newington, where he remained for four years, when he was, in his twenty-fourth year, chosen assistant-pastor to Dr. Chauncey, an Independent minister. Bad health in a short time incapacitated him for the full discharge of his pastoral duties, and an assistant was appointed by the congregation A friend, Sir Thomas Abney, was so kind, in the circumstances, as offer him apartments in his house; he removed thither, and for thirty-three years was the cherished inmate of Abney House. During this period he composed his "Logic," "Im- provement of the Mind," and the many hymns and sacred songs which enrich every collection of religious poetry. He died at Abney House, 25th November, 1748, at the age of seventy-five. 55 66 EARTH AND HEAVEN. HAST thou not seen, impatient boy? Hast thou not read the solemn truth, That gray experience writes for giddy youth On every mortal joy? Pleasure must be dashed with pain: In vain we seek a heaven below the sky; The world has false but flattering charms; Its distant joys show big in our esteem, But lessen still as they draw near the eye: In our embrace the visions dic: And yet, with heedless haste, The thirsty boy repeats the taste, Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again. The rills of pleasure never run sincere: Earth has no unpolluted spring, From the cursed soil some dangerous taint they bear; So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting. And when we grasp the airy forms, We lose the pleasing dream. J Born 1674. Died 1748. 164 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Earth, with her scenes of gay delight, Is but a landscape rudely drawn, With glaring colours, and false light; Distance commends it to the sight, For fools to gaze upon, But bring the nauseous daubing nigh, Coarse and confused the hideous figures lie, Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye. Look up, my soul, pant tow'rd the eternal hills; Those heavens are fairer than they seem; There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal rills, There not a dreg of guilt defiles, Nor grief disturbs the stream. That Canaan knows no noxious thing, No cursed soil, no tainted spring, Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting. A SUMMER EVENING. How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun, How lovely and joyful the course that he run, Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun, And there follow'd some droppings of rain! But now the fair traveller's come to the west, His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best: He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest, And foretells a bright rising again.. Just such is the Christian; his course he begins, Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins, And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines, And travels his heavenly way: But when he comes nearer to finish his race, Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace, And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days, Of rising in brighter array. THE ROSE. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. A THOMAS PARNELL. 165 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colours lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men, Though they bloom and look gay like the rose; But all our fond cares to preserve them is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, Since both of them wither and fade; But gain a good name by well doing my duty; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. Thomas Parnell. PARNELL, though born in Dublin, was the child of English parents, who had purchased a considerable property in Ireland, which after- wards was inherited by the poet. He was educated for holy orders, and in 1703 was appointed to the archdeaconry of Clogher, and some time after to the vicarage of Finglas. As residence was not obliga- tory, he spent most of his time in London. He delighted in writing poetry, and he published translations, hymns, songs, &c., from time to time during his short career. He is chiefly known now by his piece "The Hermit." He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, on 18th October, 1718, in his thirty-ninth year. Born 1679. Died 1718. THE HERMIT. FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well; Remote from men, with God he passed his days, Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. A life so sacred, such serene repose, Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose— That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey; This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway; His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, And all the tenor of his soul is lost. So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed Calm nature's image on its watery breast, Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, And skies beneath with answering colours glow: } 1 : 166 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. But, if a stone the gentle sea divide, Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, To find if books, or swains, report it right— For yet by swains alone the world he knew, Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew— He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore, And fixed the scallop in his hat before; Then, with the rising sun, a journey went, Sedate to think, and watching each event. The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, And long and lonesome was the wild to pass; But, when the southern sun had warmed the day, A youth came posting o'er a crossing way; His raiment decent, his complexion fair, And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair; Then, near approaching, "Father, hail!" he cried, And, " Hail, my son!" the reverend sire replied. Words followed words, from question answer flowed, And talk, of various kinds, deceived the road; Till each with other pleased, and loath to part, While in their age they differ, join in heart. Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around. Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray; Nature, in silence, bid the world repose, When, near the road, a stately palace rose. There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass. It chanced the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home; Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait; The lord receives them at the pompous gate; The table groans with costly piles of food, And all is more than hospitably good. Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day, Along the wide canals the zephyrs play; Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep, And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep. 1 THOMAS PARNELL. 167 + V • Up rise the guests, obedient to the call, An early banquet decked the splendid hall; Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, Which the kind master forced the guests to taste. Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go; And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo; His cup was vanished; for in secret guise, The younger guest purloined the glittering prize. As one who spies a serpent in his way, Glistening and basking in the summer ray, Disordered stops to shun the danger near, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road, The shining spoil his wily partner showed. He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart, And much he wished, but durst not ask to part; Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard That generous actions meet a base reward. While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, The changing skies hang out their sable clouds; A sound in air presaged approaching rain, And beasts to covert scud across the plain. Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat. 'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, And strong, and large, and unimproved around; Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. As near the miser's heavy door they drew, Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew; The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began, And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran; Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain. Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain. At length some pity warmed the master's breast- 'Twas then his threshold first received a guest-- Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair; One frugal faggot lights the naked walls, And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls; Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre winc— Each hardly granted-served them both to dine; And when the tempest first appeared to cease, A ready warning bid them part in peace. With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed, In one so rich, a life so poor and rude; podat 168 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And why should such-within himself he cried- Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside? But what new marks of wonder soon take place In every settling feature of his face, When, from his vest, the young companion bore That cup, the generous landlord owned before, And paid profusely with the precious bowl, The stinted kindness of this churlish soul! But now the clouds in airy tumult fly; The sun emerging, opes an azure sky; A fresher green the smelling leaves display, And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day: The weather courts them from their poor retreat, And the glad master bolts the weary gate. While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought With all the travail of uncertain thought: His partner's acts without their cause appear; 'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here: Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, Lost and confounded with the various shows. Now night's dim shades again involve the sky; Again the wanderers want a place to lie; Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. The soil improved around, the mansion neat, And neither poorly low, nor idly great; It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind, Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind. Hither the walkers turn their weary feet, Then bless the mansion, and the master greet. Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise, The courteous master hears, and thus replies: “Without a vain, without a grudging heart, To him who gives us all, I yield a part; From him you come, from him accept it here, A frank and sober, more than costly cheer!" He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, Then talked of virtue till the time of bed; When the grave household round his hall repair, Warned by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. At length the world, renewed by calm repose, Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose; Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept Near a closed cradle where an infant slept, And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride, O strange return! grew black, and gasped, and died! Horror of horrors! what! his only son! THOMAS PARNELL. 169 5 7. How looked our hermit when the fact was done! Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part, And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. Confused, and struck with silence at the deed, He flies, but trembling, fails to fly with speed; His steps the youth pursues: the country lay Perplexed with roads; a servant showed the way; A river crossed the path; the passage o'er Was nice to find; the servant trod before; Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, And deep the waves beneath them bending glide. The youth, who seemed to watch a time to sin, Approached the careless guide, and thrust him in; Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head, Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. While sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries: "Detested wretch!"--but scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seemed no longer man! His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turned white, and flowed upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; «Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glittered on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display. The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light. Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do; Surprise, in secret chains, his word suspends, And in a calm, his settling temper ends, But silence here the beauteous angel broke— The voice of Music ravished as he spoke: "Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne: These charms success in our bright region find, And force an angel down to calm thy mind; For this commissioned, I forsook the sky: Nay, cease to kneel-thy fellow-servant I. Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine. The Maker justly claims that world he made; In this the right of Providence is laid; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work his ends: "Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 8 170 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. →ε The power exerts his attributes on high; Your action uses, nor controls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men be still. What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, And, where you can't unriddle, learn to trust. The great vain man, who fared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, And forced his guests to morning-draughts of wine; Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. The mean suspicious wretch, whose bolted door Ne'er moved in pity to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half-weaned his heart from God→→ Child of his age-for him he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run; But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seemed to go, And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just. But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack, Had that false servant sped in safety back? This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund of charity would fail! Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew; Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky; The fiery pomp ascending left the view; The prophet gazed, and wished to follow too. The bending hermit here a prayer begun : THOMAS PARNELL. 171 (6 Lord, as in heaven, on earth thy will be done.” Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place And passed a life of piety and peace. NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. By the blue taper's trembling light, No more I waste the wakeful night, Intent with endless view to pore The schoolmen and the sages o'er: Their books from wisdom widely stray, Or point at best the longest way. I'll seek a readier path, and go Where wisdom's surely taught below. How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves. That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass, with melancholy state, By all the solemn heaps of fate, And think, as softly sad you tread Above the venerable dead, "Time was, like thee they life possest, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest.” Those, with bending osier bound, That nameless heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose. The flat, smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, (Which ere our set of friends decay, Their frequent steps may wear away;) A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown, } 172 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones; These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great; Who, while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give. HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. LOVELY, lasting peace of mind! Sweet delight of human kind! Heavenly born, and bred on high, To crown the favourites of the sky With more of happiness below, Than victors in a triumph know! Whither, O whither art thou fled, To lay thy meek contented head? What happy region dost thou please To make the seat of calms and ease? "Ambition searches all its sphere Of pomp and state to meet thee there. Increasing Avarice would find Thy presence in its gold enshrined. The bold adventurer ploughs his way, Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, To gain thy love; and then perceives Tho wert not in the rocks and waves. The silent heart which grief assails, Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales; Sees daisies open, rivers run, And seeks (as I have vainly done). Amusing thought; but learns to know That Solitude's the nurse of wo. "Lovely, lasting Peace, appear! This world itself, if thou art here, Is once again with Eden blest, And man contains it in his breast." 'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, I sung my wishes to the wood, And, lost in thought, no more perceived The branches whispered as they waved: EDWARD YOUNG. 173 D It seem'd as all the quiet place Confess'd the presence of the Grace. When thus she spoke-" Go, rule thy will, Bid thy wild passions all be still; Know God and bring thy heart to know The joys which from religion flow: Then every Grace shall prove its guest, And I'll be there to crown the rest." Edward Young. .. THE author of "Night Thoughts" was born in June, 1681, at Upham, in Hampshire, where his father was rector. He received his early education at Winchester school, and he afterwards was sent to Ox- ford, where he took his degree. His first public appearance as a poet was in 1712, in an Epistle to Lord Lansdowne" and his repu- tation as a poet was fully established by the publication of "The Last Day," "The Force of Religion," and "The Love of Fame." In 1725 Young obtained a pension of £200 a year, which he enjoyed till his death. In 1730 he obtained the living of Welwyn, in Hertford- shire, and about the same time married a daughter of the Earl of Lichfield, with whom he lived happily till she died, ten years after. Her death was the occasion of his writing his noble poem, the "Night Thoughts." Young lived at Welwyn till April, 1765, when he died at the ripe age of eighty-four. Born 1691. Died 1765. ON LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. Extracts from "Night Thoughts." TIRED Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes; Swift on his downy pinion flies from wo, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. From short (as usual) and disturbed repose I wake: how happy they who wake no more! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake, emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous; where my wrecked desponding thought From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain- A bitter change!-severer for severe: The day too short for my distress; and night, E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, Is sunshine to the colour of my fate. Night, sable goddess! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty, now stretches forth ' 174 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead! and darkness how profound! Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause; An awful pause! prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled: Fate! drop the curtain; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness! solemn sisters! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve— That column of true majesty in man— Assist me: I will thank you in the grave; The grave your kingdom: there this frame shall fall A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. But what are ye? Thou, who didst put to flight Primeval Silence, when the morning stars, Exulting, shouted o'er the rising ball; O Thou! whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul; My soul, which flies to thee, her trust, her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest. Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh lead my mind— A mind that fain would wander from its wo- Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. M The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss: to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. Where are they? With the years beyond the flood It is the signal that demands dispatch: How much is to be done? My hopes and fears Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss. A dread eternity! how surely mine! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man! EDWARD YOUNG. 175 How passing wonder He who made him such! Who centred in our make such strange extremes, From different natures marvellously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! A bean ethereal, sullied and absorpt! Though sullied and dishonoured, still divine! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! • An heir of glory! a frail child of dust: Helpless immortal! insect infinite! A worm! a god! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home, a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels! Oh what a miracle to man is man! Triumphantly distressed! what joy! what dread! Alternately transported and alarmed! What can preserve my life! or what destroy! An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave: Legions of angels can't confine me there. This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free From real life; but little more remote Is he, not yet a candidate for light, The future embryo, slumbering in his sire. Embryos we must be till we burst the shell, Yon ambient azure shell, and spring to life, The life of gods, O transport! and of man. Yet man, fool man! here buries all his thoughts; Inters celestial hopes without one sigh. Prisoner of earth, and pent beneath the moon, Here pinions all his wishes; winged by heaven To fly at infinite: and reach it there Where seraphs gather immortality, On life's fair tree, fast by the throne of God. What golden joys ambrosial clustering glow In his full beam, and ripen for the just, Where momentary ages are no more! Where time, and pain, and chance, and death expire! f 176 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And is it in the flight of threescore years To push eternity from human thought, And smother souls immortal in the dust? A soul immortal, spending all her fires, Wasting her strength in strenuous idleness, Thrown into tumult, raptured or alarmed, At aught this scene can threaten or indulge, Resembles ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly. Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment, but in purchase of its worth; And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell. Part with it as with life, reluctant; big With holy hope of nobler time to come; Time higher aimed, still nearer the great mark Of men and angels, virtue more divine. "I've lost a day "-the prince who nobly cried, Had been an emperor without his crown. Of Rome? say, rather, lord of human race: He spoke as if deputed by mankind. So should all speak; so reason speaks in all: From the soft whispers of that God in man, Why fly to folly, why to frenzy fly, For rescue from the blessings we possess? Time, the supreme!-Time is eternity; Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. Who murders Time, he crushes in the birth A power ethereal, only not adored. We push time from us, and we wish him back: Life we think long and short; death seek and shun. Oh the dark days of vanity! while Here, how tasteless! and how terrible when gone! Gone? they ne'er go; when past, they haunt us still: The spirit walks of every day deceased, If time past, And smiles an angel, or a fury frowns. Nor death nor life delight us. And time possessed, both pain us, what can please? That which the Deity to please ordained, Time used. The man who consecrates his hours By vigorous effort, and an honest aim, At once he draws the sting of life and death: He walks with nature, and her paths are peace. EDWARD YOUNG. 177 A A weight, let fall From a fix'd star in ages can it reach This distant earth? Say, then, Lorenzo! where, Where ends this mighty building? where begin The suburbs of creation? where the wall Whose battlements look o'er into the vale Of non-existence-nothing's strange abode! Say, at what point of space Jehovah dropp'd His slacken'd line, and laid his balance by; Weigh'd worlds, and measured infinite no more, Where rears his terminating pillar high Its extra-mundane head? and says, to gods, In characters illustrious as the sun- "I stand, the plan's proud period; I pronounce The work accomplish'd, the creation closed: Shout all ye gods! nor shout, ye gods alone; Of all that lives, or if devoid of life, That rests or rolls, ye heights and depths resound! Resound! resound! ye depths and heights resound!" Hard are those questions!-Answer harder still. Throw years away? Throw empires, and be blameless: moments seize; Heaven 's on their wing: a moment we may wish, When worlds want wealth to buy. Bid day stand still, Bid him drive back his car and re-impart The period past, re-give the given hour. Lorenzo! more than miracles we want. Lorenzo! O for yesterdays to come! THE MAN WHOSE THOUGHTS ARE NOT OF THIS WORLD, SOME angel guide my pencil, while I draw, What nothing less than angel can exceed, A man on earth devoted to the skies; Like ships in seas, while in, above the world. With aspect mild, and elevated eye, Behold him seated on a mount serene, Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm; All the black cares and tumults of this life, Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace. Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave. A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he sees, 8* 178 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Bewildered in the vale; in all unlike! His full reverse in all! what higher praise? What stronger demonstration of the right? The present all their care, the future his. When public welfare calls, or private want, They give to Fame; his bounty he conceals. Their virtues varnish Nature, his exalt. Mankind's esteem they court, and he his own. Theirs the wild chase of false felicities; His the composed possession of the true. Alike throughout is his consistent peace, All of one colour, and an even thread; While party-coloured shreds of happiness, With hideous gaps between, patch up for them A madman's robe; each puff of fortune blows The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. He sees with other eyes than theirs: where they Behold a sun, he spies a Deity. What makes them only smile, makes him adore. PROCRASTINATION. BE wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer: Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live," d'or ever on the brink of being born: All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel, and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise; At least their own; their future selves applaud; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead! Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails; That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. You мову } EDWARD YOUNG. 179 ZĀKIE kukaan e A All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. THE EMPTINESS OF RICHES. CAN gold calm passion, or make reason shine? Can we dig peace or wisdom from the mine? Wisdom to gold prefer, for 'tis much less To make our fortune than our happiness: That happiness which great ones often see, With rage and wonder, in a low degree, Themselves unblessed. The poor are only poor. But what are they who droop amid their store? Nothing is meaner than a wretch of state. The happy only are the truly great. Peasants enjoy like appetites with kings, And those best satisfied with cheapest things. Could both our Indies buy but one new sense, Our envy would be due to large expense; Since not, those pomps which to the great belong, Are but poor arts to mark them from the throng. See how they beg an alms of Flattery: They languish! oh, support them with a lie! A decent competence we fully taste; It strikes our sense, and gives a constant feast; More we perceive by dint of thought alone; The rich must labour to possess their own. To feel their great abundance, and request Their humble friends to help them to be blest; To see their treasure, hear their glory told, And aid the wretched impotence of gold. But some, great souls! and touched with warmth divine, Give gold a price, and teach its beams to shine; All hoarded treasures they repute a load, Nor think their wealth their own, till well bestowed. Į 180 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Grand reservoirs of public happiness, Through secret streams diffusively they bless, And, while their bounties glide, concealed from view, Relieve our wants, and spare our blushes too. ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. O THOυ? whose balance does the mountains weigh; Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey; Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And on thy never-ceasing 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 distressed, And lift the burden from the soul oppressed. Oh! may my understanding ever read This glorious volume which thy wisdom made! May sea and land, and earth and heaven be joined, To bring th' 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. 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. When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies; } ALLAN RAMSAY. 181 } Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, And show all nature in a milder light: How every boist'rous 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. J Allan Ramsay. THIS Scottish poet was born in 16S6 at Leadhills, a small village in Lanarkshire, where his father held the situation of manager in a lead mine. He remained there till he was fifteen, when he was ap- prenticed to a wig-maker in Edinburgh. It was not till he was twenty-six years of age that he commenced writing poetry; when an address to "The Easy Club" brought him into notice. He wrote various light humorous pieces, which were sold separately at a penny each, and which became very popular; he was so successful in this mode of publishing, that he set up a shop as a regular book- seller and publisher. Various small pieces came from his pen, till, in 1726, appeared his celebrated pastoral drama, "The Gentle Shep- herd." In 1743 his circumstances enabled him to build a house on the Castle Hill of Edinburgh, which is called Ramsay Lodge to this day. He died there on the 7th January, 1758, in the seventy-second year of his age. Born 1686. Died 1758. LOCHABER NO MORE. FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest o' thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By case that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. 182 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. ON MARRIAGE. (From the "Gentle Shepherd.") Peggy. Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind; I'm ower far gane in love. Patic to me is dearer than my breath; But want o' him, I dread nae other skaith. There's nane o' a' the herds that tread the green Has sic a smile, or sic twa glancing een : And then he speaks wi' sic a taking art- His words they thirl like music through my heart. How blithely can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave! Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill. He is- But what need I say that or this? I'd spend a month to tell you what he is! In a' he says or does, there's sic a gate, The rest seem coofs compared wi' my dear Pate. His better sense will lang his love secure; Ill-nature hefts in sauls that's weak and poor. Jenny. But poortith, Peggy, is the warst o' a'; Gif o'er your heads ill-chance should begg'ry draw, But little love or canty cheer can come Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom. Your nowt may die-the spate may bear away Frae aff the holms your dainty rucks o' hay. The thick-blawn wreaths o' snaw, or blashy thows, May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes. A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese, But, or the day o' payment, breaks, and flees. Wi' gloomin' brow, the laird seeks in his rent; It's no to gie: your merchant's to the bent. i } ALLAN RAMSAY. 183 Ф His honour maunna want-he poinds your gear; Syne, driven frae house and hald, where will ye steer? Dear Meg, be wise, and live a single life; Troth, it's nae mows to be a married wife. Peggy. May sic ill-luck befa' that silly she Wha has sic fears, for that was never me. Let fouk bode weel, and strive to do their best; Nae mair's required; let Heaven mak out the rest. I've heard my honest uncle aften say, That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray; For the maist thrifty man could never get A well-stored room, unless his wife wad let: Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part, To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart: Whate'er he wins, I'll guide wi' canny care, And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair, For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware, A flock o' lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo, Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due; Syne a' behind's our ain. Thus, without fear, Wi' love and rowth, we through the warld will steer; And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rite, He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife. Jenny. But what if some young giglet on the green, Wi' dimpled cheeks and twa bewitching een, Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, And her kenned kisses, hardly worth a feg? Peggy. Nae mair o' that-Dear Jenny, to be free, There's some men constanter in love than we: Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind Has blest them wi' solidity o' mind. They'll reason calmly, and wi' kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile Sae, whenso'er they slight their maiks at hame, It's ten to ane the wives are maist to blame. Then I'll employ wi' pleasure a' my art To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, I'll ha'e a' things made ready to his will; In winter, when he toils through wind and rain, A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearthstane; And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The seething pat's be ready to tak aff; Clean hag-a-bag I'll spread upon his board, And serve him wi' the best we can afford; Good-humour and white bigonets shall be MEETIN 184 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Guards to my face, to keep his love for me. Jenny. A dish o' married love right soon grows cauld, And dosens down to nane, as fouk grow auld. a Peggy. But we'll grow auld thegither, and ne'er find The loss o' youth, when love grows on the mind. Bairns and their bairns mak sure a firmer tie, Than aught in love the like of us can spy. See yon twa elms that grow up side by side, Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, Till wide their spreading branches are increast, And in their mixture now are fully blest: This shields the ither frae the eastlin blast, That, in return, defends it frae the wast. Sic as stand single-a state sae liked by you!— Beneath ilk storm, frae every airt, maun bow. Jenny. I've done-I yield, dear lassie; I maun yield. Your better sense has fairly won the field. THE POET'S WISH. FRAE great Apollo, poet say, What is thy wish, what wadst thou hae When tho bows at his shrine? Not Carse o' Gowrie's fertile field, Nor a' the flocks the Grampians yield, That are baith sleek and fire: Not costly things brought frae afar, As ivory, pearl, and gems; Nor those fair straths that watered are With Tay and Tweed's smooth streams, Which gentily, and daintily, Pare down the flow'ry braes, As greatly, and quietly, They wimple to the seas. Whaever by his canny fate Is master of a good estate, That can ilk thing afford, Let him enjoy't withoutten care, And with the wale of curious fare Cover his ample board. Much dawted by the gods is he, Wha to the Indian plain 1 J ALEXANDER POPE. 185 Successfu' ploughs the wally sea, And safe returns again, With riches, that hitches Him high aboon the rest Of sma' fowk, and a' fowk, That are wi' poortith prest. For me, I can be well content To eat my bannock on the bent, And kitchen't wi' fresh air; Of lang-kail I can make a feast, And cantily haud up my crest, And laugh at dishes rare. Nought frae Apollo I demand, But through a lengthened life My outer fabric firm may stand, And saul clear without strife. May he then, but gi'e then, Those blessings for my share; I'll fairly, and squarely, Quit a', and seek nae mair. IZ Alexander Pope. (6 THIS celebrated poet was born on 22d May, 1688, in Lombard Street, London; his father was a linen draper, in good circumstances. Pope was a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Roman Catho- lic Seminary at Twyford, near Winchester. So early as the age of twelve he wrote his ode to "Solitude," and at sixteen he had com- menced his Pastorals--which brought him into acquaintance with the eminent men of his times. In 1711 appeared his "Essay on Criticism," one of the finest pieces of argumentative poetry in the language. Shortly after he published the "Rape of the Lock," "Windsor Forest," and then commenced his translation of the Iliad;" this was so successful that he cleared by it above £5000. He then, with the assistance of two friends, translated the "Odys- sey," on which he gained about £3000. In 1727-8 he published some Miscellanies, which drew upon him a volley of lampoons and libeis. Pope's spirit rose to the occasion, and he pilloried the authors of the lampoons in the "Dunciad;" this was published in 1729, and created an immense sensation. In 1731-5 he published is great work, the "Essay on Man.” From this time to the end of his life he occupied himself chiefly with the "Imitations of Horace." In the beginning of 1744 his health, which had never been very good, began to decline rapidly, and he died at Twickenham on 30th May, 1741, aged fifty-six years. Born 1698. Died 1744. FROM THE MESSIAH. YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. 186 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus and the Aonian maids, Delight no more-O Thou my voice inspire Who touched Isaiah's hallowed 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 ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic dove. 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. 1 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: 'Tis he the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 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. ALEXANDER POPE. 187 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 bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life! 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 scraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! where is thy victory? O Death! where is thy sting? FROM ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY. WHAT beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade? 'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gored? Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? Oh, ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell, Is it, in heaven, a crime to love too well? To bear too tender or too firm a heart, To act a lover's or a Roman's part? Is there no bright reversion in the sky, For those who greatly think, or bravely die? Why bade ye else, ye powers! her soul aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes; The glorious fault of angels and of gods: Thence to their images on earth it flows, And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows. Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, Dull sullen prisoners in the body's cage: i 188 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; Like Eastern kings a lazy state they keep, And, close confined to their own palace, sleep. From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die) Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. As into air the purer spirits flow, And separate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, Nor left one virtue to redeem her race. FROM "ESSAY ON CRITICISM.” FIRST follow Nature, and your judgment frame By her just standard, which is still the same: Unerring NATURE, still divinely bright, One clear, unchanged, and universal light, Life, force, and beauty, must to all impart, At once the source, and end, and test of Art. Art from that fund each just supply provides; Works without show, and without pomp presides: In some fair body thus the informing soul With spirits feeds, with vigour fills the whole, Each motion guides, and every nerve sustains; Itself unseen, but in the effects remains, Some, to whom Heaven in wit has been profuse, Want as much more, to turn it to its use; For wit and judgment often are at strife, Though meant each other's aid, like man and wife. 'Tis more to guide, than spur the Muses' steed; Restrain his fury, than provoke his speed; The winged courser, like a generous horse, Shows most true mettle when you check his course. Those RULES of old discover'd, not devised, Are nature still, but nature methodised; Nature, like liberty, is but restrain'd By the same laws which first herself ordain'd. Hear how learned Greece her useful rules indites, When to repress, and when indulge our flights: High on Parnassus' top her sons she show'd, And pointed out those arduous paths they trod; Held from afar, aloft, the immortal prize, And urged the rest by equal steps to rise. 1 ALEXANDER POPE. 189 Just precepts thus from great examples given, She drew from them what they derived from heaven. The generous critic fann'd the poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire. Then Criticism the Muse's handmaid proved, To dress her charms, and make her more beloved: But following wits from that intention stray'd, Who could not win the mistress, woo'd the maid: Against the poets their own arms they turn'd, Sure to hate most the men from whom they learn'd. So modern 'pothecaries, taught the art By doctors' bills to play the doctor's part, Bold in the practice of mistaken rules, Prescribe, apply, and call their masters fools. Some on the leaves of ancient authors prey, Nor time nor moths e'er spoil so much as they. Some drily plain, without invention's aid, Write dull receipts how poems may be made. These leave the sense, their learning to display, And those explain the meaning quite away. Music resembles poetry: in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master-hand alone can reach. If, where the rules not far enough extend, (Since rules were made but to promote their end) Some lucky license answer to the full The intent proposed, that license is a rule. Thus Pegasus, a nearer way to take, May boldly deviate from the common track. Great wits sometimes may gloriously offend, And rise to faults true critics dare not mend; From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art, Which, without passing through the judgment, gains The heart, and all its end at once attains. FROM "RAPE OF THE LOCK." AND now, unveiled, the toilet stands display'd, Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white the nymph intent adores, With head uncover'd, the cosmetic powers. A heavenly image in the glass appears, To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears; 190 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The inferior priestess, at her altar's side, Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride. Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here The various offerings of the world appear; From each she nicely culls with curious toil, And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil. This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, And all Arabia breathes from yonder box. The tortoise here and elephant unite, Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white. Here files of pins extend their shining rows, Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billets-doux. Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; The fair each moment rises in her charms, Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace, And calls forth all the wonders of her face; Sces by degrees a purer blush arise, And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. The busy sylphs surround their darling care, These set the head, and those divide the hair, Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; And Betty's praised for labours not her own. * * * This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, Nourished two locks which graceful hung behind In equal curls, and well conspired to deck With shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck. Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. With hairy springes we the birds betray, Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, And beauty draws us with a single hair. The adventurous Baron the bright locks admire; He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspired. Resolved to win, he meditates the way, By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; For when success a lover's toil attends, Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends. * * * But when to mischief mortals bend their will, How soon they find fit instruments of ill! Just then Clarissa drew, with tempting grace, A two-edged weapon from her shining case: So ladies in romance assist their knight, Present the spear and arm him for the fight. ALEXANDER POPE. P 191 He takes the gift with reverence, and extends The little engine on his fingers' ends; This just behind Belinda's neck he spread, As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair, A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair; And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear; Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. Just in that instant anxious Ariel sought The close recesses of the virgin's thought: As on the nosegay in her breast reclined, He watch'd the ideas rising in her mind, Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, An earthly lover lurking at her heart. Amazed, confused, he found his power expired, Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retired. The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide, To enclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide. Even then, before the fatal engine closed, A wretched sylph too fondly interposed; Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain, (But airy substance soon unites again;) The meeting points the sacred hair dissever From the fair head, for ever, and for ever! Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies; Not louder shrieks to pitying Heaven are cast, When husbands, or when lapdogs, breathe their last; Or when rich China vessels, fallen from high, In glittering dust and painted fragments lie! FROM "THE DUNCIAD." BUT, high above, more solid learning shone, The classics of an age that heard of none; There Caxton slept, with Wynkyn at his side, One clasp'd in wood, and one in strong cow-hide; There, saved by spice, like mummies, many a year, Dry bodies of divinity appear: De Lyra there a dreadful front extends, And here the groaning shelves Philemon bends. Of these twelve volumes, twelve of amplest size, Redeem'd from tapers and defrauded pies, 192 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ▼ Inspired he seizes: these an altar raise: An hecatomb of pure unsullied lays That altar crowns: a folio commonplace Founds the whole pile, of all his works the base: Quartos, octavos, shape the lessening pyre; A twisted birthday ode completes the spire. Then he: Great tamer of all human art! First in my care, and ever at my heart; Dulness! whose good old cause I yet defend, With whom my muse began, with whom shall end; E'er since Sir Fopling's periwig was praise, To the last honours of the Butt and Bays: O thou! of business the directing soul! To this our head like bias to the bowl, Which, as more ponderous, made its aim more true, Obliquely waddling to the mark in view: Oh! ever gracious to perplex'd mankind, Still spread a healing mist before the mind; And lest we err by wit's wild dancing light, Secure us kindly in our native night. Or, if to wit a coxcomb make pretence, Guard the sure barrier between that and sense; Or quite unravel all the reasoning thread, And hang some curious cobweb in its stead! As, forced from wind-guns, lead itself can fly, And ponderous slugs cut swiftly through the sky; As clocks to weight their nimble motion owe, The wheels above urged by the load below: Me emptiness, and dulness could inspire, And were my elasticity, and fire. Some demon stole my pen (forgive the offence) And once betray'd me into common sense: Else all my prose and verse were much the same; This, prose on stilts; that, poetry fallen lame. Did on the stage my fops appear confined? My life gave ampler lessons to mankind. Did the dead letter unsuccessful prove? The brisk example never fail'd to move. Yet sure had Heaven decreed to save the state, Heaven had decreed these works a longer date. Could Troy be saved by any single hand, This gray-goose weapon must have made her stand. ALEXANDER POPE. 193 { FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. P. SHUT up the door, good John! fatigued I said, Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages? nay, 'tis past a doubt, All bedlam or Parnassus is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me; Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer, A maudlin poètess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross? Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls! All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and to my works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life!-which did you not prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song- What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I, Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: To laugh were want of goodness and of grace; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility; I read With honest anguish, and an aching head; And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel: "Keep your piece nine years." Bless me! a packet-"'Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." ہل 9 194 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. If I dislike it, "furies, death, and rage!” "commend it to the stage." If I approve, There-thank my stars-my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. 19 Fired that the house reject him, "Sdeath! I'll print it, And shame the fools-your interest, sir, with Lintot.' Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks: At last he whispers: "Do, and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, "Sir, let me see your works and you no more. You think this cruel? Take it for a rule, No creature smarts so little as a fool. "L "1 John Gay. WAS born at Barnstaple, Devon, in 1688, of an old but decayed family. He was apprenticed to a silk mercer in London, but he soon showed such a dislike to the business that his master can- celled his indentures, and he was free to follow his taste for literary pursuits. In 1713 he published his "Rural Sports," which gained him the acquaintance of Pope; and in 1714 appeared "The Shep- herd's Week," which, being a true picture of rural life, became very popular. In 1715 he brought out "What d'ye call it?" a comic drama which met with little favour. This was followed in 1716 by }} Trivia" and "The Fan." In 1720 he published a collected edition of his poems by subscription, which brought him about £1000, and in 1726 he cleared about £700 by "The Beggar's Opera. Gay is also known as a writer of fables; one volume was published in 1726, and the other after his death, which occurred on 4th December, 1732. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. Born 1688. Died 1732. ETERNITY. ERE the foundations of the world were laid, Ere kindling light th' Almighty word obeyed, Thou wert; and when the subterraneous flame Shall burst its prison, and devour this frame, From angry heaven when the keen lightning flies, When fervent heat dissolves the melting skies, Thou still shalt be; still as thou wert before, And know no change, when time shall be no more. O endless! though divine!-Eternity, Th' immortal soul shares but a part of thee! For thou wert present when our life began, When the warm dust shot up in breathing man. Ka JOHN GAY. 195 Ah! What is life? with illen compassed round, Amidst our hopes, fate strikes the sudden wound: To-day the statesman of new honour dreams, To-morrow, death destroys his airy schemes. Is mouldy treasure in thy chest confined? Think, all that treasure thou must leave behind; Thy heir with smiles shall view thy blazoned hearse, And all thy hoards with lavish hands disperse. Should certain fate the impending blow delay, Thy mirth will sicken, and thy bloom decay: Then feeble age will all thy nerves disarm, No more thy blood its narrow channels warm. Who then would wish to stretch this narrow span, To suffer life beyond the date of man? The virtuous soul pursues a nobler aim, And life regards but as a fleeting dream: She longs to wake, and wishes to get free, To launch from earth into eternity. For while the boundless theme extends our thought, Ten thousand thousand rolling years are nought. 1 THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare, who in a civil way, Complied with everything, like GAY, Was known by all the bestial train, Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain. Her care was never to offend, And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: She starts, she stops, she pants for breath: She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; 196 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay; What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight; To friendship every burden's light." The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted; relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implored, And thus replied the mighty lord: "Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence; a favourite cow Expects me near yon barley mow; And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But see, the Goat is just behind.' >> The Goat remarked her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye; "My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm. The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu! For, see, the hounds are just in view!" JOHN GAY. 197 BLACK EYED SUSAN. ALL in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard, "Oh! where shall I my true love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew?" William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands. So sweet the lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast- If chance his mate's shrill call he hear- And drops at once into her nest. The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. "O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. "Believe not what the landsmen say, Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors when away, In every port a mistress find: Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. "If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view, Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. "Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn; Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms, William shall to his dear return. 198 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.” The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard; They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, "Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily hand. Matthew Green. AUTHOR of "The Spleen," was born in London in 1696. man of pleasing temper, but disposed to hypochondria. his lodgings in Gracechurch Street, in 1737. + CURES FOR MELANCHOLY. To cure the mind's wrong bias, spleen, Some recommend the bowling-green; Some hilly walks; all exercise; Fling but a stone, the giant dies; Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been Extreme good doctors for the spleen; And kitten, if the humour hit, Has harlequined away the fit. In rainy days keep double guard, Or spleen will surely be too hard; Which, like those fish by sailors met, Fly highest while their wings are wet. In such dull weather, so unfit To enterprise a work of wit; When clouds one yard of azure sky, That's fit for simile, deny, I dress my face with studious looks, And shorten tedious hours with books. But if dull fogs invade the head, That memory minds not what is read, I sit in window dry as ark, And on the drowning world remark: Or to some coffee-house I stray For news, the manna of a day, · And from the hipped discourses gather, That politics go by the weather. Born 1696. Died 1737. He was a He died at ROBERT BLAIR. 199 + Sometimes I dress, with women sit, And chat away the gloomy fit; Quit the stiff garb of serious sense, And wear a gay impertinence, Nor think nor speak with any pains, But lay on Fancy's neck the reins. Happy the man, who, innocent, Grieves not at ills he can't prevent; His skiff does with the current glide, Not puffing pulled against the tide. Robert Blair. THE author of "The Grave," was born at Edinburgh in 1699, his father being a clergyman of the Church of Scotland there. Blair was educated for the ministry, and previous to his ordination, wrote the poem now inseparably connected with his name; it was published in 1743. He was afterwards appointed to the living of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian, where he remained till his death, which occurred in February, 1746, at the early age of forty-six. FROM "THE GRAVE." SEE yonder hallow'd fane! the pious work Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot, And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were: There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. J Born 1699. Died 1746. The wind is up: hark! how it howls! methinks Till now I never heard a sound so dreary! Doors creak, and windows clap, and night's foul bird, Rook'd in the spire, screams loud: the gloomy aisles, Black-plaster'd, and hung round with shreds of 'scutch- eons, And tatter'd coats of arms, send back the sound, Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults, The mansions of the dead. Roused from their slumbers, In grim array the grisly spectres rise, Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen, Pass and repass, hush'd as the foot of night. Oft, in the lone churchyard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees, The schoolboy with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown) That tell in homely phrase who lie below; 200 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Sudden he starts! and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels; Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him, Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows; Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-open'd grave; and, strange to tell! Evanishes at crowing of the cock. Invidious Grave! how dost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one! A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweetener of life! and solder of society! I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of thy gentle heart, Anxious to please. Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring; methought the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note: The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress. Oh! then the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed Not to return, how painful the remembrance! Where are the mighty thunderbolts of war? The Roman Cæsars and the Grecian chiefs, The boast of story? Where the hot-brain'd youth, Who the tiara at his pleasure tore From kings of all the then discover'd globe; And cried, forsooth, because his arm was hamper'd, And had not room enough to do its work? Alas, how slim-dishonourably slim!— And cramm'd into a space we blush to name— JAMES THOMSON. 201 Proud royalty! How alter'd in thy looks! How blank thy features, and how wan thy hue! Son of the morning! whither art thou gone! Where hast thou hid thy many-spangled head, And the majestic menace of thine eyes Felt from afar? Pliant and powerless now: Like new-born infant wound up in his swathes. GRAVE! know that thou must render up thy dead, And with high interest too! They are not thine; But only in thy keeping for a season, Till the great promised day of restitution; When loud diffusive sound from brazen trump Of strong-lung'd cherub shall alarm thy captives, And rouse the long, long sleepers into life, Daylight and liberty. Then must thy gates fly open, and reveal The mines that lay long forming under ground, In their dark cells immured; but now full ripe, And pure as silver from the crucible, That twice has stood the torture of the fire, And inquisition of the forge. We know The illustrious Deliverer of mankind, The Son of God, thee foil'd. Him in thy power Thou couldst not hold: self-vigorous he rose, And, shaking off thy fetters, soon retook Those spoils his voluntary yielding lent: (Sure pledge of our releasement from thy thrall!) Twice twenty days he sojourn'd here on earth, And shewed himself alive to chosen witnesses, By proofs so strong, that the most slow-assenting Had not a scruple left. This having done, He mounted up to heaven. James Thomson. THE author of "The Seasons" was a Scotchman, born at Ednam, near Kelso, on the 11th September, 1700, the son of the minister of the parish. He received his early education at the school of Jed- burgh, which he refers to in his poem of "Autumn." So early as fourteen he was writing poetry worthy of publication. At eighteen Thomson was sent to Edinburgh University to study for the church. It is said that some remarks of the Professor of Divinity, censuring the language of one of his exercises, disgusted him so much that he gave up his studies and proceeded to London. Here he met with many difficulties and privations; and on obtaining a publisher for his first published poem "Winter," in 1726, he only received three guineas for the copyright. But success was now at hand; a second and third Born 1700. Died 1748. 9* 202 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. "" edition were sold during the same year, and his credit as a poet was established. In 1727, “Summer" appeared, and in 1730, "The Sea- sons were published complete. În 1731 the poet was appointed travelling companion to the son of Lord Chancellor Talbot, and had an opportunity of visiting France, Switzerland, and Italy. The young man died abroad, and Thomson returned home, where he ob- tained the office of secretary of briefs in the Court of Chancery. While in this situation his pen seems to have been idle; but on the death of the Chancellor, having lost his place, necessity set him again to work, and he produced some of his tragedies. He also ob- tained from the Prince of Wales a pension of £100 a year, and shortly after the appointment of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands, the duties of which he could perform by deputy. He was now in comfortable circumstances, and retired to Kew-lane, near Rich- mond, where he applied himself to finish the "Castle of Indolence," which he had been long occupied. The poem was published in May, 1748. It is one of his most finished pieces. Thomson caught cold on returning from London to Kew, and after a short illness, died 27th August, 1748. SHOWERS IN SPRING. THE north-east spends his rage; he now, shut up Within his iron cave, the effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise, Scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees, In heaps on heaps the doubled vapour sails Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep, Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom; Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed, Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind, And full of every hope, of every joy, The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm, that not a breath Is heard to quiver through the closing woods, Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods, diffused In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse, Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all, And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense, The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off, And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales, And forests, seem impatient to demand The promised sweetness. Man superior walks Amid the glad creation, musing praise, JAMES THOMSON. 203 And looking lively gratitude. At last, The clouds consign their treasures to the fields, And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow In large effusion o'er the freshened world. The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard By such as wander through the forest-walks, Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. A WINTER LANDSCAPE. THROUGH the hushed air the whitening shower descends, At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white: 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun Faint from the west, emits his evening ray, Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill, Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone, The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is: Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs, And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, 204 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glistening earth, With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. FROM "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 unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast. * * 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, 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I 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 suns; From seeming evil still educing good, JAMES THOMSON. 205 #3 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. FROM "THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.” O MORTAL man, who livest here by toil, Do not complain of this thy hard estate; That like an emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; And, certes, there is for it reason great; For, though sometimes it makes thee weep anà wnil, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come a heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. In lowly dale, fast by a river's side, With woody hill o'er hill encompassed round, A most enchanting wizard did abide, Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground: And there a season atween June and May, Half pranked with spring, with summer half imbrowned, A listless climate made, where, sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared even för play. LAVINIA. THE lovely young Lavinia once had friends; And fortune smiled deceitful on her birth: For, in her helpless years deprived of all, Of every stay, save innocence and Heaven, She, with her widowed mother, feeble, old, And poor, lived in a cottage, far retired Among the windings of a woody vale; By solitude and deep-surrounding shades, But more by bashful modesty, concealed. Together thus they shunned the cruel scorn, Which virtue, sunk to poverty, would meet From giddy passion and low-minded pride; Almost on Nature's common bounty fed, Like the gay birds that sung them to repose, 1 1 206 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Content, and careless of to-morrow's fare. Her form was fresher than the morning rose, When the dew wets its leaves; unstained and pure, As is the lily or the mountain snow. The modest virtues mingled in her eyes Still on the ground dejected, darting all Their humid beams into the blooming flowers; Or when the mournful tale her mother told Of what her faithless fortune promised once, Thrilled in her thought, they like the dewy star Of evening, shone in tears. A native grace Sat fair-proportioned on her polished limbs, Veiled in a simple robe, their best attire, Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, But is, when unadorned, adorned the most. Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self, Recluse amid the close-embowering woods: As in the hollow breast of Apennine, Beneath the shelter of encircling hills, A myrtle rises, far from human eye, And breathes in balmy fragrance o'er the wild; So flourished, blooming, and unseen by all, The sweet Lavinia. RULE BRITANNIA. WHEN Britain first at Heaven's command, Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee, Must in their turn to tyrants fall, Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. Rule Britannia, &c. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.. Rule Britannia, &c. DAVID MALLET. 207 | Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, And work their woe and thy renown. Rule Britannia, &c. To thee belongs the rural reign; Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All shall be subject to the main, And every shore it circles thine. Rule Britannia, &c. The muses, still with freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair; Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule Britannia, &c. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. David Mallet. A NATIVE of Crieff. He wrote some tragedies, especially one in con- junction with Thomson, in which occurs the famous song "Rule Britannia," which is generally believed, however, to have been the composition of Thomson. His best title to the name of poet is derived from his ballads. He died in London, 21st April, 1765. 'Twas at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud; And clay-cold was her lily hand That held her sable shroud. So shall the fairest face appear When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, That sips the silver dew; The rose was budded in her cheek, Just opening to the view. Born 1700. Died 1765 1 208 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. But love had, like the canker-worm, Consumed her early prime; The rose grew pale, and left her cheek- She died before her time. "Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave: Now let thy pity hear the maid Thy love refused to save. "This is the dark and dreary hour When injured ghosts complain; When yawning graves give up their dead, To haunt the faithless swain. "Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, Thy pledge and broken oath! And give me back my maiden vow, And give me back my troth. "Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep? Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet have those eyes to weep? "How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, Yet leave that heart to break? "Why did you say my lip was sweet, And made the scarlet pale? And why did I, young witless maid! Believe the flattering tale? 'That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. "The hungry worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. I "But hark! the cock has warned me hence; A long and last adieu! 1 DAVID MALLET. 209 Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." The lark sung loud; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red: Pale Willian quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place Where Margaret's body lay; And stretched him on the green-grass turf That wrapt her breathless clay. And thrice he called on Margaret's name, And thrice he wept full sore: Then laid his cheek to her cold grave, And word spake never more! THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY. THE smiling morn, the breathing spring, Invite the tunefu' birds to sing; And, while they warble from the spray, Love melts the universal lay. Let us, Amanda, timely wise, Like them, improve the hour that flies; And in soft raptures waste the day, Among the birks Invermay. For soon the winter of the year, And age, life's winter, will appear; At this thy living bloom will fade, As that will strip the verdant shade. Our taste of pleasure then is o'er, The feathered songsters are no more; And when they drop and we decay, Adieu the birks of Invermay! of 210 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. About 1700. Robert Crawford. Crawford. (Drowned 1783. AUTHOR of "Tweedside," and "The Bush aboon Traquair." He assisted Allan Ramsay in his "Tea Table Miscellany." He was drowned on his return from France in 1733. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain, I'll tell how Peggy grieves me; Though thus I languish and complain, Alas! she ne'er believes me. My vows and sighs, like silent air, Unheeded, never move her; At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair, "Twas there I first did love her. That day she smiled and made me glad, No maid seemed ever kinder; I thought myself the luckiest lad, So sweetly there to find her; I tried to soothe my amorous flame, In words that I thought tender; If more there passed, I'm not to blame, I meant not to offend her. Yet now she scornful flees the plain, The fields we then frequented; If e'er we meet she shews disdain, She looks as ne'er acquainted. The bonny bush bloomed fair in May, Its sweets I'll aye remember; But now her frowns make it decay--- It fades as in December. ( Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, Why thus should Peggy grieve me? O make her partner in my pains, Then let her smiles relieve me: If not, my love will turn despair, My passion no more tender; I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair- To lonely wilds I'll wander. S ! PHILIP DODDRIDGE. SELF-DEDICATION REVIEWED. O HAPPY day that fix'd my choice On Thee, my Saviour and my God! Well may this glowing heart rejoice, And tell its raptures all abroad. Philip Doddridge. A CELEBRATED English divine, born in London, 26th June, 1702. His father was a clergyman in the English Church, but died while he was only thirteen. Doddridge, from conscientious motives, joined the Nonconformists; he soon became one of their most popular ministers, and in 1729 he was settled at Northampton. He is the author of many hymns, which are to be found in almost every collection of sacred poetry. He died on 26th October, 1751. 'Tis done, the great transaction's done! I am my Lord's, and He is mine; He drew me, and I follow'd on, Charm'd to confess the voice divine. Now rest my long-divided heart, Fix'd on this blissful centre, rest: Nor ever from thy Lord depart, With Him of every good possess'd. High Heav'n, that heard the solemn vow, That vow renew'd shall daily hear; Till in life's latest hour I bow, And bless in death a bond so dear. THE HEAVENLY SABBATH. LORD of the Sabbath! hear us pray, In this thy house, on this thy day; Accept as grateful sacrifice, The songs which from thy people rise. Born 1702. Died 1751. 211 Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord! we love; But there's a nobler rest above; To that our lab'ring souls aspire, With ardent hope and strong desire. In thy bless'd kingdom we shall be From every care and trouble free; + 212 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. • f No sighs shall mingle with the songs Resounding from immortal tongues. I No rude alarms of raging foes, No cares to break the long repose, No clouded sun, no changeful moon, But sacred, high, eternal noon. Lord of the Sabbath! hear us pray, In this thy house, on this thy day; Soon shall we leave this weary road, To sleep in death, and rest in God. William Hamilton. WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour, in Ayrshire, a Scottish gentleman of rank, became early distinguished for his poetical talents, and was the delight of the gay circles in his own country. He joined the standard of Prince Charles, and became the laureate of the Jacobites. After Culloden he narrowly escaped to France; but ob- taining a pardon he returned to his paternal estate. He is the author of the beautiful ballad "The Braes of Yarrow.” BRAES OF YARROW. А. Busê ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride? Where gat ye that winsome marrow? A. I gat her where I darena weel be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride! Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow ! Nor let thy heart lament to leave Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. f Born 1704. Died 1754. B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride? Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow? And why dare ye nae mair weel be seen, Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. WILLIAM HAMILTON. 213 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep, Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her lover, lover dear, Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red? Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow? And why yon melancholious weeds Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow? What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude? What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow! 'Tis he, the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow. Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow. Did I not warn thee not to lo'e, And warn from fight? but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 214 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow. Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love In flowery bands thou him didst fetter; Though he was fair and well beloved again, Than me he never lo'ed thee better. Busk ye, then busk, my bonny, bonny bride; Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride, How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow? O Yarrow fields! may never, never rain, Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My lové, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing. Ah! wretched me! I little, little ken'd He was in these to meet his ruin. The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed, Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, But ere the to-fall of the night, He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. * ** ** Rev. Charles Wesley. AUTHOR of a large portion of the Methodist Hymn Book. He was a poet very early in life, and when his genius became sanctified by his conversion, he devoted much of his valuable time to supply a want then greatly felt, hymns for public worship. They were edited and published by his brother John, the founder of Meth- odism, himself also a poet. Charles Wesley also left a number of beautiful pieces written on incidents in his own life. CHRIST THE ONLY REFUGE. JESUS, Lover of my soul! Let me to thy bosom fly, While the raging billows roll, While the tempest still is high! · Born 1708. Died 1788. REV. CHARLES WESLEY. 215 : IIide me, O my Saviour hide, Till the storm of life is past; Safe into the haven guide; O receive my soul at last!. Other refuge have I none; Hangs my helpless soul on Thee; Leave, oh! leave me not alone; Still support and comfort me. All my trust on Thee is stay'd; All my help from thee I bring: Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of thy wing! Plenteous grace with Thee is found, - Grace to pardon all my sin; Let the healing streams abound, Make and keep me pure within. Thou of life the Fountain art, Freely let me take of Thee; Spring thou up within my heart, Rise to all eternity! ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD). DEAD, dead the child I loved so well, Transported to the world above, I need no more my heart conceal, I never dared indulge my love; But may I not indulge my grief, And seek in tears a sad relief? But hath not Heaven who first bestowed, A right to take his gift away? I bow me to the sovereign God, ་ Who snatch'd him from the evil day; Yet nature will repeat her moan, And fondly cry, My son! my son! Turn from him, turn officious thought, Officious thought presents again The thousand little acts he wrought, Which wound my heart with soothing pain, His looks, his winning gestures rise, His waving hands and laughing eyes. 216 Į GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 V Those waving hands no more shall move, Those laughing eyes shall smile no more; He cannot now engage our love, With sweet insinuating power, Our meek unguarded hearts ensnare, And rival his Creator there. Angels rejoice! a child is born Into your happier world above, Let poor short-sighted mortals mourn, While, on the wings of heavenly love, An everlasting spirit flies, To claim his kindred in the skies. Born 1709. Dr. Samuel Johnson. {Bied 1784. THE celebrated lexicographer was born at Lichfield, on 18th Sep- tember, 1709. His father was a bookseller, and gave him a good education. In his twenty-sixth year he went to London to push his fortune, and soon obtained employment in writing for the maga- zines. In 1749 he published a poem, "The Vanity of Human Wishes. In 1750 he started the "Rambler," and in 1755 published his famous Dictionary, which had engaged him for several years. His poems form a very small part of his works; but even they had an effect on the character of the poetical writings of his time. Johnson died on 13th December, 1784. FROM THE "VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES." In full-blown dignity, see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: To him the church, the realm, their powers consign; Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows, His smile alone security bestows: Still to new heights his restless wishes tower; Claim leads to claim, and power advances power; Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, And rights submitted, left him none to seize, At length his sovereign frowns-the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate;. Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, 1 His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, The golden canopy, the glittering plate, The regal palace, the luxurious board, The liveried army, and the menial lord, ܢ "" .. } DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest. Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings, And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings. Speak thou, whose thoughts at humble peace repine, Shall Wolsey's wealth, with Wolsey's end be thine? Or liv'st thou now, with safer pride content, The wisest Justice on the banks of Trent? For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate, On weak foundations raise the enormous weight? Why, but to sink beneath misfortune's blow, With louder ruin to the gulfs below. * * * 10 On what foundations stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold surrounding kings their power combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; "Think nothing gained," he cries, "till nought remain, On Moscow's walls till Gothic standarts fly, And all be mine beneath the Polar sky.” The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern famine guards the solitary coast, And winter barricades the realms of frost: He comes, nor want, nor cold, his course delay; Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day: The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemned a needy supplicant to wait, While ladies interpose, and slaves debate. But did not chance at length her error mend? Did no subverted empire mark his end? Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound, Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral or adorn a tale. * * * 217 * KANA 1 1 I 218 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Where, then, shall hope and fear their objects find? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Inquirer, cease; petitions yet remain, Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice. Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar The secret ambush of a specious prayer. Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best. Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resigned; For love, which scarce collective man can fill; For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill; For faith, that, panting for a happier seat, Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat: These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain, These goods he grants, who grants the power to gain; With these celestial wisdom calms the mind, And makes the happiness she does not find. ON THE DEATH OF DR. LEVETT. CONDEMNED to hope's delusive mine, As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year, See Levett to the grave descend, Officious, innocent, sincere, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; Nor, lettered arrogance, deny Thy praise to merit unrefined. f 3- RICHARD GLOVER. 219 When fainting nature called for aid, And hovering death prepared the blow, His vigorous remedy displayed The power of art without the show. In misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, And lonely want retired to die. No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride; The modest wants of every day The toil of every day supplied. His virtues walked their narrow round, Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure the Eternal Master found The single talent well employed. The busy day-the peaceful night, Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm-his powers were bright, Though now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no fiery throbbing pain, No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain, And freed his soul the nearest way. Richard Glover. A LONDON merchant, who published some elaborate poems in blank verse, which are now little known. His ballad of Admiral Hosier's Ghost is the only piece now read. ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST. As near Portobello lying On the gentle swelling flood, At midnight, with streamers flying, Our triumphant navy rode: There while Vernon sat all glorious From the Spaniards' late defeat, And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England's fleet; Born 1712 Died 1785. 220 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. On a sudden, shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; Then, each heart with fear confounding. A sad troop of ghosts appeared; All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And, with looks by sorrow clouded, Frowning on that hostile shore. On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, When the shade of Hosier brave, His pale bands were seen to muster, Rising from their watery grave: O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail. "Heed, oh heed our fatal story! I am Hosier's injured ghost; You who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost: Though in Portobello's ruin, You now triumph free from fears, When you think on my undoing, You will mix your joys with tears. "See these mournful spectres sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; These were English captains brave. Mark those numbers, pale and horrid, Who were once my sailors bold; Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told. "I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended, But my orders-not to fight! Oh! that in this rolling ocean I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart's warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain! "For resistance I could fear none; But with twenty ships had done RICHARD GLOVER. 221 What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone. Then the Bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the seas the sad receiver Of this gallant train had been. "Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her gallcons leading home, Though condemned for disobeying, I had met a traitor's doom: To have fallen, my country crying, 'He has played an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a grieved and broken heart.' " 'Unrepining at thy glory, Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain. "Hence with all my train attending, From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending, Here I feed my constant woe. Here the Bastimentos viewing, We recall our shameful doom, And, our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom. "O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam, deprived of rest, If, to Britain's shores returning, You neglect my just request; After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England-shamed in me." 222 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. William Shenstone. SHENSTONE was born at the Leasowes, in Hales-Owen, Shropshire, in November, 1714. Though ambitious of literary fame, he spent most of his time in ornamenting his patrimonial home, which he did with such judgment as made it the admiration of all who saw it. He published some pleasing elegies and ballads, of which the chief are The Schoolmistress, which appeared in 1742, immortalising his early instructress, and "A Pastoral Ballad." He died at the Lea- sowes on 11th February, 1763. 6. "" Born 1714. Died 1763. THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. АH me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, To think how modest worth neglected lies; While partial fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise; Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise;. Lend me thy clarion, goddess! let me try To sound the praise of merit ere it dies; Such as I oft have chanced to espy, Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. In every village marked with little spire, Embowered in trees, and hardly known to fame, There dwells, in lowly shed, and mean attire, A matron old, whom we schoolmistress name; Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame: They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent, Awed by the power of this relentless dame; And ofttimes on vagaries idly bent, For unkempt hair, or task unconned, are sorely shent. And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, Which learning near her little dome did stow; Whilome a twig of small regard to see, Though now so wide its waving branches flow, And work the simple vassals mickle woe; For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, But their limbs shuddered, and their pulse beat low; And as they looked, they found their borror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view. Near to this dome is found a patch so green, On which the tribe their gambols do display; And at the door imprisoning board is seen, WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 223 Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray; Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day! The noises intermixed, which thence resound, Do learning's little tenement betray; Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound, And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, Emblem right meet of decency does yield: Her apron died in grain, as blue, I trow, As is the harebell that adorns the field; And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield Tway birchen sprays; with anxious fear entwined, With dark distrust, and sad repentance filled; And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction joined, And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement unkind. / A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown; A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air; 'Twas simple russet, but it was her own; 'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair! 'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare; And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around, Through pious awe, did term it passing rare; For they in gaping wonderment abound, And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; Goody, good woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth, Or dame, the sole additions she did hear; Yet these she challenged, these she held right dear, Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, Who should not honoured eld with these revere; For never title yet so mean could prove, But there was eke a mind which did that title love. A PASTORAL BALLAD. YE shepherds, so cheerful and gay, Whose flocks never carelessly roam; Should Corydon's happen to stray, Oh! call the poor wanderers home. 224 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 : Allow me to muse and to sigh, Nor talk of the change that ye find; None once was so watchful as I; I have left my dear Phyllis behind. Now I know what it is to have strove With the torture of doubt and desire; What it is to admire and to love, And to leave her we love and admire. Ah! lead forth my flock in the morn, And the damps of each evening repel; Alas! I am faint and forlorn- I have bade my dear Phyllis farewell. Since Phyllis vouchsafed me a look, I never once dreamt of my vine; May I lose both my pipe and my crook, If I knew of a kid that was mine. I prized every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleased me before; But now they are past, and I sigh, And I grieve that I prized them no more. But why do I languish in vain? Why wander thus pensively here? Oh! why did I come from the plain, Where I fed on the smiles of my dear? They tell me, my favourite maid, The pride of that valley, is flown; Alas! where with her I have strayed, I could wander with pleasure alone. When forced the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt at my heart! Yet I thought-but it might not be so- "Twas with pain that she saw me depart. She gazed as I slowly withdrew, My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return. The pilgrim that journeys all day To visit some far-distant shrine, If he bear but a relic away, Is happy, nor heard to repine. · THOMAS GRAY. 225 Thus widely removed from the fair, Where my vows, my devotion, I owe; Soft hope is the relic I bear, And my solace, wherever I go, Thomas Gray. GRAY was born in Cornhill, London, 26th November, 1716, and received his early education at Eton. He afterwards entered at Cambridge to study for the law. Having become intimate with Horace Walpole, he was induced to join him in a tour on the Conti- nent. On his return in 1741, he applied himself to literary schemes, which he had not energy to carry out. His father having died and left him rich enough to carry out what plans he preferred, he passed the greater part of his life in the enjoyment of the learned society of Cambridge, and poring over his favourite authors. He was appointed in 1768 Professor of Modern History, with a salary of £400 a year; but he seems to have entirely neglected the duties. from inability to bring his mind to the effort necessary to prepare the lectures. His "Ode to Eton College" appeared in 1747, and his "Elegy " in 1751; the latter became at once exceedingly popular, and is the poem on which his fame as a poet chiefly rests. He died July 30, 1771, ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. YE distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the watery glade, Where grateful science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey; Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way! Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain: I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Born 1716 Died 1771 f 1 226 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which inthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball? While some on earnest business bent Their murmuring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty; Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run, they look behind; They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possessed; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast. Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. THOMAS GRAY. 227 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 228 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. , Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blushi unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes— Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind: The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. For from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. S THOMAS GRAY. 229 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate: If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "L 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him, borne; Approach and read-for thou canst read-the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. 230 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. # Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had a tear! He gained from Heaven-'twas all he wished- -a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode- There they alike in trembling hope repose- The bosom of his Father and his God. James Merrick. A DIVINE and poet, born at Reading. He published poems on sacred subjects, and some miscellaneous pieces. THE NUNC DIMITTIS. "Tis enough-the hour is come: Now within the silent tomb Let this mortal frame decay, Mingled with its kindred clay; Since thy mercies, oft of old By thy choice seers foretold, Faithful now and steadfast prove, God of truth, and God of love! Since at length my aged eye Sees the day-spring from on high! Son of righteousness, to thee, Lo! the nations bow the knee; And the realms of distant kings Own the healing of thy wings. Those who death had overspread With his dark and dreary shade, Lift their eyes, and from afar Hail the light of Jacob's Star; Waiting till the promised ray Turn their darkness into day. See the beams intensely shed, Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head? Never may they hence remove, God of truth, and God of love! Born 1720. Died 1766. JAMES MERRICK. 231 f THE CHAMELEON. OFT has it been my lot to mark A proud, conceited, talking spark, With eyes that hardly served at most To guard their master 'gainst a post; Yet round the world the blade has been, To see whatever could be seen. Returning from his finished tour, Grown ten times perter than before; Whatever word you chanced to drop, The travelled fool your mouth will stop: "Sir, if my judgment you'll allow— I've seen and sure I ought to know.". So begs you'd pay a due submission, And acquiesce in his decision. Two travellers of such a cast, As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, And on their way, in friendly chat, Now talked of this, and then of that; Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter, Of the chameleon's form and nature. A stranger animal," cries one, "Sure never lived beneath the sun: A lizard's body lean and long, A fish's head, a serpent's tongue, Its foot with triple claw disjoined; And what a length of tail behind! How slow its pace! and then its hue- Who ever saw so fine a blue?” "Hold there," the other quick replies; ""Tis green-I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease, the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food.” "2 "I've seen it, sir, as well as you, And must again affirm it blue; At leisure I the beast surveyed Extended in the cooling shade." ""Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye.” "Green!" cries the other in fury: "Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" ""Twere no great loss," the friend replies; 232 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. → (6 'For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use." So high at last the contest rose, From words they almost came to blows: When luckily came by a third; To him the question they referred: And begged he'd tell them, if he knew, Whether the thing was green or blue. (( "Sirs,” cries the umpire, cease your pother; The creature's neither one nor t' other. I caught the animal last night, And viewed it o'er by candlelight: I marked it well; 'twas black as jet— You stare-but, sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it."-"Pray, sir, do; I'll lay my life the thing is blue.” "And I'll be sworn, that, when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," Replies the man, "I'll turn him out: And when before your eyes I've set him, If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.” He said; and full before their sight Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white. Both stared; the man looked wondrous wise— "My children," the Chameleon cries- Then first the creature found a tongue- "You all are right, and all are wrong: When next you talk of what you view, Think others see as well as you: Nor wonder if you find that none Prefers your eyesight to his own. 1 Mark Akenside. AKLNSIDE was born at Newcastle-on-Tyne in 1721, of humble but re- spectable origin. His parents were Dissenters, and intended him for the Church. They sent him to the divinity classes in the Edinburgh University, but his tastes not lying in that direction, he afterwards changed them for those of medicine. In Edinburgh he wrote his poem, "Hymn to Science." Akenside finished his medical educa- tion at Leyden, where he took his degree of M.D. in his twenty-third year. In the same year was published his greatest poem, Pleasures of Imagination," for which he received from Dodsley, the publisher, £120 for the copyright. He afterwards published a satire and a collection of odes. He died in 1770, in his forty-ninth year. "The Born 1721 Died 1770, \ MARK AKENSIDE. 233 GOD'S EXCELLENCE. (From "Pleasures of Imagination.") FROM heaven my strains begin; from heaven descends The flame of genius to the human breast, And love, and beauty, and poetic joy, And inspiration. Ere the radiant sun Sprang from the east, or 'mid the vault of night The moon suspended her serener lamp; Ere mountains, woods, or streams, adorned the globe, Or Wisdom taught the sons of men her lore, Then lived the Almighty One; then deep retired In his unfathomed essence, viewed the forms, The forms eternal, of created things: The radiant sun, the moon's nocturnal lamp, The mountains, woods, and streams, the rolling globe, And Wisdom's mien celestial. From the first Of days on them his love divine he fixed, His admiration, till, in time complete, What he admired and loved his vital smile Unfolded into being. Hence the breath Of life informing each organic frame, Hence the green earth, and wild resounding waves, Hence light and shade alternate, warmth and cold, And clear autumnal skies and vernal showers, And all the fair variety of things. A CULTIVATED TASTE. Оí! blest of heaven, whom not the languid songs Of Luxury, the syren! not the bribes Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store Of nature, fair Imagination culls, To charm the enlivened soul! What though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state; Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures, and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his: whate'er adorns 234 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing marble, and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the Spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds; for him the hand Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings, And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreproved: nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only, for the attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious; wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home To find a kindred order, to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On Nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that Eternal Majesty that weighed The world's foundations,-if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye, then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her generous powers? Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons; all declare For what the eternal Maker has ordained The powers of man: we feel within ourselves His energy divine; he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of live and being: to be great like him, ↓ 1 TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLET. Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions; act upon his plan; And form to his the relish of their souls. { 235 Born 1721.. Died 1771. Tobias George Smollet. BETTER known as a novelist than a poet; was born near Renton, in Dumbartonshire. His poems are all short, but they show he could have excelled in verse if he had cultivated the talent. ODE TO LEVEN WATER. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream, in whose transparent wave, My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents stain thy limpid source, No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polished pebbles spread; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood; The springing trout in speckled pride; The salmon, monarch of the tide; The ruthless pike, intent on war; The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen: And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale; And ancient faith that knows no guile, And industry embrowned with toil; And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to guard! 236 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. John Skinner. AN Episcopal clergyman in Aberdeenshire, who composed some very spirited and patriotic songs. He was also author of an Ec- clesiastical History of Scotland. TULLOCHGORUM. COME gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, And lay your disputes all aside; What signifies't for folks to chide For what's been done before them? Let Whig and Tory all agree, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Let Whig and Tory all agree To drop their Whigmegmorum. Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend this night with mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me The reel of Tullochgorum. O, Tullochgorum's my delight; It gars us a' in ane unite; And ony sumph that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him. Blithe and merry we's be a', Blithe and merry, blithe and merry, Blithe and merry we's be a', And mak a cheerfu' quorum. Blithe and merry we's be a', As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance, till we be like to fa', The reel of Tullochgorum. There need na be sae great a phrase Wi' dringing dull Italian lays; I wadna gie our ain strathspeys For half a hundred score o' 'em. They're douff and dowie at the best, Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, They're douff and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorums. They're douff and dowie at the best, Their allegros, and a' the rest, They canna please a Highland taste, Compared wi' Tullochgorum. Born 1721. Died 1807. I JOHN SKINNER. 237 • I Let warldly minds themselves oppress Wi' fear of want, and double cess, And sullen sots themselves distress Wi' keeping up decorum. Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Like auld Philosophorum? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, And canna rise to shake a fit At the reel of Tullochgorum? May choicest blessings still attend Each honest-hearted open friend; And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties, a great store o' 'em! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstained by any vicious blot; And may he never want a groat, That's fond of Tullochgorum. But for the discontented fool, Who wants to be Oppression's tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, May dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, Wae's me for 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, And a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum! 238 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. William Collins. WILLIAM COLLINS was the son of a respectable hatter at Chichester, and was born on the 25th December, 1721. He received a liberal education, and no poet gave greater promise of a successful career. His mind was brimful of splendid schemes, and he left his college for London with high hopes of making a name. He met with grievous disappointments, and experienced the extremes of poverty and neglect. In 1746 he obtained a publisher for his beautiful odes. On the death of his friend Thomson, Collins strung anew his lyre, and published an elegy on his friend. In 1749 an uncle, dying, left him a legacy sufficient for all his wants; but it came too late: the mind of the poet had sunk into the deepest depression, and never recovered its former power. He died in 1759. THE PASSIONS. AN ODE FOR MUSIC. WHEN Music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatched her instruments of sound; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each-for madness ruled the hour- Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords, bewildered laid; And back recoiled, he knew not why, Even at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire In lightnings owned his secret stings; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures wan Despair, Low sullen sounds his grief beguiled; Born 1721. Died 1759. ļ WILLIAM COLLINS. 239 A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whispered promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail! Still would her touch the strain prolong; And from the rocks, the woods, the valc, She called on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close; And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair; And longer had she sung, but with a frown Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe; And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed; Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired; And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul; And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole : Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. 240 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. But oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone, When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, IIer buskins gemmed with morning-dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear, And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial: He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addressed; But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing: While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings, Love framed with Mirth, a gay fantastic round. Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound: And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid, Why, goddess! why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that loved Athenian bower, You learned an all-commanding power; Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energetic, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders in that godlike age Fill thy recording sister's page; 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail,- Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; % WILLIAM COLLINS. 241 Even all at once together found, Cecilia's mingled world of sound. Oh! bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece; Return in all thy simple state; Confirm the tales her sons relate. ODE ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON. IN yonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly winds the stealing wave; The year's best sweets shall duteous rise, To deck its poet's sylvan grave. In yon deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade. The maids and youths shall linger here, And while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem, in Pity's ear, To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore, When Thames in summer wreaths is drest; And oft suspend the dashing oar, To bid his gentle spirit rest. And oft, as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep. But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail; Or tears, which love and pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail? Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may fancy die, And joy desert the blooming year. But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide No sedge-crowned sisters now attend, of 11 242 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Now waft me from the green hill's side, Whose cold turf hides the buried friend! And see, the fairy valleys fade, Dun night has veiled the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted shade, Meek Nature's child, again adieu! The genial meads, assigned to bless Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom! Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress, With simple hands, thy rural tomb. Long, long thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: "O vales and wild woods," shall he say, "In yonder grave your Druid lies!" { John Home. AUTHOR of the tragedy of "Douglas," was born in Leith, of which place his father was town-clerk. In 1745 he joined the royal army as a volunteer. Having studied for the Church, he was, in 1750, in- ducted to the living of Athelstaneford, as successor to Blair; but having written the tragedy of "Douglas." which was acted at the Theatre in 1756, his conduct was brought before the Presbytery, and he resigned. Lord Bute, then in power, obtained for him a Govern- ment appointment, in which he passed the remainder of his life in happy tranquillity. He died in his eighty-sixth year. FROM TRAGEDY OF "DOUGLAS.” My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord: And heaven soon granted what my sirc deny'd. This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, Had not yet fill'd her horns, when, by her light, A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale, Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety and for succour. I alone, With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd o Born 1722. Died 1808. ہل REV. JOHN NEWTON. 243 : The road he took, then hasten'd to my friends, Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. We fought and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn, An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief, Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard That our good king had summon'd his bold peers To lead their warriors to the Carron side, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps:- Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers, And, heaven-directed, came this day to do The happy deed that gilds my humble name. Rev. John Newton. CURATE of Olney, and afterwards of St. Mary's, Woolnoth, London. His early life was very wild and profligate. He was at one time master of a slave ship, then himself a slave. When rescued he be- came a changed man, devoted himself to the ministry, and was one of the most successful of preachers. At Olney he became ac- quainted with Cowper, and in conjunction with him wrote the Olney Hymns," which are among the most beautiful pieces of devotional poetry to be found in our language. S Born 1725. Died 1807. THE LORD WILL PROVIDE. THOUGH troubles assail, and dangers affright, Though friends should all fail, and foes all unite; Yet one thing secures us, whatever betide, The Scripture assures us, "The Lord will provide." The birds, without barn or storehouse, are fed; From them let us learn to trust for our bread: His saints what is fitting shall ne'er be denied, So long as 'tis written, The Lord will provide." His call we obey, like Abrah'm of old, Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold: For, though we are strangers, we have a sure Guide, And trust, in all dangers, "The Lord will provide." | 244 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. p .. ; No strength of our own, nor goodness we claim; Yet since we have known the Saviour's great name, In this our strong tower for safety we hide, The Lord is our power; "The Lord will provide.” When life sinks apace, and death is in view, This word of his grace shall comfort us through: No doubting nor fearing with Christ on our side; The promise is cheering, "The Lord will provide.” THE NAME OF JESUS. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds In a believer's ear! It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds, And drives away his fear. It makes the wounded spirit whole, And calms the troubled breast; "Tis manna to the hungry soul, And to the weary rest. Dear name! the rock on which I build, My shield and hiding-place; My never-failing treasury, fill'd With boundless stores of grace. Jesus! my Shepherd, Kinsman, Friend, My Prophet, Priest, and King, My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, Accept the praise I bring. Weak is the effort of my heart, And cold my warmest thought; But when I see Thee as Thou art, I'll praise Thee as I ought. Till then I would thy love proclaim With every fleeting breath; And may the savour of thy Name Refresh my soul in death. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 245 1 ► Oliver Goldsmith. THIS celebrated writer, whose works range over every department of literature, was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ire- land, on 10th November, 1728. His father was a clergyman in the Episcopal Church, and gave his son all the advantages of educa- tion that his means would admit of. He was successively at Dublin, Edinburgh, and Leyden Universities. He seems to have idled his time in all these places, and left Leyden on a pedestrian tour on the Continent with a guinea, a shirt, and a flute. After a year of wandering he arrived in England penniless. After much privation and many changes, he at last obtained literary work in writing for the "Monthly Review;" this not suiting, he tried to pass an ex- amination at Surgeons' Hall as hospital mate, but was rejected as unqualified. In 1764 appeared his poem "The Traveller," and in 1770 "The Deserted Village. These became very popular, and ran through several editions. His comedies also met with an enthu- siastic reception, and he was on the highway to fame and honour. Wealth flowed in upon him from his writings; but he was always in debt. His heedless profusion, and afterwards a taste for gambling, exhausted all his resources and those of his friends, and he died in debt no less than £2000. He was never married. He died on 4th April, 1774. "" THE TRAVELLER. REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow, Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, A weary waste expanding to the skies; Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee: Still to my Brother turns, with ceaseless pain, And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend! Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire; Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair; Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good. But me, not destined such delights to share, My prime of life in wandering spent, and care; Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view; Born 1728. Died 1774. 246 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies; My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, And find no spot of all the world my own. Even now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, I sit me down a pensive hour to spend; And, placed on high above the storm's career, Look downward where a hundred realms appear; Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide, The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride. When thus Creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine? Say, should the philosophic mind disdain That good which makes cach humbler bosom vain? Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, These little things are great to little man; And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind Exults in all the good of all mankind. Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd; Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round; Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale; Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale; For me your tributary stores combine: Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine! As some lone miser, visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er; Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies, Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, To see the hoard of human bliss so smalï; And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find Some spot to real happiness consign'd, Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene. Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 247 f Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These here disporting, own the kindred soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil: While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And even in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs, not far removed the date, When Commerce proudly flourish'd through the state; At her command the palace learn'd to rise, Again the long-fallen column sought the skies; The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form: Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores displayed her sail; While nought remain'd of all that riches gave, But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: And late the nation found, with fruitless skill. Its former strength was but plethoric ill. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. SWEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill, 248 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round· And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down; The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place, The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms-but all these charms are fled! Sweet smiling village! loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green! One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fadê; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began, When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; t OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 249 For him light Labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health, And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; Trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain: Along the lawn where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to luxury allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs-and God has given my share— I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose: I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return-and die at home at last. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a-year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nore'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place! 11* 250 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learnt to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; And, as a bird cach fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place, Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service past, around the pious man, With steady zcal, each honest rustic ran; E'en children follow'd with endearing wile, And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile; His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, { OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 251 *. *** Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on his head. Beside yon struggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school: A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd; Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew. "Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran-that he could gauge: In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still, While words of learned length, and thundering sound, Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; The pictures placed for ornament and use, The Twelve Good Rules, the royal game of Goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 252 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. • Vain transitory splendours! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair, To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Thomas Warton. SECOND SON of the Professor of Poetry in Oxford, was born in 1728. At the age of sixteen he entered Trinity College, of which he was an ornament for forty-seven years. He began his career as a poet at eighteen, by publishing some pastoral eclogues, and in 1747 ap- peared Pleasures of Melancholy." In 1719 he gained some distinc- tion by "The Triumph of Isis," a poem written in defence of the loyalty of Oxford. He is also the author of some sonnets. His high- est title to eminence he gained by his "History of English_Poetry. In 1757 Warton was appointed to the Professorship of Poetry in Oxford, which he held for ten years. In 1790 he was made poet laureate, which, however, he enjoyed only for a short time, as he died the same year. "" SPRING. " Born 1728. Died 1790. MINDFUL of disaster past, And shrinking at the northern blast, The sleety storm returning still, The morning hoar, the evening chill, Reluctant comes the timid Spring: Scarce a bee, with airy ring, Murmurs the blossomed boughs around That clothe the garden's southern bound: Scarce the hardy primrose peeps From the dark dell's entangled steeps: O'er the field of waving broom Slowly shoots the golden bloom: And but by fits the furze-clad dale Tinctures the transitory gale. Scant along the ridgy land The beans their new-born ranks expand; THOMAS WARTON. 253 4 " The fresh-turned soil, with tender blades Thinly the sprouting barley shades; Fringing the forest's devious edge Half-robed appears the hawthorn hedge; Or to the distant eye displays, Weakly green, its budding sprays. The swallow, for a moment seen, Skims in haste the village green; From the gray moor, on feeble wing, The screaming plovers idly spring; The butterfly, gay-painted, soon Explores awhile the tepid noon; And fondly trusts its tender dyes To fickle suns and flattering skies. ON A PAINTED WINDOW AT OXFORD. YE brawny Prophets, that in robes so rich, At distance due, possess the crisped niche; Ye rows of Patriarchs, that, sublimely reared, Diffuse a proud primeval length of beard: Ye saints, who, clad in crimson's bright array, More pride than humble poverty display: Ye Virgins meek, that wear the palmy crown Of patient faith, and yet so fiercely frown: Ye Angels, that from clouds of gold recline, But boast no semblance to a race divine: Ye tragic Tales of legendary lore, That draw devotion's ready tear no more; Ye Martyrdoms of unenlightened days, Ye Miracles that now no wonder raise; Shapes, that with one broad glare the gazer strike, Kings, bishops, nuns, apostles, all alike! Ye Colours, that the unwary sight amaze, And only dazzle in the noontide blaze! No more the secret window's round disgrace, But yield to Grecian groups the shining space. Lo! from the canvas Beauty shifts her throne; Lo! Picture's powers a new formation own! Behold, she prints upon the crystal plain, With her own energy, the expressive stain! The mighty Master spreads his mimic toil More wide, nor only blends the breathing oil; 254 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ε & But calls the lineaments of life complete From genial alchemy's creative heat; Obedient forms to the bright fusion gives, While in the warm enamel Nature lives. Reynolds, 'tis thine, from the broad window's height, To add new lustre to religious light: Not of its pomp to strip this ancient shrine, But bid that pomp with purer radiance shine: With arts unknown before, to reconcile The willing Graces to the Gothic pile. Dr. Thomas Percy. THOMAS PERCY was born at Bridgenorth, in Shropshire, in 1723. He was educated at Oxford, for the Church. After being successively Chaplain to the King, and Dean of Carlisle, he was advanced to the bishopric of Dromore in Ireland. In 1765 he published his "Rel- iques of English Poetry." which had an immediate and lasting effect on our literature. He was also himself a poet, and published some small pieces, which show considerable talent, the "Hermit of Warkworth, ""O Nancy, wilt thou go with me?" &c. Percy died in 1811. O NANCY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME? O NANCY, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer decked with jewels rare, Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? O Nancy, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? O can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor, sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? f Born 1728. Died 1811. O Nancy, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go? Or, when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? JOHN CUNNINGHAM. 255 Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care, Nor, wistful, those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath? Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers, and drop the tender tear? Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair? John Cunningham. "" AN Irish poet, the son of a Dublin artisan. Author of "The Land- scape. a poem, and some minor pieces, which display great melody and simplicity of versification. He spent some time iu Edinburgh in a theatrical company. KATE OF ABERDEEN. THE silver moon's enamoured beam, Steals softly through the night, To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy sleep— "Tis where you've seldom been- May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen. Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbars her golden gate, And gives the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen. Born 1729. Died 1773. Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid I love. 256 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And see-the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green: Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the jocund dance wc'll lead, Or tune the reed to love: For see, the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen; And hark! the happy shepherds cry: "Tis Kate of Aberdeen." Samuel Bishop. AN English clergyman, author of some miscellaneous poems, chiefly in praise of his wife. Born 1731. Died 1795. TO MRS. BISHOP, On the Anniversary of her Wedding-day, which was also her Birthday, with a Ring. "THEE, Mary, with this ring I wed "— So, fourteen years ago, I said. Behold another ring!" For what?" "To wed thee o'er again?" Why not? With that first ring I married youth, Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth; Taste long admired, sense long revered, And all my Molly then appeared. If she, by merit since disclosed, Prove twice, the woman I supposed, I plead that double merit now, To justify a double vow. Here, then, to-day-with faith as sure, With ardour as intense, as pure, As when, amidst the rites divine, I took thy troth, and plighted mine- To thee, sweet girl, my second ring A token and a pledge I bring: With this I wed, till death us part, Thy riper virtues to my heart; Those virtues which, before untried, The wife has added to the bride; t CHARLES CHURCHILL. 257 Those virtues, whose progressive claim, Endearing wedlock's very name, My soul enjoys, my song approves, For conscience' sake as well as love's. ――――――― And why?--They show me every hour Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, “ And teach me all things-but repentance. Charles Churchill. CHURCHILL'S father was an English clergyman in Essex, who edu- cated his son for the Church. He obtained a curacy in Somerset- shire. so poor, however, that it is said he had to eke out his living by selling cider. In 1758 he succeeded his father as lecturer of St John's, Westminster. And now commenced his downward career. His income was small for London, while his tastes were expensive, and he was on the verge of being sent to jail when a friend effected a compromise. He now composed his satire the "Rosciad," which was published at first anonymously, and which led many to believe a second Dryden had risen. It created a great sensation; other pieces followed, which brought him into still higher notice. With all this success he was, however, plunging deeper into vice, and his manners were such that his ecclesiastical superiors had at last to insist on his resignation of the lectureship. With it he cast off his Christianity, and stood out as an avowed infidel. In 1764 Churchill visited France. At Boulogne he was seized with a fever, and died 4th November. Born 1731. Died 1764. FROM "L THE CONFERENCE.” Look back! a thought which borders on despair, Which human nature must, yet cannot bear. 'Tis not the babbling of a busy world, Where praise or censure are at random hurled, Which can the meanest of my thoughts control, Or shake one settled purpose of my soul; Free and at large might their wild curses roam, If all, if all, alas! were well at home. No; 'tis the tale which angry conscience tells, When she with more than tragic horror swells Each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but true, She brings bad actions forth into review, And, like the dread handwriting on the wall, Bids late remorse awake at reason's call; Armed at all points, bids scorpion vengeance pass, And to the mind holds up reflection's glass- The mind which starting heaves she heartfelt groan, And hates that form she knows to be her own. 258 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM "THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.” Two boys whose birth, beyond all question, springs From great and glorious, though forgotten kings, Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred On the same bleak and barren mountain's head, By niggard nature doomed on the same rocks To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks, Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist, The mountain's top with usual dulness kissed, Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose; Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes; Where from their youth inured to winter skies, Dress and her vain refinements they despise. Jockey, whose manly high cheek-bones to crown, With freckles spotted flamed the golden down, With meikle art could on the bagpipes play, Even from the rising to the setting day; Sawney as long without remorse could bawl Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal: Oft at his strains, all natural though rude, The Highland lass forgot her want of food, And, whilst she soothed her lover into rest, Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's breast. Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorned the lively green: The plague of locust they secure defy, For in three hours a grasshopper must die: No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, But the chameleon, who can feast on air. No birds, except as birds of passage, flew; No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo: No streams, as amber smooth, as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here: Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran, Furnished with bitter draughts the steady clan : No flowers embalmed the air, but one white rose, Which, on the tenth of June, by instinct blows; By instinct blows at morn, and, when the shades Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades, WILLIAM COWPER. 259 • qu William Cowper. COWPER was born in Great Berkhampstead, on 26th November, 1731. He was the son of a clergyman, and descended both by the father's and mother's side from noble ancestry. At Westminster School, where he remained eight years, his delicate frame made him the sport of his school-fellows, who triumphed over the timidity of his spirits; and it is believed that his bitter recollections of these scenes can be traced in some of his poetry. At eighteen he left school and was articled to Mr. Chapman, an attorney. On its termination he entered at the "Templê;" but, as Hayley expresses it, he " “con- stantly rambled from the thorny road of jurisprudence to the prim- rose paths of literature." In his thirty-second year Cowper was appointed by his relation, Major Cowper, to the lucrative office of clerk to the House of Lords. Cowper accepted the post, and set him- self to prepare for it; but by the time he was to enter on the duties of the place, he had worked himself into such a state of nervous ex- citement, that he became partially insane. Cowper had still some funds remaining, and with the assistance of his friends he was able to take private lodgings in Huntingdon. Here he became acquainted with the Unwins, who succeeded in getting him to take up his abode in their amiable and happy family. Mr. Unwin was killed by an ac- cident, and Cowper accompanied Mrs. Unwin and her daughter to their new residence at Olney, where he formed a close friendship with the Rev. John Newton, with whom he united in the composition of the "Olney Hymns.' In 1773 Cowper's old malady returned, and for some years required the constant attendance and care of Mrs. Unwin, who nursed him with a kindness quite maternal. After his recovery, and when upwards of fifty, he published, in 1782, his first volume of poems, containing "Table Talk," "Hope," the "Pro- gress of Error," &c. "The Task" appeared in 1785, and its success was immediate and decided. In 1791 he published a translation of Homer. From this time till his death, Cowper was never free from gloom and despondency, but in occasional pieces his genius shone forth unclouded as ever. His last piece, "The Castaway, "' shows his poetical powers to have been as vigorous as at any period of his life. He died on 25th April, 1800. "" CHARACTER OF THE FRENCH. J Born 1731. Died 1800. BORN in a climate softer far than ours, Not formed like us, with such Herculean powers, The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of misery far away: He drinks his simple beverage with a gust; And, feasting on an onion and a crust, We never feel the alacrity and joy With which he shouts and carols, Vive le Roi! Fill'd with as much true merriment and glee As if he heard his king say—Slave, be free. Thus happiness depends, as Nature shows, Less on exterior things than most suppose. P 1 260 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. THE PLAN OF SALVATION. O нow unlike the complex works of man, Heaven's easy, artless, unencumber'd plan! No meretricious graces to beguile, No clustering ornaments to clog the pile; From ostentation, as from weakness, free, It stands like the cerulean arch we see, Majestic in its own simplicity. Inscribed above the portal, from afaṛ Conspicuous as the brightness of a star, Legible only by the light they give, Stand the soul-quickening words-Believe, and live. Too many, shock'd at what should charm them most, Despise the plain direction, and are lost. THE CONTRAST. YON Cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store; Content though mean, and cheerful if not gay, Shuffling her threads about the live-long day, Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light. She, for her humble sphere by nature fit, Has little understanding, and no wit, Receives no praise; but though her lot be such (Toilsome and indigent), she renders much; Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew; And in that charter reads with sparkling eyes, Her title to a treasure in the skies. Oh, happy peasant! Oh, unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; He praised perhaps for ages yet to come, She never heard of half a mile from home: He, lost in errors, his vain heart prefers, She, safe in the simplicity of hers. THE MEETING. Ir happen'd on a solemn eventide, Soon after He that was our surety died, Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined, The scene of all those sorrows left behind, WILLIAM COWPER. 261 Sought their own village, busied as they went In musings worthy of the great event: They spake of Him they loved, of Him whose life, Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife, Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, A deep memorial graven on their hearts. The recollection, like a vein of ore, The farther traced, enrich'i them still the more; They thought him, and they justly thought him, one Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done; To exalt a people, and to place them high, Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend, And ask'd them, with a kind, engaging air, What their affliction was, and begged a share. Inform'd, he gather'd up the broken thread, And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said, Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well The tender theme on which they chose to dwell, That, reaching home, the night, they said, is near, We must not now be parted, sojourn here- The new acquaintance soon became a guest, And, made so welcome at their simple feast, He bless'd the bread, but vanished at the word, And left them both exclaiming, 'Twas the Lord] Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say, Did they not burn within us by the way? Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Man to maintain, and such as God approves: Their views, indeed, were indistinct and dim, But yet successful, being aim'd at him. Christ and his character their only scope, Their object, and their subject, and their hope, They felt what it became them much to feel, And, wanting him to loose the sacred seal, Found him as prompt as their desire was true, To spread the new-born glories in their view. SLAVERY. OH for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, -- - ܠܡܐ 262 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Might never reach me more! My car is pain'd, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which carth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colour'd like his own; and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave,' And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home:-then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. LOVE OF COUNTRY. ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still- My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime P WILLIAM COWPER. 263 Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd With dripping rains, or wither'd by a frost, I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from height sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er With odours, and as profligate as sweet; Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight; when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. ADDRESS TO WINTER. O WINTER, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd, Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along its slippery way, I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Shortening his journey between morn and noon, 264 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy west; but kindly still Compensating his loss with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering at short notice, in one group The family dispersed, and fixing thought, Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. I crown thee king of intimate delights, Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening know. THE FREEMAN. He is the freeman whom the truth makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain That hellish foes, confederate for his harm, Can wind around him, but he casts it off With as much ease as Samson his green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and, though poor perhaps, compared With those whose mansions glitter in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his own. His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And all the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy With a propriety that none can feel, But who, with filial confidence inspired, Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye, And smiling say "My Father made them all!" Are they not his by a peculiar right, And by an emphasis of interest his, Whose eye they fill with tears of holy joy, Whose heart with praise, and whose exalted mind With worthy thoughts of that unwearied love That plann'd, and built, and still upholds a world So clothed with beauty for rebellious man? Yes-ye may fill your garners, ye that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste much good In senseless riot; but ye will not find, In feast or in the chase, in song or dance, A liberty like his who, unimpeach'd Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong, Appropriates nature as his Father's work, A WILLIAM CÓWPER. 265 { 1 And has a richer use of yours than you. He is indeed a freeman. Free by birth Of no mean city; plann'd or e'er the hills Were built, the fountains open'd, or the sea With all his roaring multitude of waves. His freedom is the same in every state; And no condition of this changeful life, So manifold in cares, whose every day Brings its own evil with it, makes it less; For he has wings that neither sickness, pain, Nor penury, can cripple or confine. No nook so narrow but he spreads them there With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds His body bound; but knows not what a range His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain; And that to bind him is a vain attempt, Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells. J WINTER WALK AT NOON. ܝ THERE is in souls a sympathy with sounds; And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave: Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How soft the music of those village bells, Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence sweet, now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder still, Clear and sonorous as the gale comes on! With easy force it opens all the cells Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the scene recurs, And with it all its pleasures and its pains. The night was winter in its roughest mood; The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, Upon the southern side of the slant hills, And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; And through the trees I view the embattled tower 12 266 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Whence all the music. again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings as I tread The walk, still verdant under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd; Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart May give a useful lesson to the head, And Learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed and squared, and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. THE SCHOOL. Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise, We love the play-place of our carly days; The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. The wall on which we tried our graving skill, The very name we carved subsisting still; The bench on which we sat while deep employ'd, Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroy'd; The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot, Playing our games, and on the very spot; 3 f WILLIAM COWPER. 267 As happy as we once, to kneel and draw The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat; The pleasing spectacle at once excites Such recollection of our own delights, That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain Our innocent sweet simple years again. This fond attachment to the well-known place, Whence first we started into life's long race, Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway, We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. ON MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalise, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here: Who bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss- Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 268 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such?-it was.-Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wish'd, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That Memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a form, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid: Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks That humour interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little noticed here. 1 WILLIAM COWPER. 269 THE CASTAWAY. OBSCUREST night involved the sky, The Atlantic billows roar'd, When such a destined wretch as I, Wash'd headlong from on board, Of friends, of hope, of all bereft, His floating home for ever left. No braver chief could Albion boast Than he with whom he went, Nor ever ship left Albion's coast With warmer wishes sent. He loved them both, but both in vain, Nor him beheld, nor her again. Not long beneath the whelming brine, Expert to swim, he lay; Nor soon he felt his strength decline, Or courage die away: But waged with death a lasting strife, Supported by despair of life. He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd To check the vessel's course, But so the furious blast prevail'd, That, pitiless perforce, They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delayed not to bestow: But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Whate'er they gave, should visit more. Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld: 270 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And so long he, with unspent power, · His destiny repell'd: And ever, as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried-"Adieu!" f At length, his transient respite past, His comrades, who before Had heard his voice in every blast, Could catch the sound no more: For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. Dr. Erasmus Darwin. THE author of "The Botanic Garden," was born at Elston, near Newark, in 1731. He was educated at St. John's, Cambridge, and from thence proceeded to Edinburgh, where he studied medicine. After taking liis degree there, he settled in Lichfield, where he got into extensive practice. He afterwards removed to Derby, where he published the first part of his "Botanic Garden;" the second and third parts followed in 1789 and 1792. Darwin was the author of several prose works, evincing considerable metaphysical talent. He died 18th April, 1802. ON STEAM. (From "The Botanic Garden.") Born 1731. Died 1802. NYMPHS! you erewhile on simmering caldrons play'd, And call'd delighted Savery to your aid; Bade round the youth explosive Steam aspire, In gathering clouds, and wing'd the wave with fire; Bade with cold streams the quick expansion stop, And sunk the immense of vapour to a drop. Press'd by the ponderous air the piston falls Resistless, sliding through its iron walls; Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant birth, Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth. The Giant-Power from Earth's remotest caves Lifts with strong arm her dark reluctant waves; Each cavern'd rock and hidden den explores, Drags her dark coals, and digs her shining ores. Next, in close cells of ribbed oak confined, Gale after gale, he crowds the struggling wind; The imprison'd storms through brazen nostrils roar, Fan the white flame, and fuse the sparkling ore. Here high in air the rising stream he pours To clay-built cisterns, or to lead-lined towers; WILLIAM FALCONER. 271 MARKE • Fresh through a thousand pipes the wave distils, And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills. There the vast mill-stone with inebriate whirl On trembling floors his forceful fingers twirl, Whose flinty teeth the golden harvests grind, Feast without blood! and nourish human-kind. Now his hard hands on Mona's rifted crest, Bosom'd in rock, her azure ores arrest; With iron lips his rapid rollers seize The lengthening bars, in thin expansion squeeze; Descending screws with ponderous fly-wheels wound The tawny plates, the new medallions round; Hard dyes of steel the cupreous circles cramp, And with quick fall his massy hammers stamp. The harp, the lily, and the lion join, And George and Britain guard the sterling coin. Soon shall thy arm, unconquer'd Steam! afar Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car; Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear The flying-chariot through the fields of air. -Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above, Shall wave their fluttering kerchiefs as they move; Our warrior-bands alarm the gaping crowd, And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud. William Falconer. {Browned 1769. "" FALCONER was the son of a poor barber in Edinburgh, and was born there on 11th February, 1730. He joined a Leith merchant vessel as an apprentice, and there acquired that intimate knowledge of sea matters which qualified him for the composition of his poem. He was shipwrecked in the Britannia, when second-mate, off Cape Colonna; and the scene there enacted has been vividly described in "The Shipwreck. The work was successful, and brought Falconer into notice. He was successively made midshipman, and then purser, in the Glory. After the peace he was paid off; and among other means that he tried to make a living, he wrote a "Marine Diction- ary," which is still the basis of all others. In 1769, the poet, having been appointed purser of the Aurora frigate bound for India, again went to sea; but the vessel, after passing the Cape, was never more heard of, and is supposed to have foundered with all on board. FROM "THE SHIPWRECK." In vain the cords and axes were prepared, For now th' audacious seas insult the yard; High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade. : }: POLITAN •_* 272 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ! Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, Her shatter'd top half-buried in the skies, Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground, Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound! Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels, And quivering with the wound, in torment reels. So reels, convulsed with agonising throes, The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows→ Again she plunges! hark! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock: Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims shuddering roll their eyes, In wild despair; while yet another stroke, With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak: Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking dæmons of destruction dwell, At length asunder torn her frame divides; And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides. O were it mine with tuneful Maro's art To wake to sympathy the feeling heart; Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress In all the pomp of exquisite distress! Then too severely taught by cruel fate, To share in all the perils I relate, Then might I, with unrivall'd strains deplore The impervious horrors of a leeward shore. As o'er the surge the stooping main-mast hung, Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung; Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, And there by oozy tangles grappled fast; Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage, Unequal combat with their fate to wage; Till all benumb'd and feeble, they forego Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below. Some, from the main-yard-arm impetuous thrown On marble ridges, die without a groan. Three with Palemon on their skill depend, And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend. Now on the mountain wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath the involving tide; Till one, who seems in agony to strive, The whirling breakers heave on shore alive; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And prest the stony beach, a lifeless crew! ? i CLIC : WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. Born William Julins Mickle. {Bied 1788. MICKLE, the son of a minister in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, went to London to push his way, and there changed the spelling of his name, which was originally Meikle. He published some poems, which were highly thought of at the time; but, with the exception of "Cumnor Hall," which suggested to Scott the idea of Kenil- worth," and "The Mariner's Wife," they are scarcely known at the present day. Mickle succeeded in working himself into a good position in society. He died near Oxford, in 1788. 6. THE MARINER'S WIFE. BUT are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o'wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. There's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a', There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa. Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak-I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. Rise up and make a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock, his Sunday's coat. And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockins white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman— He likes to see them braw. There are twa hens into the crib Hae fed this month and mair, Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare. Bring down to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown, For I maun tell the bailie's wife, That Colin's come to town. 273 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, My stockins pearl blue- 1 12* 274 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in 't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: In troth, I'm like to greet. James Beattie, LL.D. 6. DR. BEATTIE was born at Laurencekirk, in the county of Kincar- dine, on 25th October, 1735. His father was a small farmer, but died while his son was yet a child. Fortunately for the future poet, an elder brother recognising his talent, assisted him to "climb the steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar." He made such good use of this assistance, that in his fourteenth year he obtained a bursary (exhibition) in Marischall College, Aberdeen. On leaving college he rapidly rose from being a parish schoolmaster, to the Professorship of Moral Philosophy and Logic in Marischal College in 1760. About this time he published Lis first volume of poems; they were, however very far behind his later productions. It was not till 1771 that the first part of The Minstrel" appeared, and the second part in 1774. Its success was complete. Honours flowed in on every side. On visiting London he was welcomed to the choicest circles, and, after being graciously received at court, had a pension accorded to him of £200 a year. The University of Oxford con. ferred on him the degree of LL.D., and he was offered good prefer- ment in the Church of England, which, however, he declined. But while the external current of his life was thus prosperous, family affliction was desolating the sensitive heart of the poet, and bringing down his gray hairs in sadness to the grave. He lived for many years in declining health, and died in Aberdeen on the 18th August, 1803. Born 1735. Died 1803. "" FROM "THE MINSTREL." An! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar; Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war: Checked by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown! JAMES BEATTIE, LL.D. And yet the languor of inglorious days Not equally oppressive is to all; Him, who ne'er listened to the voice of praise, The silence of neglect can ne'er appal. There are, who, deaf to mad Ambition's call, Would shrink to hear the obstreperous trump of Fame; Supremely blest, if to their portion fall ** Health, competence, and peace. Nor higher aim Had he, whose simple tale these artless lines proclaim. The rolls of fame I will not now explore; Nor need I here describe, in learned lay, How forth the Minstrel fared in days of yore, Right glad of heart, though homely in array; His weaving locks and beard all hoary gray; While from his bending shoulder, decent hung His harp, the sole companion of his way, Which to the whistling wind responsive rung: And ever as he went some merry lay he sung. Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, That a poor villager inspires my strain; With thee let Pageantry and Power abide; The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign; Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature's charms. They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain; The parasite their influence never warms, Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms. 275 Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, Yet horror screams from his discordant threat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, While warbling larks on russet pinions float: Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, Where the gray linnets carol from the hill, O let them ne'er, with artificial note, To please a tyrant, strain the little bill, But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will. EDWIN. AND yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy. Deep thought oft seemed to fix his infant eye. Dainties he heeded not, nor gaud, nor toy, 2 276 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Save one short pipe of rudest minstrelsy; Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy; And now his look was most demurely sad, And now he laughed aloud, yet none knew why. The neighbours stared and sighed, yet blessed the lad; Some deemed him wondrous wise, and some believed him mad. Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; And sees on high, amidst the encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine; While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies? Ah, no! he better knows great Nature's charms to prize. And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost- What dreadful pleasure there to stand sublime, Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast, And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows, lengthening to the horizon round, Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound! In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene. In darkness and in storm he found delight; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene, The southern sun diffused his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitude amused his soul; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wished not to control. MORNING LANDSCAPE. BUT who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide · JAMES BEATTIE, LL.D. The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark; Crowned with her pail the tripping milkmaid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and, hark! Down the rough slope the ponderous wagon rings; Through rustling corn the hare astonished springs; Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings; Deep mourns the turtle in sequestered bower, And shrill lark carols clear from her aërial tower. 277 THE HERMIT. Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove: 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began: No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man. "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral: But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass-but they never return. "Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon half extinguished her crescent displays: But lately I marked, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again; But man's faded glory what change shall renew? Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! ""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; 1 278 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew: Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will savc. But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn- O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave? "Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. O pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, 6 Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free! “And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.” RETIREMENT. WHEN in the crimson cloud of even The lingering light decays, And Hesper on the front of heaven His glittering gem displays; Deep in the silent vale, unséen, Beside a lulling stream, A pensive youth, of placid mien, Indulged this tender theme: "Ye cliffs, in hoary grandeur piled High o'er the glimmering dale; Ye woods, along whose windings wild Murmurs the solemn gale: Where Melancholy stays forlorn, And Woe retires to weep, What time the wan moon's yellow horn Gleams on the western deep: of #+ JAMES BEATTIE, LL.D. "To you, ye wastes, whose artless charms Ne'er drew Ambition's eyc, 'Scaped a tumultuous world's alarms, To your retreats I fly. Deep in your most sequester'd bower Let me at last recline, Where Solitude, mild, modest power, Leans on her ivied shrine. "How shall I woo thee, matchless fair? Thy heavenly smile how win? Thy smile that smooths the brow of Care, And stills the storm within. O wilt thou to thy favourite grove Thine ardent votary bring, And bless his hours, and bid them move Serene, on silent wing? "Oft let Remembrance soothe his mind With dreams of former days, When in the lap of Peace reclined He framed his infant lays; When Fancy roved at large, nor Care Nor cold Distrust alarmed, Nor Envy, with malignant glare, His simple youth had harmed. 'But if some pilgrim through the glade Thy hallowed bowers explore, O guard from harm his hoary head, And listen to his lore; For he of joys divine shall tell, That wean from earthly woe, And triumph o'er the mighty spell That chains his heart below. "For me, no more the path invites Ambition loves to tread; No more I climb those toilsome heights, By guileful Hope misled; Leaps my fond fluttering heart no more To Mirth's enlivening strain; For present pleasure soon is o'er, And all the past is vain." 279 SMA ܘܝ ܚ ܕ ܗ 280 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. James Macpherson. "" THE translator or imitator of Ossian, was born at Kingussie, in In- vernesshire, and was intended for the Church. After leaving college, he was tutor in the family of Mr. Graham of Balgowan. In 1760 he published "Fragments of Ancient Highland Poetry.” which were so well received, that a subscription was made to enable him to collect additional pieces. As the result of his journey, he published in 1762 "Fingal, an Ancient Epic Poem, by Ossian the Son of Fingal, a Gaelic Chief of the Third Century. In 1763 he published “Temora, another epic poem. The sale of these was extraordinary. Many doubted their antiquity, and Dr. Johnson openly treated them as impostures. The current of opinion now seems to be in favour of the idea that Macpherson found a good many traditionary stories and some manuscripts, and wove out of them, in a connected form, what he gave out as the translation from Ossian. Macpherson ob- tained some good appointments, and was elected member of Parlia- ment for Camelford. He also amassed considerable wealth, which he employed in purchasing the property of Raitts, in his native parish. He died on 17th February, 1796. OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN. 19 Born 1738. Died 1796. I FEEL the sun, O Malvina! leave me to my rest. Per- haps they may come to my dreams; I think I hear a feeble voice! The beam of heaven delights to shine on the grave of Carthon. I feel it warm around. O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers! Whence are thy beams, O sun! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty; the stars hide themselves in the sky; the moon, cold and pale, sinks in the western wave; but thou thyself movest alone. Who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall; the moun- tains themselves decay with years; the ocean shrinks and grows again; the moon herself is lost in heaven, but thou art for ever the same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When the world is dark with tempests, when thunder rolls and lightning flies, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest in vain, for he beholds thy beams no more; whether thy yellow hair flows on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest at the gates of the west. But thou art perhaps like me for a season; thy years will have an end. Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds careless of the voice of the morning. Exult, then, O sun, in the strength of thy youth! Age is dark and unlovely; it is like the glimmering light of the moon when it shines through broken clouds, and the mist is on the hills: the blast of the north is on the plain; the trav- eller shrinks in the midst of his journey. JAMES MACPHERSON. 281 FINGAL'S HALL. 66 His friends sit around the king, on mist! They hear the songs of Ullin: he strikes the half-viewless harp. He raises the feeble voice. The lesser heroes, with a thou- sand meteors, light the airy hall. Malvina rises in the midst; a blush is on her cheek. She beholds the un- known faces of her fathers. She turns aside her humid “Art thou come so soon?" said Fingal, eyes. daugh- ter of generous Toscar. Sadness dwells in the halls of Lutha. My aged son is sad! I hear the breeze of Cona, that was wont to lift thy heavy locks. It comes to the hall, but thou art not there. Its voice is mournful among the arms of thy fathers! Go, with thy rustling wing, Ŏ breeze! sigh on Malvina's tomb. It rises yonder beneath the rock, at the blue stream of Lutha. The maids are departed to their place. Thou alone, O breeze, mournest there!" ADDRESS TO THE MOON. The DAUGHTER of heaven, fair art thou! the silence of thy face is pleasant! Thou comest forth in loveliness. stars attend thy blue course in the cast. The clouds re- joice in thy presence, O moon! they brighten their dark- brown sides. Who is like thee in heaven, light of the silent night? The stars are ashamed in thy presence. They turn away their sparkling eyes. Whither dost thou retire from thy course, when the darkness of thy coun- tenance grows? hast thou thy hall, like Ossian? dwellest thou in the shadow of grief? have thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail, one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy brightness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white waves in light. 282 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA. STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! Thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the dis- tant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise! And it does arise in its strength! I behold my de- parted friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin, with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass. • Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white- bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill! Colma. It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The tor- rent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds! Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds: Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud, I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar? why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise MRS. THRALE OR PIOZZI. 281 with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar! Born 1740. Mrs. Thrale or Piozzi. {Bied 1822. HESTER LYNCH SALISBURY, daughter of a gentleman of Carnarvon- shire, was born in 1740. She was early distinguished by her beauty and accomplishments, and in 1763 married Mr. Thrale, afterwards member of parliament for Southwark. On his death she retired to Bath, where she afterwards married Piozzi, an Italian, with whom she went abroad; they resided some time in Florence. She after- wards published a volume of poems, "The Florence Miscellany. She is only known now by her little tale "The Three Warnings." She died at Clifton, 1822. THE THREE WARNINGS. THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; "Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, >> And looking grave-" You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me. "With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!" the hapless husband cried; "Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day, you know." What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer. "" 284 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Yet calling up a serious look, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke- "Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: And further, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And fit you for your future station, Three several warnings you shall have Before you're summoned to the grave; Willing for once I'll quit my prey, And grant a kind reprieve; In hopes you'll have no more to say; But, when I call again this way, Well pleased the world will leave." To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented. What next the hero of our tale befell, How long he lived, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursued his course, And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse, The willing muse shall tell: He chaffered, then he bought and sold, Nor once perceived his growing oid, Nor thought of Death as near: His friends not false, his wife no shrew, Many his gains, his children few, He passed his hours in peace. But while he viewed his wealth increase, While thus along life's dusty road, The beaten track content he trod, Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares, Uncalled, unheeded, unawares, Brought on his eightieth year. And now, one night, in musing mood, As all alone he sate, The unwelcome messenger of Fate Once more before him stood. Half-killed with anger and surprise, 'So soon returned!" old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies: "6 Surely, my friend, you're but in jest? Since I was here before 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.” MRS. THRALE OR PIOZZI. 285 "So much the worse," the clown rejoined; "To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.” "I know," cries Death, "that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable: Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" "Hold!" says the farmer; "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies: "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight." "This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 66 Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, "These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your Three sufficient Warnings: So come along; no more we'll part;" He said, and touched him with his dart. And now old Dodson turning pale, Yields to his fate-so ends my tale. 286 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Reb. Thomas Moss. A CLERGYMAN of Staffordshire, only known by his poem, Beggar's Petition," published in 1769. Born 1740. Died 1808. THE BEGGAR. PITY the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span; Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, Has been the channel to a stream of tears. Yon house erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road, For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode. (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Here craving for a morsel of their bread, A pampered menial forced me from the door, To seek a shelter in a humbler shed. "The Oh! take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed. Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow, and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. MRS. HUNTER. 287 My daughter-once the comfort of my age! Lured by a villain from her native home, Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage, And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife-sweet soother of my care! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me. Mrs. Hunter. ANNE HOME, daughter of Robert Home, of Greenlaw Castle, Ber- wickshire, was born in 1742. She married John Hunter, a celebra- ted anatomist. Mrs. Hunter was the author of several beautiful lyrical poems, some of which were set to music by Haydn. THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. WHEN hope lies dead within the heart By secret sorrow close concealed, We shrink lest looks or words impart What must not be revealed. 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep; To speak when one would silent be; To wake when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony. Yet such the lot by thousands cast Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair. But nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointment cannot come: And time guides with unerring feet The weary wanderers home. Born 1742. Died 1821. Mrs. Barbauld. ANN LETITIA AIKEN was born in Leicestershire, in 1743. Her father, Dr. Aiken, was classical tutor in an academy. In 1773 she published a volume of miscellaneous poems which met with great success. In 1774 she married a French Protestant clergyman, the Rev. R. Barbauld, who had opened a boarding-school in Suffolk. In 1802 Mr. Barbauld became pastor at Stoke-Newington, where he laboured Born 1743. Died 1825. ܩܗ .܀. 288 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. till his death in 1808. Mrs. Barbauld is the author of many poetical and prose works. Her lyrical pieces are sweet and harmonious; and her Evenings at Home, and other prose works have been circulated in tens of thousands. She died in 1825. .. HYMN TO CONTENT. О THOU, the nymph with placid eye! O seldom found, yet ever nigh! Receive my temperate vow: Not all the storms that shake the pole Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, And smooth the unaltered brow. O come, in simple vest arrayed, With all thy sober cheer displayed, To bless my longing sight; Thy mien composed, thy even pace, Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, And chaste subdued delight. No more by varying passions beat, O gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky, Beneath thy soft indulgent eye, The modest virtues dwell. Simplicity in Attic vest, And Innocence with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair opening through this vale of tears, A vista to the sky. There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even-tide, That rarely ebb or flow; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Presents her mild unvarying cheek To meet the offered blow. Her influence taught the Phrygian sage A tyrant master's wanton rage With settled smiles to wait: Inured to toil and bitter bread, He bowed his meek submissive head, And kissed thy sainted feet. MRS. BARBAULD. 289 Corin. Sylvia. Leave me, simple shepherd, leave me, Drag no more a hopeless chain, I cannot like, nor would deceive thee; Love the maid that loves again. Tho' more gentle nymphs surround me, Kindly pitying what I feel, Only you have power to wound me, Sylvia, only you can heal. Sylvia. Corin, cease thy idle teasing, Love that's forced is harsh and sour; If the lover be displeasing, To persist disgusts the more. "Tis in vain, in vain to fly me, Sylvia, I will still pursue, Twenty thousand times deny me, I will kneel and weep anew. Sylvia. Cupid ne'er shall make me languish, was born averse to love; Corin. When eve, her dewy star beneath, Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, And every storm is laid; If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Oft let me hear thy soothing voice Low whispering through the shade. Corin. SONG. Lovers' sighs, and tears, and anguish, Mirth and pastime to me prove. Still I vow with patient duty, Thus to meet your proudest scorn: You for unrelenting beauty, I for constant love was born. But the fates had not consented, Since they both did fickle prove; Of her scorn the maid repented, And the shepherd of his love. 13 290 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Dan Ca Michael Bruce. A SCOTTISH poet, whose early promise was cut short by a premature death. He was born at Portmoak, in Kinross-shire. ELEGY-WRITTEN IN SPRING. 'Tis past: the iron North has spent his rage; Stern Winter now resigns the lengthening day The stormy howlings of the winds assauge, And warm o'er ether western breezes play. Of genial heat and cheerful light the source, From southern climes, beneath another sky, The sun, returning, wheels his golden course: Before his beams all noxious vapours fly. Born 1745. Died 170. Far to the north grim Winter draws his train, To his own clime, to Zembla's frozen shore; Where, throned on ice, he holds eternal reign; Where whirlwinds madden, and where tempests roar. Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, Again puts forth her flowers; and all around Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. Behold! the trees new deck their withered boughs; Their ample leaves the hospitable plane, The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun; The birds on ground, or on the branches green, Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. Soon as o'er eastern hills the morning peers, From her low nest the tufted lark upsprings; And, cheerful singing, up the air she steers Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Who love to walk in virtue's flowery road, Along the lovely paths of spring to rove, And follow Nature up to Nature's God. HECTOR M'NEILL. 291 TO THE CUCKOO. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The school-boy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No Winter in thy year! Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring. Hector M'Neill. A SCOTTISH poet, author of "The Harp," "Scotland's Skaith," "The Links of Forth," and some beautiful lyrics. ( Born 1746. Died 1818. MARY OF CASTLE-CARY. "SAW ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Saw ye my true love down on yon lea- Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming, Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree; 292 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e; Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses, Where could my wee thing wander frae me?” 66 'I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming, Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree: Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white, Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses- Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. "" "It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing, It was nae my true love ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature, She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary, Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee: Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee." 77 "It was then your Mary; she 's frae Castle-Cary, It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e: "Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning; Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie." "Away wi' beguiling," cried the youth smiling- Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, Is it my true love here that I see?" "O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee." (Born 1747. Died 1794. Miss Susan Blamire. A CUMBERLAND lady, who during a short residence in Scotland ac quired a thoroughly idiomatic acquaintance with the Scottish lan- guage, and wrote some exquisite songs. She also wrote a poem in the Cumbrian dialect. 1 MISS SUSAN BLAMIRE. 293 WHAT ALLS THIS HEART O' MINE! WHAT ails this heart o' mine? What ails this watery e'e? What gars me a' turn pale as death When I take leave o' thee? When thou art far awa', Thou'lt dearer grow to me; But change o' place and change o' folk May gar thy fancy jee. When I gae out at e'en, Or walk at morning air, Ilk rustling bush will seem to say I used to meet thee there. Then I'll sit down and ery, And live, aneath the tree, And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, I'll ca't a word frae thee. I'll hie me to the bower, That thou wi' roses tied, And where wi' mony a blushing bud I strove myself to hide; I'll doat on ilka spot Where I hae been wi' thee, And ca' to mind some kindly word By ilka burn and tree. FROM "THE NABOB.” WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, I sought again my native land Wi' mony hopes and fears. Wha kens gin the dear friends I left May still continue mine? Or gin I e'er again shall taste The joys I left langsyne? As I drew near my ancient pile My heart beat a' the way; Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak O' some dear former day; J 294 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Those days that followed me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys A' naething to langsyne! The ivied tower now met my eye, Where minstrels used to blaw; Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand, Nae weel-kenned face I saw; Till Donald tottered to the door, Wham I left in his prime, And grat to see the lad return He bore about langsyne. In vain I sought in music's sound To find that magic art, Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays Has thrill'd through a' my heart. The sang had mony an artfu' turn; My ear confessed 'twas fine; But missed the simple melody I listened to langsyne. Ye sons to comrades o' my youth, Forgie an auld man's spleen, Wha 'midst your gayest scenes still mourns The days he ance has seen. When time has passed and seasons fled, Your hearts will feel like mine; And aye the sang will maist delight That minds ye o' langsyne! Richard Cecil. An eminent divine, born in London, and for many years one of the most eloquent preachers of the Church of England. Born 1748. Died 1810. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT AT DAYBREAK, "CEASE then longer to detain me, Fondest mother, drowned in woe: Now thy kind caresses pain me; Morn advances,―let me go. "See yon orient streak appearing, Harbinger of endless day! JOHN LOGAN. 295 } Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering, Calls my new-born soul away. Lately launch'd, a trembling stranger, On the wide world's boisterous flood, Pierced with sorrows, toss'd with danger, Gladly I return to God. "Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee; Now my aching heart find rest; Kinder arms than thine receive me, Softer pillows than thy breast. "Weep not o'er these eyes that languish, Upward turning to their home; Raptured, they'll forget all anguish, While they watch to see thee come. "There, my mother, pleasures centre;— Weeping, parting, care and woe Ne'er our Father's house can enter:- Day is breaking,—let me go. "As, amidst this holy dawning, Silent glides away my breath, To an everlasting morning, Gently close mine eyes in death. “Blessing endless, richest blessing, Pour in streams upon thy heart! (Though no language yet possessing,) Breathes my spirit ere we part. “Yet to leave thee sorrowing pains me;— Hark, again the voice I hear: Now thy love no more detains me: Follow me, my mother dear." John Logan. LOGAN was born at Soutra, Mid-Lothian, in 1748. His father was a small farmer, and gave him a liberal education. While at the Uni- versity he wrote a number of short poems, which brought him into notice. Logan was educated for the Church, and was in 1770 or- dained to the pastorate of South Leith. In 1779 he published a volume of his poems, which reached a second edition in a few months. This success induced him to write a tragedy, which, how- ever, did not add to his reputation. He then went to London, where he obtained some literary employment, till his early death on 27th December, 1788. Born 1748. Died 1788. 296 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. : THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. 'Tis past! no more the summer blooms! Ascending in the rear, Behold congenial autumn comes, The Sabbath of the year! What time thy holy whispers breathe,, The pensive evening shade beneath, And twilight consecrates the floods; While Nature strips her garment gay, And wears the vesture of decay, O let me wander through the sounding woods! } Ah! well-known streams!-ah! wonted groves, Still pictured in my mind! Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves, Whose image lives behind! While sad I ponder on the past, The joys that must no longer last; The wild-flower strown on summer's bier, The dying music of the grove, And the last elegies of love, Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear. Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind May summer soon o'ercast! And cruel fate's untimely wind All human beauty blast! The wrath of nature smites our bowers, And promised fruits and cherished flowers, The hopes of life in embryo sweeps; Pale o'er the ruins of his prime, And desolate before his time, In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps! Yet not unwelcome waves the wood That hides me in its gloom, While lost in melancholy mood I muse upon the tomb. Their chequered leaves the branches shed, Whirling in eddies o'er my head, They sadly sigh that winter's near; The warning voice I hear behind That shakes the wood without a wind, And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. 1 JOHN LOWE. £97 ; (.. 1 John Lowe. He was ONLY known for his beautiful piece "Máry's Dream." born in Kenmore in Galloway, and ultimately emigrated to America. MARY'S DREAM. THE moon had climbed the highest hill Which rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!" She from her pillow gently raised Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale, and hollow e'e. "O Mary dear, cold is my clay; It lies beneath a stormy sea. Far, far from thee I sleep in death; So, Mary, weep no more for me! “Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love for thee: The storm is past, and I at rest; So, Mary, weep no more for me! "O maiden dear, thyself prepare; We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!" Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" 13* Born 1750. Died 1798. } 298 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Lady Anne Barnard. DAUGHTER of the Earl of Balcarres, and wife of Mr. Barnard, son of the Bishop of Limerick. The ballad of "Auld Robin Gray" was written by her in 1771. Born 1750. Died 1825. AULD ROBIN GRAY. WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, when the kye's come hame, And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride. But saving ae crown-piece he had naething beside; To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed to sea, And the crown and the pound-they were baith for me. He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a day, When my father brake his arm and the cow was stown away; My mither she fell sick-my Jamie was at sea, And Auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. My father couldna work-my mither couldna spin- I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his c'e, Said, "Jeanie, O for their sakes, will ye no marry me?" My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back, But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack, His ship was a wrack-why didna Jamie dee, Or why am I spared to cry wae is me? My father urged me sair-my mither didna speak, But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break: They gied him my hand-my heart was in the sea- And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. I hadna been his wife a week but only four, When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's ghaist; for I couldna think it he Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee!" 1 ROBERT FERGUSON. 299 1 " Oh, sair sair did we greet, and mickle say of a', I gied him ae kiss, and bade him gang awa'- I wish that I were dead, but I'm na like to die, For, though my heart is broken, I'm but young, wae is me! I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin, I darena think o' Jamie, for that would be a sin, But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, For, oh! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. Robert Ferguson. FERGUSON Was the son of the accountant in the British Linen Com- pany's Bank in Edinburgh, and received a University education. His father dying early, Ferguson was left destitute, but after many privations he obtained a clerkship in a law office, which would have supported him; but he had acquired a taste for the low society of the tavern, which quite unfitted him for his duties. At last, prostrated in body and mind, he sunk into a state of insanity, and ended his life in an asylum. He died in 1774. His poetry is chiefly in the Scottish dialect. BRAID CLAITH. YE wha are fain to hae your name Wrote i' the bonny book o' fame, Let merit nae pretension claim To laurelled wreath, But hap ye weel, baith back and wame, In guid braid claith. He that some ells o' this may fa' And slae-black hat on pow like snaw, Bids bauld to bear the gree awa', Wi' a' this graith, When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw O' guid braid claith. Born 1751. Died 1774. I On Sabbath-days the barber spark, When he was done wi' scrapin' wark, Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't! For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at; A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit While he draws breath, Till his four quarters are bedeckit Wi' guid braid claith. 300 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. . Wi' siller broachie in his sark, Gangs trigly, faith! Or to the Meadows, or the Park In guid braid claith. Weel might ye trow, to see them there, That they to shave your haffits bare, Or curl and sleek a pickle hair, Would be right laith, When pacin' wi' a gawsy air In guid braid claith. If ony mettled stirrah grien For favour frae a lady's een, He maunna care for bein' seen Before he sheath His body in a scabbard clean O' guid braid claith. For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare, A fig for him she winna care, But crook her bonny mou fou sair, And scauld him baith: Wooers should aye their travel spare, Without braid claith. / Thomas Chatterton. AN English poet, whose precocious genius and untimely fate have gained him great notoriety. He was born at Bristol, his father being sexton of Redcliff Church, where Chatterton professed to have found the manuscripts which he tried to palm off on the pub- lic as ancient. His father dying before he was born, Chatterton was educated at a charity school, where he was thought to be a great dunce, but where, at the age of eight, he began to compose verses. Ambitious in the highest degree of literary fame, he at six- teen set himself to obtain a name, and unfortunately, for this pur- pose, chose to attempt a series of impositions. The New Bridge of Bristol having been completed and opened with great ceremony, Chatterton sent to a newspaper an account of the ceremonies that took place at the opening of the Old Bridge, some hundreds of years before, and which he stated to have been found in some ancient manuscripts. The compositions published by him are so complete and finished that one is lost in wonder at their being written by a youth of sixteen. Chatterton now went to London, and found a precarious living by literary work. His splendid visions of fame and honour were melting away. He then cast off the restraints of religion, and plunged into intemperance, which completed the wreck of body and mind. At last, in absolute want. and goaded by remorse into the deepest despair, he destroyed him self by poison on 25th August, 1770, at the early age of seventeen years and nine months. 1 Born 1752. Died 1770. THOMAS CHATTERTON. 3013 1 £ 1 A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY. ALMIGHTY framer of the skies! O let our pure devotion rise, Like incense in thy sight! Wrapt in impenetrable shade The texture of our souls were made, Till thy command gave light. The sun of glory gleamed the ray, Refined the darkness into day, And bid the vapours fly: Impell'd by his eternal love He left His palaces above To cheer our gloomy sky. How shall we celebrate the day, When God appeared in mortal clay, The mark of worldly scorn; When the Archangel's heavenly lays, Attempted the Redeemer's praise. And hail'd salvation's morn! A humble form the Godhead wore, The pains of poverty He bore, To gaudy pomp unknown: Tho' in a human walk He trod Still was the Man Almighty God In glory all His own. Despised, oppress'd, the Godhead bears The torments of this vale of tears; Nor bid His vengeance rise, He saw the creatures he had made, Revile His power, His peace invade; He saw with mercy's eyes. How shall we celebrate His name, Who groan'd beneath a life of shame In all afflictions try'd; The soul is raptured to conceive A truth, which being must believe, The God eternal died. My soul, exert thy powers, adore, Upon devotion's plumage soar To celebrate the day: ¡ 302 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. € 1 The God from whom creation sprung Shall animate my grateful tongue: From Him I'll catch the lay! FROM "TRAGEDY OF ELLA."* The Minstrel's Song. Он! sing unto my roundelay; Oh! drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. *One of the pretended MSS. ! THOMAS CHATTERTON. 303 My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, water-flags Bear me to your deadly tide. I die I come-my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. MORNING. BRIGHT Sun had in his ruddy robes been dight, From the red east he flitted with his train; The Houris draw away the gate of Night, Her sable tapestry was rent in twain: The dancing streaks bedeckèd heaven's plain, And on the dew did smile with skimmering eye, Like gouts of blood which do black armour stain, Shining upon the bourn which standeth by; The soldiers stood upon the hillis side, Like young enleaved trees which in a forest bide. 304 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. SPRING. THE budding floweret blushes at the light, The meads be sprinkled with the yellow hue, In daisied mantles is the mountain dight, The fresh young cowslip bendeth with the dew; The trees enleafed, into heaven straight, When gentle winds do blow, to whistling din is brought; The evening comes, and brings the dews along, The ruddy welkin shineth to the eyne, Around the ale-stake minstrels sing the song, Young ivy round the door-post doth entwine; I lay me on the grass, yet to my will Albeit all is fair, there lacketh something still. Mrs. Grant. ANNE M'VICAR was born at Glasgow in 1754. In her twenty-fifth year she married the Rev. Mr. Grant, parish minister of Laggan, in Ivernesshire. She is the author of a volume of miscellaneous poems and several volumes of prose. ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood— To thy protecting shade she runs, Thy tender buds supply her food; Her young forsake her downy plumes, To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art! The deer that range the mountain free, The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee; The bee thy earliest blossom greets, And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Born 1751. Died 1838. Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor; Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet with splendid tints allure, Both valour's crest and beauty's bower, Oft hast thou decked, a favourite flower. GEORGE CRABBE. 305 Flower of the wild! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side, Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Not garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild, And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land! Alas, when distant far more dear! When he from some cold foreign strand, Looks homeward through the blinding tear, How must his aching heart deplore, That home and thee he sees no more! George Crabbe. "" "" CRABBE was born at Aldborough, in Suffolk, on 24th December, 1754. He was of humble origin, his father being collector of salt duties. Crabbe received, however, a superior education, and was articled to a surgeon at Aldborough; but not finding the employment to his taste, he proceeded to London, hoping to obtain literary employ- ment. He met with many rebuffs, but at last, by help of Burke, obtained the favour of Lord Thurlow, who advised him to enter the church. He did so, and was appointed curate in his native place, and afterwards chaplain to the Duke of Rutland. In 1781, with Burke's assistance, he obtained a publisher for "The Library,' which was favourably received by the critics. "The Village ap- peared in 1783, and extended the poet's fa:ne. Lord Thurlow also gave him two small livings, which enabled him to marry in comfort. In 1807 he published the "Parish Register," which met with imme- diate popularity; and three years after "The Borough" appeared; and in 1812 "Tales in Verse. In 1814 he was presented by the Duke of Rutland with the living of Trowbridge in Wilts, worth £800 per annum, to which he removed. In 1819 Crabbe's last poem, "Tales of the Hall," was published. Murray the publisher at this time pur- chased the copyright of all Crabbe's works, for which he gave the handsome sum of £3000. In a good old age, and surrounded by his family, Crabbe died February 3, 1832. THE PEASANT. S Born 1754. Died 1832. (From "Parish Register.") A NOBLE Peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestion'd and his soul serene: 306 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismay'd: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face: Yet while the serious thought his soul approved, Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he loved; To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd, And with the firmest had the fondest mind; Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh; A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd; (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind, To miss one favour, which their neighbours find:) Yet far was he from Stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved: I mark'd his action, when his infant died, And his old neighbour for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrow'd cheek, Spoke pity, plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride, Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; Nor pride in learning,-though my Clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few :- But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd, In sturdy boys to virtuous labours train'd; Pride in the power that guards his country's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,- In fact, a noble passion misnamed pride. M THE BETROTHED PAIR IN HUMBLE LIFE. (From "The Borough.") YES, there are real mourners; I have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention through the day her duties claimed, And to be useful as resigned she aimed; Ф GEORGE CRABBE. 307 7 Neatly she dressed, nor vainly seemed to expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep: Then to her mind was all the past displayed, That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid; For then she thought on one regretted youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth; In every place she wandered where they'd been, And sadly sacred held the parting scene Where last for sea he took his leave-that place With double interest would she nightly trace; For long the courtship was, and he would say, Each time he sailed, "This once, and then the day;" Yet prudence tarried, but when last he went, He drew from pitying love a full consent. Happy he sailed, and great the care she took That he should softly sleep, and smartly look; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck; And every comfort men at sea can know, Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow; For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told How he should guard against the climate's cold, Yet saw not danger, dangers he'd withstood, Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek, And he, too, smiled, but seldom would he speak; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message: 66 Thomas, I must die; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go! if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake. Yes, I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on! Give me one look before my life be gone; Oh, give me that! and let me not despair— One last fond look-and now repeat the prayer." 308 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 THE SUCCESSFUL MAN. (From "The Borough.") He was a fisher from his earliest day, And placed his nets within the Borough's bay; Where, by his skates, his herrings, and his soles, He lived, nor dream'd of Corporation-Doles; But toiling saved, and, saving, never ceased Till he had box'd up twelvescore pounds at least: He knew not money's power, but judged it best Safe in his trunk to let his treasure rest; Yet to a friend complain'd: "Sad charge, to keep So many pounds; and then I cannot sleep:" "Then put it out," replied the friend :- What, give My money up? why then I could not live:" (( (( Nay, but for interest place it in his hands ."" for 'tis plain, Who'll give you mortgage on his house or lands.". "Oh but," said Daniel, that's a dangerous plan; He may be robb'd like any other man: "Still he is bound, and you may be at rest, More safe the money than within your chest; And you'll receive, from all deductions clear, Five pounds for every hundred, every year." "What good in that?" quoth Daniel, If part I take, there can but part remain:" "What! you, my friend, so skill'd in gainful things, Have you to learn what interest money brings?" "Not so,” said Daniel, "perfectly I know, He's the most interest who has most to show." "True! and he'll show the more the more he lends; Thus he his weight and consequence extends; For they who borrow must restore each sum, And pay for use. What, Daniel, art thou dumb?" For much amazed was that good man. "Indeed!" Said he, with gladd'ning eye, "will money breed? How have I lived? I grieve with all my heart, For my late knowledge in this precious art: Five pounds for every hundred will he give? And then the hundred?- begin to live." So he began, and other means he found, As he went on, to multiply a pound: Though blind so long to interest, all allow That no man better understands it now: Him in our Body-Corporate we chose, And once among us, he above us rose; Kam da p GEORGE CRABBE. 309 Stepping from post to post, he reach'd the chair, And there he now reposes-that's the Mayor. FROM "THE FRANK COURTSHIP.” (( THEN left the youth, who, lost in his retreat, Pass'd the good matron on her garden-seat; His looks were troubled, and his air, once mild And calm, was hurried:- My audacious child!" Exclaim'd the dame, "I read what she has done In thy displeasure-Ah! the thoughtless one: But yet, Josiah, to my stern good man Speak of the maid as mildly as you can: Can you not seem to woo a little while The daughter's will, the father to beguile? So that his wrath in time may wear away; Will you preserve our peace, Josiah? say. "" "Yes! my good neighbour," said the gentle youth, "Rely securely on my care and truth; And should thy comfort with my efforts cease, And only then,-perpetual is thy peace. The dame had doubts: she well his virtues knew, His deeds were friendly, and his words were true: "But to address this vixen is a task He is ashamed to take, and I to ask.” Soon as the father from Josiah learn'd "} 66 What pass'd with Sybil, he the truth discern'd. "He loves," the man exclaim'd, he loves, 'tis plain, The thoughtless girl, and shall he love in vain? She may be stubborn, but she shall be tried, Born as she is of wilfulness and pride.' "" With anger fraught, but willing to persuade, The wrathful father met the smiling maid: "Sybil," said he, "I long, and yet I dread To know thy conduct-hath Josiah fled? And, grieved and fretted by thy scornful air, For his lost peace, betaken him to prayer? Couldst thou his pure and modest mind distress By vile remarks upon his speech, address, Attire, and voice?"-"All this I must confess." "Unhappy child! what labour will it cost To win him back!"-"I do not think him lost." "Courts he then (trifler!) insult and disdain?"- No; but from these he courts me to refrain." 310 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 'Then hear me, Sybil: should Josiah leave Thy father's house?"—"My father's child would grieve." "That is of grace, and if he come again To speak of love?"—"I might from grief refrain." "Then wilt thou, daughter, our design embrace?"- "Can I resist it, if it be of Grace?" "Dear child, in three plain words thy mind express: Wilt thou have this good youth?"-"Dear Father! yes." THE APPROACH OF AGE. (From "Tales of the Hall.") Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks; The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white: The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before, But now the bounding spirit was no more; A moderate pace would now my body heat; A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, "The view is poor; we need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlour and the gay glazed bed: At home I felt a more decided taste, And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less——— My dinner more; I learned to play at chess. I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that give me not to choose; In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose; Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose. GEORGE CRABBE. 311 1 THE CRAZED MAIDEN. (From "Tales of the Hall.") LET me not have this gloomy view About my room, about my bed; But morning roses, wet with dew, To cool my burning brow instead; As flowers that once in Eden grew, Let them their fragrant spirits shed, And every day their sweets renew, Till I, a fading flower, am dead. O let the herbs I loved to rear Give to my sense their perfumed breath! Let them be placed about my bier, And grace the gloomy house of death. I'll have my grave beneath a hill, Where only Lucy's self shall know, Where runs the pure pellucid rill Upon its gravelly bed below: There violets on the borders blow, And insects their soft light display, Till, as the morning sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay. That is the grave to Lucy shown; The soil a pure and silver sand; The green cold moss above it grown, Unplucked of all but maiden hand. In virgin earth, till then unturned, There let my maiden form be laid; Nor let my changed clay be spurned, Nor for new guest that beď be made. There will the lark, the lamb, in sport, In air, on earth, securely play: And Lucy to my grave resort, As innocent, but not so gay. I will not have the churchyard ground With bones all black and ugly grown, To press my shivering body round, Or on my wasted limbs be thrown. With ribs and skulls I will not sleep, In clammy beds of cold blue clay, M · 312 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Through which the ringed earth-worms creep, And on the shrouded bosom prey. I will not have the bell proclaim When those sad marriage rites begin, And boys, without regard or shame, Press the vile mouldering masses in. FROM "SIR EUSTACE GREY.” "PILGRIM, burthen'd with thy sin, Come the way to Zion's gate, There, till Mercy let thee in, Knock and weep and watch and wait. Knock-He knows the sinner's cry! Weep!-He loves the mourner's tears: Watch!-for saving grace is nigh: Wait, -till heavenly light appears. Hark! it is the Bridegroom's voice: "Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest; Now within the gate rejoice, Safe and seal'd and bought and blest! Safe-from all the lures of vice, Seal'd-by signs the chosen know, Bought by love and life the price, Blest-the mighty debt to owe. ¿ “Holy Pilgrim! what for thee In a world like this remain? From thy guarded breast shall flee Fear and shame, and doubt and pain. Fear the hope of heaven shall fly, Shame-from glory's view retire, Doubt-in certain rapture die, Pain-in endless bliss expire." Born 1756. Died 1826. William Gifford. BETTER known as a critic and prose writer than a poet, was born at Ashburton, in Devonshire, in 1756, of poor parentage. His parents died when he was very young, but Gifford picked up an education, and became an author in 1794. His "Baviâd and Mæviad," poetical satires, introduced him into public notice; and as a political and literary writer he acted a prominent part during his after career. Of the higher poetry there are very few pieces by Gifford; but his poems show considerable simplicity and beauty. He died in London, on 31st December, 1826. WILLIAM GIFFORD. 313 1 THE GRAVE OF ANNA. I WISH I was where Anna lies, For I am sick of lingering here; And every hour affection cries, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she died, I lost my all; and life has proved Since that sad hour a dreary void; A waste unlovely and unloved. But who, when I am turned to clay, Shall duly to her grave repair, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have " no business there?" And who with pious hand shall bring The flowers she cherished, snowdrops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? And who, while memory loves to dwell Upon her name for ever dear, Shall feel his heart with passion swell, And pour the bitter, bitter tear? I did it; and would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deplore- But health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, The last I offer at thy shrine; Thy grave must then undecked remain, And all thy memory fade with mine. And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy spirits frolicsome as good, Thy courage by no ills dismayed, Thy patience by no wrongs subdued, Thy gay good-humour, can they fade? (2) 14 314 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. + Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye; Cold turf, which I no more must view, Dear name, which I no more must sigh, A long, a last, a sad adieu! William Sotheby. CHIEFLY Known as a translator from the Latin, Greek, and German poets. He also wrote some original poems, but they are little known. STAFFA. STAFFA, I scaled thy summit hoar, I passed beneath thy arch gigantic, Whose pillared cavern swells the roar, When thunders on thy rocky shore The roll of the Atlantic. That hour the wind forgot to rave, The surge forgot its motion, And every pillar in thy cave Slept in its shadow on the wave, Unrippled by the ocean. Then the past age before me came, When 'mid the lightning's sweep, Thy isle with its basaltic frame, And every column wreathed with flame, Burst from the boiling deep. Born 1757. Died 1833. When 'mid Iona's wrecks meanwhile O'er sculptured graves I trod, Where Time had strewn each mouldering aisle O'er saints and kings that reared the pile, I hailed the eternal God: Yet, Staffa, more I felt his presence in thy cave Than where Iona's cross rose o'er the western wave. Robert Burns. ROBERT BURNS was born on the 25th of January, 1759, in a small cot- tage near the town of Ayr. His father, originally a small farmer, was reduced to humble circumstances, and worked as a common gardener; he was a man of stern and unflinching integrity, and gave his son a good example of religion and virtue. At an early age Burns was sent to school, and his teacher seems to have taken a Born 1759. Died 1796. 1 ROBERT BURNS. 315 special delight in imparting to him even more than the usual smat- tering of knowledge; Burns had, besides, another teacher who busily prepared him for future greatness,-an old woman of the neighbourhood, who was a complete storehouse of old ballads and legendary tales, and who so filled the young mind of the poet with stories of witches, and ghosts, and fairies, that even in after life he could scarcely be out alone after nightfall without uneasiness. After his father's death Burns joined his brother in the small farm of Mossgiel, which will ever be associated with the purest and perhaps brightest period of his poetic development. Circumstances induced Burns to give up the farm entirely, and prepare to leave for the West Indies. To enable him to raise money to pay his passage, he thought of publishing an edition of his poems, which were first issued in 1786. Probably no collection of poems ever excited so instantaneous a sensation over a whole nation. So eagerly was the book sought after, that not a copy could be got; and so impatient was the public, that MS. copies of many of the pieces were passed from hand to hand. Of course the West Indies was no more thought of. Unfortunately for Burns, the age in which he lived was one of ex- treme conviviality, and the author of such songs was of course quite a prize at convivial parties. Burns fell into the temptation, and to the end of his short, too short career, he never recovered the command of his appetites. The success of his poems made Burns now a comparatively rich man; a new edition of his poems yielded him £500, and with a generosity which was part of his character, he sent off £200 of it to help his struggling brother at Mossgiel. With the remainder he stocked the farm of Ellisland, near Dumfries, where he resolved to turn over a new leaf. His resolutions were, however, never put into practice, for, unfortu- nately, to eke out his income, he had obtained the post of gauger or exciseman for the district. This position necessarily brought him still further into temptation, and was the cause of much of the misery of his after life. In 1788 he was married to Jean Armour, by whom he had several children. In Ellisland his pen was ever busy; and not less beautiful than his songs were his letters, which bear the same stamp of genius as his other productions. There also was composed "Tam O'Shanter," which he himself considered to be his masterpiece. Had Burns lived, he intended to have pro- duced some more enlarged pieces; but his early death, on the 21st July, 1796, in his 38th year, put a final period to all these plans. FROM "THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT." THE cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, fire They chant their artless notes in simple guise They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name. once His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare; gray cheeks Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. selects 316 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flame, adds fuel to The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise; Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page— How Abram was the friend of GOD on high; Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. no, have Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme- How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How HE, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: How his first followers and servants sped, The precepts sage they wrote to many a land: How he, who lone in Patmos banishèd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then, kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. TO A MOUSE. On turning up her Nest with the Plough. WEE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, Oh what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin and chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! not, so hasty clatter would, loath, run ploughstaff A * 1 ROBERT BURNS. 317 I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, And justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion And fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve: What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the laive, And never miss't! sometimes must ear of corn, 24 sheaves small rest Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! And naething now to big a new ane O' foggage green, And bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, And weary winter comin' fast, And cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed Out through thy cell. little, house weak, walls, winds build, one rank grass That wee bit heap o' leaves and stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turned out for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, And cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes o' mice and men, Gang aft a-gley, And lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promised joy. Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! The present only, toucheth thee: But, oh! I backward cast my ee, On prospects drear! And forward, though I canna see, I guess and fear. both sharp comfortable ploughshare stubble many without, hold endure, drizzle hoar-frost, cold alone go oft wrong leave eye 318 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. DEATH AND DR. HORNBOOK. meet with dismal hesitation I THERE wi' Something did forgather, That put me in an eerie swither; An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, over one shoulder Clear-dangling, hang; A three-taed leister on the ither pronged fish-spear, other Lay, large and lang. long Its stature seemed lang Scotch ells twa, The queerest shape that e'er I saw, For NOT a wame it had ava; And then, its shanks, They were as thin, as sharp and sma', As cheeks o' branks.* It spak right howe-"My name is Death, But be na fley'd." Quoth I, "Guid faith, Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; But tent me, billic- I rede ye weel tak care o' scaith, See, there's a gully!" [good even, mowing "Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend, hae ye been mawin', When ither folks are busing sawin'?" other, sowing It seemed to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; At length says I, "Friend, where ye gaun- where, going Will ye go back?" ،، 1 "Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, I'm no designed to try its mettle; But if I did, I wad be kittle To be mislear'd; I wadna mind it, no that spittle Out-owre my beard." dą Come, gie's your news; This while ye hae been mony a gate, At mony a house." two belly, at all legs : hollow frightened stop observe, my lad advise, well, harm clasp-knife well Weel, weel," says I, “a bargain be’t; Come, gie's your hard, and say we're gree't; give, agreed We'll ease our shanks and tak a seat- legs weapon would, difficult so baulked some time, road many *A wooden frame, forming, with a rope, a bridle for troublesome cows and horses. 1 ROBERT BURNS. 319 { ،، Ay, ay!" quo' he, and shook his head, "Its e'en a lang, lang time indeed Sin' I began to nick the thread, And choke the breath: Folk maun do something for their bread, And sae maun Death.” FROM "THE TWA DOGS." TWA dogs that were na thrang at hame, Forgathered ance upon a time. The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cæsar, Was keepit for his honour's pleasure; His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, Showed he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, But whalpit some place far abroad, Whare sailors gang to fish for cod. The tither was a ploughman's collie, A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, Wha for his friend and comrade had him, And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, After some dog in Highland sang, Was made langsync-nane kens how lang, He was a gash and faithful tyke, As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, Aye gat him friends in ilka place. His breast was white, his touzie back Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black; His gaucie tail, wi' upward curl, Hung o'er his hurḍies wi' a swirl. long since, cut must So two, not busy met, once ears His lockèd, lettered, braw brass collar, Showed him the gentleman and scholar; But though he was o' high degree, NAE HAET CONCEIT-nae pride had he; But wad hae spent an hour caressin' E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messan. At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, Nae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie, But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, And FRISK OWRE stanes and hillocks wi' him. over, stones whelped where, go fine none would, have cur smithy shaggy, ragged other, dog blade called (Ossian) none, knows sagacious jumped, ditch plump, brindled always got, each shaggy well stately hips, swirling motion 9 $3 320 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. fond Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, And unco pack and thick thegither; very intimate [ed Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit, sometimes,scent- Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; moles, dug up Whyles scoured awa in lang excursion, And worried ither in diversion; Until wi' daffin' weary grown, Upon a knowe they sat them down, And there began a lang digression About the lords o' the creation. EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. I'LL no say men are villains a'; The real, hardened wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, oh! mankind are unco weak, And little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Aye free aff han' your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel' Ye scarcely tell to ony. Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection, But keek through every other man, Wi' sharpened, sly inspection. The secret lowe o' weel-placed love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Though naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But, oh! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! away each other To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by every wile That's justified by honour; • sporting hillock long who have no always off hand companion very any from look flame nothing wealth i ROBERT BURNS. 321 Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train-attendant, But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The great Creator to revere Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And even the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gi'e a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driven, A conscience but a canker, A correspondence fixed wi' Heaven, Is sure a noble anchor! TO MARY IN HEAVEN. THOU lingering star, with less’ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st 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? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? ޑހ 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! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; 14* 1 Į give -1 322 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 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 wingèd 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? Sec'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? LAMENT FOR EARL OF GLENCAIRN. AWAKE thy last sad voice, my harp! The voice of wo and wild despair; Awake! resound thy latest lay- Then sleep in silence evermair! And thou, my last, best, only friend, That fillest an untimely tomb, Accept this tribute from the bard, Thou brought from fortune's mirkiest gloom. darkest " evermore "In poverty's low barren vale Thick mists, obscure, involved me round; Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, Nae ray of fame was to be found: Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, That melts the fogs in limpid air; The friendless bard and rustic song Became alike thy fostering care. "O why has worth so short a date? While villains ripen grey with time; Must thou, the noble, generous, great,, Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime! Why did I live to see that day? A day to me so full of wo!- Oh had I met the mortal shaft Which laid my benefactor low! 2 ROBERT BURNS. 323 "The bridegroom may forget the bride, Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, And a' that thou hast done for me!" HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, ! Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasp'd her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie: For dear to me, as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursel's asunder; But oh! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! muddy There, Simmer, first unfauld your robes, summer, unfold longest And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary. O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed so fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance, That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mould'ring now in silent dust, That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. yesterday SO all birch many full oft SO cold oft, have So loved 324 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. + John Mayne. BORN of humble parents in Dumfries, in 1761, Mayne showed con siderable ability in poetical composition in his sixteenth year, when he began his "Siller Gun," which was improved and enlarged in many successive editions. He is also the author of "Logan Braes," "Helen of Kirkland," &c. Mayne raised himself to a position of influence in London, where he resided for the latter part of his life. LOGAN BRAES. By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep; Herded sheep and gathered slaes, Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. But wae's my heart, thae days are gane; And I wi' grief may herd alane, While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me; Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk, Convoy me home frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane: Frae kirk and fair I come: alane; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes.. At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, I dauner out and sit alane; Sit alane beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me. Oh! could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless and my ain! Beloved by friends, revered by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes! Born 1761. Died 1836. Born 1762 Died 1851.. Joanna Baillie. MISS BAILLIE was the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, in Bothwell, Lanarkshire. In early life she with her sis- ter Agnes removed to London, where their brother, Sir Matthew Baillie, was settled as a physician. She is the author of various: plays, one of which was acted on the stage; she also wrote some: poems and Scottish songs, which have been much admired. She led a retired life, and died at Hampstead in 1851. JOANNA BAILLIE. 325 I PICTURE OF A COUNTRY LIFE. EVEN now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale Swells out its earthern sides, upheaves its roof, Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole, And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, Roses and every gay and fragrant plant Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower, Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell. Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed The flowers grow not too close; and there within Thou❜lt see some half-a-dozen rosy brats, Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk. Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not Their very forms distinctly? I'll gather round my board All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks, And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends, Both young and old. Within my ample hall, The worn-out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread, Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats Of days gone by. Music we'll have; and oft The bickering dance upon our oaken floors Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels? Every season Shall have its suited pastime; even winter, In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow And choked up valleys from our mansion bar All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken, In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, Plying our work with song and tale between. + 326 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. George Colman. AN able and successful English dramatic author, who also published a few humorous pieces under the title of "Broad Grins. "" Born 1762. Died 1836. LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN. WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face; Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known, Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone. Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely, Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only; But Will was so fat, he appeared like a ton, Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one. He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated, But all the night long he felt fevered and heated; And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep, He was not by any means heavy to sleep. Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the next; He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed; Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession, His weakly condition was past all expression. I In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him; For his skin "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him; He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny: "I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea." The doctor looked wise: "A slow fever," he said: Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed. “Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, “are humbugs! I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!" Will kicked out the doctor; but when ill indeed, E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed; So, calling his host, he said: "Sir, do you know, I'm the fat single gentleman six months ago? Look'e, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin, "That with honest intentions you first took me in : But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold- I've been so hanged hot, that I'm sure I caught cold.” WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES. 327 + : Quoth the landlord: "Till now I had ne'er a dispute; I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot; In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven; And your bed is immediately over my oven.” "The oven!” says Will. Says the host: "Why this pas- sion? In that excellent bed died three people of fashion. Why so crusty, good sir?" "Zounds!" cries Will, in a taking, "Who would'nt be crusty with half a year's baking?” Will paid for his rooms; cried the host, with a sneer, "Well, I see you've been going away half a year. "Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will said; "But I'd rather not perish while you make your bread.” William Lisle Bowles. {Born 1762 Died 1850. Or a respectable family in Northamptonshire, was born in 1762. He was educated at Winchester School, and from thence he was sent to Oxford, where he gained the friendship of Thomas Warton. It was not till his twenty-seventh year that he published his first poems, under the title of "Fourteen Sonnets." Bowles, after leav- ing college, took holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in Wilts. After some other changes, he ultimately obtained the rectory of Bremhill, in the same county, where he died 7th April, 1850. TO TIME. O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence- Lulling to sad repose the weary sense- The faint pang stealest, unperceived, away; On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, . And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile- As some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam of the transient shower, Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while: Yet, ah! how much must that poor heart endure Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure! F i 1 328 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Ф SOUTH AMERICAN SCENERY. BENEATH aërial cliffs and glittering snows, The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes; high overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And Chillan trailed its smoke and smouldering fires. A glen beneath-a lonely spot of rest- Hung, scarce discovered, like an eagle's nest. Summer was in its prime; the parrot flocks Darkened the passing sunshine on the rocks; The chrysomel and purple butterfly, Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers, With twinkling wing is spinning o'er the flowers; The woodpecker is heard with busy bill, The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still. And look! the cataract that bursts so high As not to mar the deep tranquillity, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, And, stealing, drop by drop, in mist descends; Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling dews, Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues. i Checkering with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the gray rock with wild festoon, Here, its gay network and fantastic twine. The purple cogul threads from pine to pine. And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe, Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath. There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white, The sunshine darts its interrupted light, And, 'mid the cedar's darksome bough, illumes, With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. Helen Maria Williams. AN English lady who, imbibing republican opinions, settled in France, where she vigorously supported the Girondists with her pen. She published also a volume of poems of which Wordsworth took some notice. Born 1762. Died 1815. SONNET TO HOPE. O EVER skilled to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart; K SAMUEL ROGERS. 329 1 Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice, benign enchantress! let me hear: Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy's radiance, Friendship's precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray, Which once with dear illusions charmed my eye, O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest! Born 1763. Died 1855. Samuel Rogers. His ROGERS was born at Stoke-Newington, on 30th July, 1763. father was a wealthy London banker, and the poet's life therefore He was, opened under the most advantageous circumstances. after receiving a liberal education, introduced into the banking firm, of which he remained a partner till his death. Few literary men have been so moderate under prosperity, or have used their wealth so ungrudgingly, and yet unostentatiously for the good of their fellow poets. He first appeared before the public in 1756, as the author of an "Ode to Superstition." In 1792 he published "Pleasures of Memory," the piece by which he is best known. In 1814 appeared "Jacqueline;" and in 1819 the first part of "Italy," his last poem, completed in 1828. He died 18th December, 1855. FROM "PLEASURES OF MEMORY." CHILDHOOD'S loved group revisits every scene, The tangled wood-walk and the tufted green! Indulgent Memory wakes, and lo, they live! Clothed with far softer hues than light can give. Thou first, best friend that Heaven assigns below, To soothe and sweeten all the cares we know; Whose glad suggestions still each vain alarm, When nature fades and life forgets to charm; Thee would the Muse invoke! to thee belong The sage's precept and the poet's song. What softened views thy magic glass reveals, When o'er the landscape Time's meek twilight steals! As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, Long on the wave reflected lustres play; Thy tempered gleams of happiness resigned, Glance on the darkened mirror of the mind. The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. \ 330 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn: Unheard the shout that rent the noontide air When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams. Down by yon hazel copse, at evening blazed The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed; Gazed on her sunburnt face with silent awe, Her tattered mantle and her hood of straw; Her moving lips, her caldron brimming o'er; The drowsy brood that on her back she bore, Imps in the barn with mousing owlets bred, From rifled roost at nightly revel fed; Whose dark eyes flashed through locks of blackest shade, When in the breeze the distant watch-dog bayed: And heroes fled the sibyl's muttered call, Whose elfin prowess scaled the orchard wall. As o'er my palm the silver piece she drew, And traced the line of life with searching view, How throbbed my fluttering pulse with hopes and fears, To learn the colour of my future years! Ah, then, what honest triumph flushed my breast; This truth once known-to bless is to be blest! We lead the bending beggar on his way— Bare were his feet, his tresses silver-gray-- Soothed the keen pangs his aged spirit felt, And on his tale with mute attention dwelt: As in his scrip we dropt our little store, And sighed to think that little was no more, He breathed his prayer, 66 Long may such goodness live!" 'Twas all he gave—'twas all he had to give. * *. Hail, Memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! Thy pleasures most we feel when most alone: The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, Hope's summer-visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! دان 1 SAMUEL ROGERS. 331 But can the wiles of Art, the grasp of Power, Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of living light; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where Virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest! ،، FROM HUMAN LIFE." THE lark has sung his carol in the sky, The bees have hummed their noontide lullaby; Still in the vale the village bells ring round, Still in Llewellyn hall the jests resound; For now the caudle-cup is circling there, Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer, And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire The babe, the sleeping image of his sire. A few short years, and then these sounds shall hail The day again, and gladness fill the vale; So soon the child a youth, the youth a man, Eager to run the race his fathers ran. i And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung, And violets scattered round; and old and young, In every cottage-porch with garlands green, Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene, While, her dark eyes declining, by his side, Moves in her virgin veil the gentle bride. And once, alas! nor in a distant hour, Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weeping heard where only joy has been; When, by his children borne, and from his door, Slowly departing to return no more, He rests in holy earth with them that went before. And such is human life; so gliding on, It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! * * * } The day arrives, the moment wished and feared; The child is born, by many a pang endeared, And now the mother's ear has caught his cry; O grant the cherub to her asking eye! He comes-she clasps him to her bosom pressed, He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest. { 332 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows! How soon by his the glad discovery shows! As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy, What answering looks of sympathy and joy! He walks, he speaks. In many a broken word, His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard. And ever, ever, to her lap he flies, When rosy Sleep comes on with sweet surprise. Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung (That name most dear for ever on his tongue), As with soft accents round her neck he clings, And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings, How blest to feel the beatings of his heart, Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart; Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove, And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love! But soon a nobler task demands her care. Apart she joins his little hands in prayer, Telling of Him who sees in secret there! GINEVRA. SHE was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride of an indulgent sire. Her mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. Just as she looks there in her bridal-dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety, Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but at the bridal-feast, When all sat down, the bride was wanting there. Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "Tis but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. SAMUEL ROGERS. 333 $ 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find, he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless--then went to strangers. Full fifty years were past and all forgot, When on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, Why not remove it from its lurking-place?' 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished-save a nuptial-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra." There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever! THE FOUNTAIN. OVERCOME with heat, I threw me down; admiring, as I lay, That shady nook, a singing place for birds, That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, More than enough to please a child a-Maying. The sun was down, a distant convent-bell Ringing the Angelus; and now approached The hour for stir and village-gossip there, The hour Rebekah came, when from the well She drew with such alacrity to serve The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard 334 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Footsteps; and lo, descending by a path Trodden for ages, many a nymph appeared, Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head Her earthen pitcher. It called up the day Ulysses landed there; and long I gazed, Like one awaking in a distant time. TO THE BUTTERFLY. CHILD of the sun! pursue thy rapturous flight, Mingling with her thou lov'st in fields of light; And, where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold. There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy! Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man; soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. ! PESTUM. (From "Italy.") THEY stand between the mountains and the sea; Awful memoriáls, but of whom we know not. The seaman passing, gazes from the deck, The buffalo-driver, in his shaggy cloak, Points to the work of magic, and moves on. Time was they stood along the crowded street, Temples of gods, and on their ample steps What various habits, various tongues beset The brazen gates for prayer and sacrifice! Time was perhaps the third was sought for justice; And here the accuser stood and there the accused, And here the judges sat, and heard, and judged. All silent now, as in the ages past, Trodden under foot, and mingled dust with dust. How many centuries did the sun go round From Mount Alburnus to the Tyrrhene sea, While, by some spell rendered invisible, Or, if approached, approached by him alone Who saw as though he saw not, they remained As in the darkness of a sepulchre, I 1 JAMES GRAHAME. 335 Waiting the appointed time! All, all within Proclaims that Nature had resumed her right, And taken to herself what man renounced; No cornice, triglyph, or worn abacus, But with thick ivy hung, or branching fern, This iron-brown o'erspread with brightest verdure! From my youth upward have I longed to tread That classic ground; and am I here at last? Wandering at will through the long porticoes, And catching, as through some majestic grove, Now the blue ocean, and now, chaos-like, Mountains and mountain-gulfs, and, half-way up, Towns like the living rock from which they grew? A cloudy region, black and desolate, Where once a slave withstood a world in arms. James Grahame. ! • THE author of "The Sabbath" was born in Glasgow, on 22d April, 1765. His father was connected with the law, and educated his son for the Scottish Bar. This not proving congenial to the tastes of Grahame, he took orders in the Church of England, and obtained a curacy in Gloucestershire, and afterwards in Durham. Besides "The Sabbath," he also wrote "Mary Queen of Scotland," "The Birds of Scotland," and "British Georgics" in blank verse. died 14th September, 1811. He FROM "THE SABBATH." How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed Born 1765. Died 1811. The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear-the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. про } 336 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. i 1 With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foc. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days, the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God-not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air pure from the city's smoke; While wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks, In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes-yet fears presumption in the hope- To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends. · THE PRESS-GANG. (From "The Birds of Scotland.") HERE dwelt a pair, Poor, humble, and content; one son alone, Their William, happy lived at home to bless Their downward years; he, simple youth, With boyish fondness, fancied he could love A seaman's life, and with the fishers sailed, To try their ways far''mong the western isles, Far as St. Kilda's rock-walled shore abrupt, O'er which he saw ten thousand pinions wheel BARONESS NAIRN. 337 Confused, dimming the sky; these dreary shores Gladly he left-he had a homeward heart: No more his wishes wander to the waves. But still he loves to cast a backward look, And tell of all he saw, of all he learned; Of pillared Staffa, lone Iona's isle, Where Scotland's kings are laid; of Lewis, Skye, And of the mainland mountain-circled lochs; And he would sing the rowers' timing chant And chorus wild. Once on a summer's eve, When low the sun behind the Highland hills Was almost set, he sung that song to cheer The aged folks; upon the inverted quern The father sat; the mother's spindle hung Forgot, and backward twirled the half-spun thread; Listening with partial, well-pleased look, she gazed Upon her son, and inly blest the Lord That he was safe returned. Sudden a noise Bursts rushing through the trees; a glance of steel Dazzles the eye, and fierce the savage band Glare all around, then single out their prey. In vain the mother clasps her darling boy; In vain the sire offers their little all: William is bound; they follow to the shore,* Implore, and weep, and pray; knee-deep they stand, And view in mute despair the boat recede. Baroness Nairn. CAROLINE OLIPHANT, of the Oliphants of Gask, author of two beau- tiful Scottish songs. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John; I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John; There's neither cauld nor care, John; The day's aye fair I' the land o' the leal. Our bonny bairn's there, John; She was baith gude and fair, John; 15 Born 1766. Died 1815. f 338 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. TH And, oh! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal, But sorrow's sel' wears past, John- And joy's a-comin' fast, John- The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Oh, dry your glistening e'e, John! My saul langs to be free, John; And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal. Oh, haud ye leal and true, John! Your day it's wearin' through, John; And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now, fare-ye-weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John; We'll meet, and we'll be fain, In the land o' the leal. THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN. THE laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great, His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well; M'Lish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. His wig was weel pouthered, and as gude as new His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? He took the gray mare, and rade cannily- And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee: *Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen." Pe & 1 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 339 Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine: "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, And what was his errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said “Na;” And wi' a laigh curtsey she turned awa'. Dumbfoundered he was-nae sigh did he gie; He mounted his mare--he rade cannily; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh! for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen." "} Next time that the Laird and the lady were seen, They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen- But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen. Robert Bloomfield. AUTHOR of "The Farmer's Boy," was born at Bury St. Edmunds. His father was in poor circumstances, and died while he was a child. His uncle, a farmer, took charge of him for some time, but ultimately he was apprenticed to a London shoemaker. In this situation we find him at thirty-two, married, and the father of two children. About the same time he published his "Farmer's Boy," which became speedily popular. It procured him besides a situa- tion in the Seal Office, which, however, he had ultimately to resign from bad health. His latter days were spent in poverty and neg- lect, his friends having vainly tried to obtain for him a pension from the Crown. He died at Shefford, in Bedfordshire, on 19th Au- gust, 1823, Be thou my Muse, and faithful still to me, Retrace the steps of wild obscurity. Born 1766. Died 1823. FROM "THE FARMER'S BOY." O COME, blest Spirit! whatsoe'er thou art, Thou kindling warmth that hover'st round my heart; Sweet inmate, hail! thou source of sterling joy, That poverty itself cannot destroy, 340 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. • No deeds of arms my humble lines rehearse; No Alpine wonders thunder through my verse; The roaring cataract, the snow-topt hill, Inspiring awe till breath itself stands still: Nature's sublimer scenes ne'er charmed mine eyes, Nor science led me through the boundless skies; From meaner objects far my raptures flow: O point these raptures! bid my bosom glow And lead my soul to ecstasies of praise For all the blessings of my infant days! Bear me through regions where gay Fancy dwells; But mould to Truth's fair form what memory tells. The farmer's life displays in every part A moral lesson to the sensual heart. Though in the lap of plenty, thoughtful still, He looks beyond the present good or ill; Nor estimates alone one blessing's worth,, From changeful seasons, or capricious earth ! But views the future with the present hours, And looks for failures as he looks for showers; For casual as for certain want prepares, " And round his yard the reeking haystack rears Or clover, blossomed lovely to the sight, His team's rich store through many a wintry night. What though abundance round his dwelling spreads, Though ever moist his self-improving meads Supply his dairy with a copious flood, And seem to promise unexhausted food; That promise fails when buried deep in snow, And vegetative juices cease to flow. For this his plough turns up the destined lands, Whence stormy winter draws its full demands; For this the seed minutely small he sows, Whence, sound and sweet, the hardy turnip grows. But how unlike to April's closing days! High climbs the sun and darts his powerful rays; Whitens the fresh-drawn mould, and pierces through The cumbrous clods that tumble round the plough. O'er heaven's bright azure, hence with joyful eyes The farmer sees dark clouds assembling rise; Borne o'er his fields a heavy torrent falls, And strikes the earth in hasty driving squalls. "Right welcome down, ye precious drops," he cries But soon, too soon, the partial blessing flies. (( 'Boy, bring the harrows, try how deep the rain Has forced its way." He comes, but comes in vain; ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 341 1 { Dry dust beneath the bubbling surface lurks, And mocks his pains the more the more he works. Still, 'midst huge clods, he plunges on forlorn, That laugh his harrows and the showers to scorn, E'en thus the living clod, the stubborn fool, Resists the stormy lectures of the school, Till tried with gentler means, the dunce to please, His head imbibes right reason by degrees; As when from eve till morning's wakeful hour, Light constant rain evinces secret power, And ere the day resumes its wonted smiles, Presents a cheerful easy task for Giles. Down with a touch the mellow soil is laid, And your tall crop next claims his timely aid; Thither well pleased he hies, assured to find Wild trackless haunts, and objects to his mind. THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before! The same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, And up they flew like banners in the wind; Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went, And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, At first he looked distrustful, almost shy, And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye, And seemed to say-past friendship to renew— "Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still, On beds of moss that spread the window-sill, I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green, And guessed some infant hand had placed it there, And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose; 342 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. My heart felt everything but calm repose; I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years, But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again, And thought upon the past with shame and pain; I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost. On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused, And cursed the murdering weapons I had used. Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard, One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared. In stepped my father with convulsive start, And in an instant clasped me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid; And stooping to the child, the old man said: "Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again; This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain." The child approached, and with her fingers light, Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight. But why thus spin my tale-thus tedious be? Happy old soldier! what's the world to me? Mrs. Opic. AMELIA ALDERSON, daughter of a doctor in Norwich, married John Opie, a celebrated artist, in 1798. Her literary career commenced in 1801, by her publishing a prose tale, and for many years her novels became very popular, and gained her considerable emi- nence. She also published a volume of poems in 1802. Mrs. Opie died in 1853. THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake, And hear a helpless orphan's tale; Ah! sure my looks must pity wake; 'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale. Yet I was once a mother's pride, And my brave father's hope and joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy. 4 TD "Poor foolish child, how pleased was I, When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly, And see the lighted windows flame! 1 Born 1769. Died 1853. } WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 343 - + To force me home my mother sought; She could not bear to see my joy; For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. ፡፡ "The people's shouts were long and loud, My mother, shuddering, closed her ears; Rejoice! rejoice!' still cried the crowd; My mother answered with her tears. Why are you crying thus,' said I, 'While others laugh and shout with joy?' She kissed me-and with such a sigh! She called me her poor orphan boy. “What is an orphan boy?' I cried, As in her face I looked and smiled; My mother through her tears replied, เ 'You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!' And now they've tolled my mother's knell, And I'm no more a parent's joy; O lady, I have learned too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy! Oh, were I by your bounty fed! Nay, gentle lady, do not chide- Trust me, I mean to earn my bread; The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Lady, you weep-ha!-this to me? You'll give me clothing, food, employ? Look down, dear parents! look, and see Your happy, happy, orphan boy!" William Wordsworth. Born 1770. Wordsworth. {Bied 1950. WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, on the 7th April, 1770. His father was in comfortable circumstances, and was able to give the poet a first-rate education. After being some years at Hawkes- worth School, in Lancashire, he was entered at St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1787. After completing his studies, Wordsworth travelled for some time on the Continent on foot, carrying some necessaries in a pocket-handkerchief. The revolutionary mania, then at its crisis, made a deep impression on the poet's sensitive mind, and led him to publish in 1793 Descriptive Sketches" and 26 An Evening Walk." In 1795 a friend left him a legacy of £900, which, with some money received for his works, enabled him to live tolerably for about eight years. In 1798, Wordsworth in conjunction with Coleridge projected "Lyrical Ballads," to which the latter contributed The Ancient Mariner." The publisher gave thirty guineas for the volume. It appears that the bookseller made a poor speculation with it, so little was the style and subject of the 344 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 "" ballad at first appreciated. In 1798 Wordsworth went to Germany for a few months, and on his return he settled at Grasmere, where he lived for eight years. In 1802 he married Mary Hutchinson, a cousin of his own, and with whom he had been long intimate. In 1805 he wrote his "Waggoner" and began "The Prelude former was not published til 1819, and the latter not till after his the death. In 1807 appeared two volumes of his poetry, which, though assailed with the severest criticism, began to work their way into the public mind; amid all the imperfections, and sometimes puer ilities of his language, there was something so noble and impres- sive in his worship of the natural, that slowly but surely the in- fluence of his poetry began to impress those who had most merci- lessly condemned him. In 1813 he removed from Grasmere to Rydal Mount, where he resided till his death. In 1814 appeared "The Excursion," "brimful of splendid thoughts and beautiful in their drapery of glowing eloquence." Wordsworth about this time ob- tained through the influence of Lord Lonsdale the situation of dis- tributor of stamps, with a salary of £300 a year; this, with his literary income, placed him in easy circumstances. In 1843 he was appointed laureate, with a pension of £300 per annum, succeeding his friend Southey. Wordsworth died on 23d April, 1850, full of years and honours. "The Prelude," a kind of autobiography be gun forty-five years before, was published shortly after his death. FROM "THE EXCURSION." THE mountain-ash, Decked with autumnal berries that outshine Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show, Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen, By a brook-side or solitary turn, How she her station doth adorn: the pool Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks Are brightened round her. In his native vale Such and so glorious did this youth appear; A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow, By all the graces with which Nature's hand Had bounteously arrayed him. As old bards Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form: Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade Discovered in their own despite to sense Of mortals (if such fables without blame May find chance-mention on this sacred ground) So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, And through the impediment of rural cares, In him revealed a scholar's genius shone; And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, In him the spirit of a hero walked Our unpretending valley.-How the quoit Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him, 1 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 345 The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch Of the lark's flight,—or shaped a rainbow curve, Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field! The indefatigable fox had learned To dread his perseverance in the chase. With admiration he could lift his eyes To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand Was loath to assault the majesty he loved, Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves, And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes, Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. FROM "AN EVENING WALK.” FAR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove Through barc grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes, Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes, Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads; Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps; Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, And memory of departed pleasures, more. i Fair scenes! erewhile I taught, a happy child The echoes of your rocks my carols wild; Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand Sad tides of joy from melancholy's hand; In youth's wild eye the livelong day was bright, The sun at morning, and the stars at night, Alike, when first the vales the bittern fills Or the first woodcocks roamed the moonlight hills. In thoughtless gaiety I coursed the plain, And hope itself was all I knew of pain; For then, even then, the little heart would beat At times, while young Content forsook her seat, 1 15* 346 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, Where, tipp'd with gold, the mountain summits glowed Alas! the idle tale of man is found Depicted in the dial's moral round; With hope Reflection blends her social rays To gild the total tablet of his days; Yet still the sport of some malignant power, He knows but from its shade the present hour, WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl, That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother," 'You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?" : WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 347 1 Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree." "How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in Heaven?" The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven. "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" "Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" TO THE DAISY. IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill, in discontent, Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake Of thee, sweet Daisy! When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs; Spring cannot shun thee; Whole Summer fields are thine by right: And Autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; If welcomed once thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted, Nor carest if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. ¡ 348 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Be violets in their secret news The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed, by many a claim, The poet's darling! A PORTRAIT. SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes are stars of twilight fair; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see, with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 349 1 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: 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 spirit 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 I may. TO SLEEP. O GENTLE SLEEP! do they belong to thec- These twinklings of oblivion? Thou dost love To sit in meekness, like the brooding dove, 350 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. A captive never wishing to be free. This tiresome night, O Sleep! thou art to me A fly, that up and down himself doth shove Upon a fretful rivulet, now above, Now on the water vexed with mockery. I have no pain that calls for patience, no; Hence I am cross and peevish as a child: And pleased by fits to have thee for my foe, Yet ever willing to be reconciled: O gentle creature! do not use me so, But once and deeply let me be beguiled! FROM "INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.” THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it has been of yore;- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more! The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose, The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, WILLIAM R. SPENCER. 351 And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;— Thou child of joy Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy shepherd boy! William R. Spencer. THE HON. W. R. Spencer, one of the brightest ornaments of the gay circles of the metropolis, was younger son of Lord Charles Spencer. He was author of some ballads and miscellaneous pieces, and pub- lished a translation of Bürger's "Leonora." He held the situation of Commissioner of Stamps, and died at Paris in 1835. BETH GELERT. THE spearmen heard the bugle sound, > And cheerily smiled the morn; And many a brach, and maný a hound, Obeyed Llewelyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a lustier cheer, "Come, Gêlert, come, wert never last Llewelyn's horn to hear. "O where does faithful Gêlert roam, The flower of all his race; So true, so brave-a lamb at home, A lion in the chase?" In sooth, he was a peerless hound, The gift of royal John; But now no Gêlert could be found, And all the chase rode on. { That day Llewelyn little loved The chase of hart and hare; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gêlert was not there. Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gêlert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. Born 1770. Died 1835. 352 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. But, when he gained his castle-door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound all o'er was smeared with gore; His lips, his fangs, ran blood. Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise; Unused such looks to meet, His favourite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet. Onward, in haste, Llewelyn passed, And on went Gêlert too; And still, where'er his eyes he cast, Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view. O'erturned his infant's bed he found, With blood-stained covert rent; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He called his child-no voice replied- He searched with terror wild; Blood, blood he found on every side, But nowhere found his child. "Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured," The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gêlert's side. Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh: What words the parent's joy could tell To hear his infant's cry! Concealed beneath a tumbled heap His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub boy he kissed. Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread, But, the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death. Ah, what was then Llewelyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; His gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Lewelyln's heir. J JAMES HOGG. 353 James Hogg. THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, the poetical name he is generally known by, was descended from a family of shepherds in Selkirkshire. He was born in the Vale of Ettrick toward the close of 1770. Born 1770. Died 1835. Hogg cannot be said to have had any education in his youth, as he seems only to have been half a year at school. He learned to read, however, and picked up a good deal of information in his leis- ure hours. At eighteen, while tending sheep, he made his first at- tempts in verse, and ultimately attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, whom he assisted in the collection of old ballads for the "Border Minstrelsy." In 1801, under the patronage of Sir Walter, he published a small volume of poems, and in 1807 "The Mountain Bard," both of which, besides fame, brought him some money. It was not till 1813 that he published his "Queen's Wake," the piece on which his fame as a poet rests. Hogg was very unsuccessful in his attempts to establish himself as a farmer. Somewhat sanguine in his temperament, he engaged in speculations far beyond his means, and made disastrous failures. In his later years he was indebted to the kindness of the Duchess of Buccleuch for a home at Altrive on the Yarrow, where he died on 21st November, 1835. He left a widow and five children. BONNY KILMENY. (From "The Queen's Wake.") BONNY Kilmeny gaed up the glen; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring; The scarlet hypp and the hind-berrye, And the nut that hang frae the hazel tree; For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw; Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come ham‹ ! When many a day had come and fled, 1 When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the beadsman had prayed, and the dead-bell rung, Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane; When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame! 1 1 & 354 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. C "Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean; By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. Where gat ye that joup o' the lily sheen? That bonny snood of the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?" Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her e'e, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew, But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, And a land where sin had never been.... * * * Then Kilmeny begged again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye, To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen. With distant music, soft and deep, They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep; And when she awakened, she lay her lane, All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene When seven lang years had come and fled, When grief was calm and hope was dead, When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name, Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmen came hame! And oh, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her 'e; Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there; And the soft desire of maiden's een, In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; And her voice like the distant melodie, That floats along the twilight sea. But she loved to raike the lanely glen, And keeped afar frae the haunts of men. • 4 JAMES HOGG. 355 : Her holy hymns unheard to sing, To suck the flowers and drink the spring, But wherever her peaceful form appeared, The wild beasts of the hill were cheered; The wolf played blithely round the field, The lordly bison bowed and kneeled, The dun deer wooed with manner bland, And cowered aneath her lily hand. And when at eve the woodlands rung, When hymns of other worlds she sung, In ecstasy of sweet devotion, Oh, then the glen was all in motion; The wild beasts of the forest came, Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, And goved around, charmed and amazed; Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, And murmured, and looked with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle-cock; The corbie left her houff in the rock; The black-bird alang wi' the eagle flew; The hind came tripping o'er the dew; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurled: It was like an eve in a sinless world! When a month and a day had come and gane, Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene, There laid her down on the leaves so green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen! THE SKYLARK. BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er mountain and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place- O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, 356 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. • Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place- O to abide in the desert with thee! Sir Walter Scott. SCOTT was born at Edinburgh, on the 15th August, 1771. His father was a Writer to the Signet, and a relative of the Scotts of Buccleuch. In early life Scott was in very delicate health, and a lameness, re- sulting from a fever, led to his being sent to his paternal grand- father's, near Kelso, where his youth was chiefly spent, and where he filled his young mind with the romantic tales of Border chivalry. After passing through the High School and University of Edinburgh with credit, Scott was apprenticed to his father as a writer, after which he studied for the bar, and was admitted of the Faculty of Advocates in 1792. In 1796 he married Miss Charlotte M. Carpenter, whom he had first met at a watering-place in Cumberland, and the young couple removed to Lasswade, where they spent some years in great happiness. In 1799 Scott obtained the appointment of Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with £300 a-year. He now paid a visit to the Borders, partly on official duty and partly to collect ballad poetry, which he published in 1802, under the title "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. After some other labours of a similar kind, at length appeared, in 1805, the original poem "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," it met with instant and unprecedented success, and stamped his character as one of the highest of our native poets. In 1808 appeared Marmion," and in 1810The Lady of the Lake," the latter being the most popular of his poems, even to this day. In 1811 was published "The Vision of Don Roderick;" in 1813, "Roke- by;" and in 1814, "The Lord of the Isles." These later pieces did not by any means meet with the success that attended his earlier pieces; Scott, with the instinct of genius, felt that the old mine gave symptoms of being worked out, and devoted himself to prose fiction; "Ivanhoe, and as the author of " Waverley," "The Antiquary," &c., his name rose still higher in the ear of fame. In 1820 George the Fourth conferred on him the honor of baronetcy. "1 "" 66 Scott had, in 1811, purchased the estate of Cartley Hole, near Melrose; and here he built the romantic mansion-house of Abbots- ford, which name he gave to the whole estate which he had en- larged from year to year by successive purchases. • هم Born 1771. Died 1832. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 357 Unfortunately for Scott, he had in 1805 been induced to join in partnership with James Ballantyne, a printer in Edinburgh, and afterwards to form intimate relations with the firm of Constable, a publisher. In 1826 the latter firm failed, and on examining the mixed liabilities of the two businesses, it was found that Scott was indebted upwards of £100,000. To any ordinary man this would have been crushing, but it only roused Scott to exertion; he would listen to no compromise with his creditors, and prepared, by the fruits of his pen, to clear off the whole. He actually, in a few years, made up about £70,000 of this sum; but his health gave way. In 1831 he was persuaded to take a foreign tour, in the hope of re- establishing it; the Admiralty furnished a ship, and he sailed for Naples. But it was too late; both body and mind were hopelessly shattered, and he returned home to Abbotsford only to die. In his latter moments he had read to him, from time to time, favourite passages from the Bible; and on the 21st September, 1832, he breathed his last in the presence of all his children. THE MINSTREL. THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither'd cheek, and tresses grey, Seem'd to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. The last of all the Bards was he, Who sung of Border chivalry; For, well-a-day! their date was filed, His tuneful brethren all were dead; And he, neglected and oppress'd, Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. No more on prancing palfrey borne, He caroll'd light as lark at morn; No longer courted and caress'd, High-placed in hall, a welcome guest, He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, The unpremeditated lay: Old times were changed, old manners gone; A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne; The bigots of the iron time Had call'd his harmless art a crime. A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor, He begg'd his bread from door to door. And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, The harp a king had loved to hear. MELROSE ABBEY. If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; 1 358 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. For the gay beams of lightsome day, Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave. Then go-but go alone the while- Then view St. David's ruin'd pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair! LOVE OF COUNTRY. cou BREATHES there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand! SIR WALTER SCOTT. 359 Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft, Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; And thus I love them better still, Even in extremity of ill. By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The bard may draw his parting groan. HYMN FOR THE DEAD. THAT day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away? What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall we 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! TANTALLON CASTLE. THE train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu :- Though something I might plain," he said, "Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I staid; Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand.". But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke:- 360 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. (( 'My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my Sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my King's alone, From turret to foundation-stone- The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp."- Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his very frame for ire, And—“This to me!" he said,- "An't were not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head! And, first. I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate; And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord, And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee thou'rt defied! ' And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here, Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" On the earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age: Fierce he broke forth-"And darest thou then To beard the lion in his den, The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go?— No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no! Up drawbridge, grooms!-what, warder, ho! Let the portcullis fall.”— Lord Marmion turn'd, well was his need, And dashed the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous grate behind him rung; To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 331 DEATH OF MARMION. WITH that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drench'd with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strain'd the broken brand; His arms were smear'd with blood and sand: Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion!. Young Blount his armour did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face, Said-"By Saint George, he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped, And see the deep cut on his head! Good-night to Marmion.". O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!- Scarce were the piteous accents said, When with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlẹt ran: Fogot were hatred, wrongs and fears— The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn?-behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink. weary. pilgrim, drink.and. pray. For. the. kind, soul, of. Sybil. Gray. Who, built, this, cross, and, well. She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied | ! 16 362 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. A monk supporting Marmion's head— A pious man, whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. With fruitless labour, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wound: The monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, And-STANLEY! was the cry;— A light on Marmion's visage spread, And fired his glazing eye: With dying hand, above his head, He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted" Victory!—— Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion. FITZJAMES AND RODERICK DHU. "ENOUGH, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride: Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen In peace; but when I come again, I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band!"— 66 Have, then, thy wish!"-He whistled shrill, And he was answer'd from the hill; Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears and bended bows; On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles grey their lances start, The bracken-bush sends forth the dart, The rushes and the willow-wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 363 That whistle garrison'd the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterranean host had given. Watching their leader's beck and wiîl, All silent there they stood, and still, Like the loose crags, whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung, Upon the mountain-side they hung. The Mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side, Then fix'd his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James-"How say'st thou now? These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true; And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!” Fitz-James was brave:-Though to his heart The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, He mann'd himself with dauntless air, Returned the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before: "Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." Sir Roderick mark'd-and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel. Short space he stood-then waved his hand; Down sunk the disappearing band; Each warrior vanish'd where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood; Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seem'd as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had toss'd in air, Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,- The next but swept a lone hill-side, Where heath and fern were waving wide; The sun's last glance was glinted back, From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,- The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green, and cold grey stone. 364 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 James Montgomery. 19 THE "Christian poet," as he has been aptly termed, was born at ТКЕ Irvine in Ayrshire, 4th November, 1771. His father was a Moravian missionary, who, leaving his son at Fulneck in Yorkshire to be edu- cated, went to Tobago in the West Indies, in the pursuit of his duties, where he died. At the age of twelve, Montgomery began to write verses; and after being sent first to Mirfield, and afterwards to Wath, to earn his bread as a shopkeeper, he became so averse to his employment that he set off for London on foot, with his poems in his pocket, in the hope of obtaining a publisher for them. He was unsuccessful in this, but at last obtained a situation in a book- seller's shop, which he retained till the death of his employer. After some wanderings, Montgomery obtained a situation as clerk in Mr. Gale's, the publisher of the "Sheffield Register." Here his talent found due exercise in writing for, and conducting the paper. His master had ultimately to fly for fear of a prosecution by Gov- ernment, and Montgomery, by the aid of some friends, was enabled to retain the office, and bring out a newspaper, the "Sheffield Iris, which he conducted till 1825. Montgomery's life as an editor was at first very unfortunate. In his paper he advocated liberal politics and religious freedom, and thus was brought under the notice of the Government, who, in these troublous times, acted with great tyranny; an old song on the destruction of the Bastile, which had been standing in type in the office for some time, had been reprinted unknown to him by one of his men; words applicable inoffensively to the circumstances of 1789 were now interpreted into a seditious libel, and a prosecution was most basely pushed on against him for a crime he never committed, and he was sentenced to three months' imprisonment in York Castle. In 1795 he was tried for another im- puted political offence, and such was the temper of the times that the jury brought him in guilty, and he was incarcerated for six months. He beguiled his time by writing poems, afterwards pub- lished under the title of "Prison Amusements." But the affairs of the poet were now more satisfactory. He had often written little pieces in his newspaper; but in 1806 he issued "The Wanderer of Switzerland." It was honoured with a withering criticism by the "Edinburgh Review," but in spite of this, it went rapidly through several editions. In 1807 appeared "The West Indies;" in 1813, The World before the Flood," in 1819, "Greenland;" and in 1827, "The Pelican Island," the finest of his poems. In 1846 Gov- ernment conferred on him the well-merited pension of £150 a-year, which he enjoyed till his death, on 30th April, 1854. 66 Born 1771, Died 1854. FROM "THE 'THE WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD.” THE Giants reach'd their camp:-the night's alarms Meanwhile had startled all their slaves to arms; They grasp'd their weapons as from sleep they sprang, From tent to tent the brazen clangour rang: The hail, the earthquake, the mysterious light Unnerved their strength, o'erwhelm'd them with affright. "Warriors! to battle-summon all your powers; Warriors! to conquest-Paradise is ours;" Exclaim'd their monarch;-not an arm was raised, In vacancy of thought, like men amazed, JAMES MONTGOMERY. 335 And lost amidst confounding dreams, they stood, With palsied eyes, and horror-frozen blood. The Giants' rage to instant madness grew; The king and chiefs on their own legions flew, Denouncing vengeance;-then had all the plain Been heap'd with myriads by their leaders slain, But ere a sword could fall, by whirlwinds driven, In mighty volumes, through the vault of heaven, From Eden's summit, o'er the camp accurst, The darting fires with noonday splendour burst; And fearful grew the scene above, below, With sights of mystery and sounds of woe. The embattled Cherubim appear'd on high, And coursers, wing'd with lightning, swept the sky; Chariots, whose wheels with living instinct roll'd, Spirits of unimaginable mould, Powers, such as dwell in heaven's serenest light, Too pure, too terrible for mortal sight, From depth of midnight suddenly reveal'd, In arms, against the Giants took the field. On such an host Elisha's servant gazed, When all the mountain round the prophet blazed: With such an host, when war in heaven was wrought, Michael, against the Prince of Darkness fought. Roused by the trumpet, that shall wake the dead, The torpid foe in consternation fled; The Giants headlong in the uproar ran, The king himself the foremost of the van, Nor e'er his rushing squadrons led to fight With swifter onset than he led that flight. Homeward the panic-stricken legions flew; Their arms, their vestments from their limbs they threw; O'er shields and helms the reinless camel strode, And gold and purple strew'd the desert road. THE THAW. LISTENING, as oft he listens in a shell To the mock tide's alternate fall and swell, He kneels upon the ice,-inclines his ear, And hears-or does he only seem to hear?— A sound, as though the Genius of the Deep Heaved a long sigh, awaking out of sleep. 366 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. He starts;-'twas but a pulse within his brain! No-for he feels it beat through every vein; Groan following groan (as from a giant's breast, Beneath a burying mountain, ill at rest), With awe ineffable his spirit thrills, And rapture fires his blood, while terror chills. The keen expression of his eye alarms His mother; she has caught him in her arms, And learn'd the cause; that cause, no sooner known, From lip to lip, o'er many a league is flown; Voices to voices, prompt as signals, rise In shrieks of consternation to the skies; Those skies, meanwhile, with gathering darkness scowl, Hollow and winterly the bleak winds howl. From morn till noon had ether smiled serene, Save one black-belted cloud, far eastward seen, Like a snow-mountain;-there in ambush lay The undreaded tempest, panting for his prey. That cloud by stealth hath through the welkin spread, And hangs in meteor-twilight overhead; At foot, beneath the adamantine floor, Loose in their prison-house the surges roar: To every eye, ear, heart, the alarm is given, And landward crowds (like flocks of sea-fowl driven, When storms are on the wing), in wild affright, On foot, in sledges, urge their panic flight, In hope the refuge of the shore to gain Ere the disruption of the struggling main, Foretold by many a stroke, like lightning sent In thunder, through the unstable continent. TO BRITAIN. I LOVE Thee, O my native Isle! Dear as my mother's earliest smile, Sweet as my father's voice to me, Is all I hear, and all I see, When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land, In view thy public virtues stand, The guardian-angels of thy coast, Who watch the dear domestic host, The heart's affections, pleased to roam Around the quiet heaven of home. ! JAMES MONTGOMERY. 367 I love thee,-when I mark thy soil Flourish beneath the peasant's toil, And from its lap of verdure throw Treasures which neither Indies know. I love Thee,-when I hear around Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound, Thine engines heaving all their force, Thy waters labouring on their course, And arts, and industry, and wealth, Exulting in the joys of health. I love Thee,-when I trace thy tale To the dim point where records fail; Thy deeds of old renown inspire My bosom with our fathers' fire; A proud inheritance I claim In all their sufferings, all their fame: Nor less delighted, when I stray Down History's lengthening, widening way, And hail thee in thy present hour, From the meridian arch of power, Shedding the lustre of thy reign, Like sunshine, over land and main. : 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. ! 368 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Evang Sk He suffer'd—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 CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. “SERVANT of God! well done; Rest from thy loved employ; The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy Master's joy." The voice at midnight came; He started up to hear, A mortal arrow pierced his frame: He fell, but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him in the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield: JAMES MONTGOMERY. 369 *} His sword was in his hand, Still warm with recent fight; Ready that moment at command, Through rock and steel to smite. At midnight came the cry, "To meet thy God prepare!" He woke,—and caught his Captain's eye; Then, strong in faith and prayer, His spirit, with a bound,, Burst its encumbering clay; His tent, at sunrise, on the ground, A darken'd ruin lay. The pains of death are past, Labour and sorrow cease, And life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ! well done; Praise be thy new employ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. HOME. THERE is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutored age, and love exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; + 16* 370 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man?-a patriot?-look around; O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home! TWILIGHT. I LOVE thee, Twilight! as thy shadows roll, The calm of evening steals upon my soul, Sublimely tender, solemnly serene, Still as the hour, enchanting as the scene. I love thee, twilight! for thy gleams impart Their dear, their dying influence to my heart, When o'er the harp of thought thy passing wind Awakens all the music of the mind, And joy and sorrow, as the spirit burns, And hope and memory sweep the chords by turns. While contemplation on seraphic wings, Mounts with the flame of sacrifice, and sings,- Twilight! I love thee; let thy glooms increase, Till every feeling, every pulse, is peace. Slow from the sky the light of day declines, Clearer within, the dawn of glory shines, Revealing, in the hour of nature's rest, A world of wonders in the poet's breast; Deeper, O twilight! then thy shadows roll, An awful vision opens on my soul. Born Samuel Taylor Coleridge. {Bied 1834. THIS gifted thinker and poet was the son of the Rev. John Coleridge, Vicar of St. Mary's Ottery, Devonshire, and was born on 20th Octo- ber, 1772. He received his education at Christ's Hospital, where, without desire or ambition, his talents and superiority placed him ever at the head of his class. In 1791 Coleridge entered Jesus College, Cambridge, where he remained till 1793. But having contracted some debts, in a fit of despondency he enlisted as a soldier in the 15th Light Dragoons. Here his education soon made his position in society known, and his friends, to his great satisfaction, as he made ! : SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 371 · .. but a sorry dragoon, bought hirn off. In 1794 Coleridge became acquainted with Southey, and formed a friendship which affected his future history. In conjunction with him he wrote and published The Fall of Robespierre," a poem, and spent the remainder of the year in lecturing on revealed religion, he having become a Unitarian. Southey and he afterwards married two sisters of the name of Fricker. Coleridge also established a periodical called "The Watch- man, " which however soon became defunct, from his incurable unpunctuality. In 1798 appeared his fascinating tale of "The Ancient Mariner," "The Foster-Mother's Tale," &c.; and about the same time he was by the liberality of the Messrs, Wedgewood, who settled £150 a-year on him, enabled to proceed to Germany to complete his education. On his return in 1800 he went to reside with Southey at Keswick. The same year Coleridge issued his translation, or rather transfusion, of Schiller's "Wallenstein," in which he has thrown some of the choi- cest graces of his own fancy. He obtained also employment as an occasional contributor to the "Morning Post," his unbusinesslike habits making regular contributions impossible. In 1804 he went to Malta to recruit his health, which was suffering greatly from his ad- diction to opium; he obtained there the post of Secretary to the Governor, but he only held the situation nine months. On his re- turn he took up his abode at Grasmere; and in 1816, at the recom- mendation of Byron, he published Christabel, "a wild and wondrous tale." Coleridge now began to reap the fruits of his genius; he ob- tained considerable sums from his poetical and prose works, which had a very wide circulation. Fortunately for his after life he was able to give up the use of opium, which was proving so pernicious to his health. In 1816 he took up his residence with Mr. Gilman, a surgeon, of Highgate Grove, to whose care and skill Coleridge was indebted for the comparative ease and comfort of his later days. He died at Highgate, 25th July, 1834. FROM "THE ANCIENT MARINER." "O WEDDING-GUEST! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea; So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. "O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company! "To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay! 'Farewell, farewell; but this I tell To thee, thou wedding-guest: He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. f 372 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. "He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all." FROM "ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR [1795]." SPIRIT who sweepest the wild harp of time! It is most hard, with an untroubled ear. Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear! Yet, mine eye fixed on heaven's unchanging clime, Long when I listened, free from mortal fear, With inward stillness, and submitted mind; When lo! its folds far waving on the wind, I saw the train of the departing year! Starting from my silent sadness, Then with no unholy madness, Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, I raised the impetuous song, and solemnised his flight. Hither, from the recent tomb, From the prison's direr gloom, From Distemper's midnight anguish; And thence, where Poverty doth waste and languish; Or where, his two bright torches blending, Love illumines manhood's maze; Or where, o'er cradled infants bending, Hope has fixed her wistful gaze, Hither, in perplexed dance, Ye Woes! ye young-eyed joys! advance! By Time's wild harp, and by the hand Whose indefatigable sweep Raises its fateful strings from sleep, I bid you haste, a mixed, tumultuous band! From every private bower, And each domestic hearth, Haste for one solemn hour; And with a loud and yet a louder voice, O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth, Weep and rejoice! Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of hell: And now advance in saintly jubilee, Justice and Truth! They, too, have heard thy spell, They, too, obey thy name, divinest Liberty! i SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 373 Departing year! 'twas on no earthly shore My soul beheld thy vision! Where alone, Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, Aye Memory sits: thy robe inscribed with gore, With many an unimaginable groan Thou storied'st thy sad hours! Silence ensued, Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude, Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone. Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, From the choirèd gods advancing, The Spirit of the earth made reverence meet, And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above, Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass; methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer, I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy; Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy. Awake, Voice of sweet song! awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 374 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM "CHRISTABEL." ALAS! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother; They parted-ne'er to meet again! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining- They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between; But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been. . Mrs. Mary Tighe. AN Irish poetess, daughter of Rev. M. Blackford, County Wicklow, her chief poem is "Psyche." Born 1773 Died 1810. FROM "PSYCHE." GENTLY ascending from a silvery flood, Above the palace rose the shaded hill, The lofty eminence was crowned with wood, And the rich lawns, adorned by nature's skill, The passing breezes with their odours fill; Here ever blooming groves of orange glow, And here all flowers, which from their leaves distil Ambrosial dew, in sweet succession blow, And trees of matchless size a fragrant shade bestow. The sun looks glorious 'mid a sky serene, And bids bright lustre sparkle o'er the tide; The clear blue ocean at a distance seen, Bounds the gay landscape on the western side, While closing round it with majestic pride, ROBERT SOUTHEY. 375 The lofty rocks 'mid citron groves arise; "Sure some divinity must here reside, As tranced in some bright vision, Psyche cries, And scarce believes the bliss, or trusts her charmèd eyes. When lo! a voice divinely sweet she hears, From unseen lips proceeds the heavenly sound; "Psyche approach, dismiss thy timid fears, At length his bride thy longing spouse has found, And bids for thee immortal joys abound; For thee the palace rose at his command, For thee his love a bridal banquet crowned; He bids attendant nymphs around thee stand, Prompt every wish to serve a fond obedient band.” Increasing wonder filled her ravished soul, For now the pompous portals opened wide, There, pausing oft, with timid foot she stole Through halls high-domed, enriched with sculptured pride, While gay saloons appeared on either side, In splendid vista opening to her sight; And all with precious gems so beautified, And furnished with such exquisite delight, That scarce the beams of heaven emit such lustre bright. Robert Southey. ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL.D., was born at Bristol, on 12th August, 1774. His father was a respectable linendraper in Wine Street. So early as twelve, Southey began to write verses; and during the whole period of his boyhood he seems to have been giving promise of the emi- nence to which he afterward attained. In his fourteenth year he was placed at Westminster School, where he remained three years; but having, in conjunction with some of his school-companions, pub- lished a lampoon on Doctor Vincent, Southey, as the chief actor, was dismissed from the school. Southey from this time till about 1811 was a revolutionist. In 1794 he married a Miss Fricker. To support himself he commenced giving lectures, and afterwards he began the study of the law. In 1796 Southey published his “Joan of Arc," which he afterwards greatly altered. The study of the law went on very slowly; and at last, from bad health, he in 1800 pro- ceeded to Portugal to recruit, where he wrote his "Thalaba," which was published in 1801. In 1804, he issued "Metrical Tales;" in 1805, Madoc;" in 1810, "The Curse of Kehama;" and in 1814, "Roderick, the Last of the Goths." Southey, though a very voluminous writer, has never been a popular one; his admirers are chiefly among the class of students and critics, but there are some of his small pieces which have ever been the delight of general readers, such as a Lord William, ""Mary the Maid of the Inn," &c. Southey's poems and his other literary work, together with a pension of £200 a-year from 66 Born 1774. Died 1843. 3 376 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Government which he received in 1807, enabled him to live in com- fort, and even luxury. In 1813 he was appointed poet-laureate, and received the degree of LL.D. from Oxford. In 1837 his wife died, and in 1939 he married a Miss Bowles, herself an authoress. He was also offered a baronetage and a seat in Parliament, which however he declined. At his death, on the 21st March, 1843, Southey left abovo £12,000 to his wife and family. He died at Greta Bridge, and was interred at Crossthwaite, where a marble monument has been erected to his memory. FROM "JOAN OF ARC." Lo! on the bridge he stands, the undaunted man, Conrade! the gathered foes along the wall Throng opposite, and on him point their pikes, Cresting with armèd men the battlements. He, undismayed, though on that perilous height, Stood firm, and hurl'd his javelin; the keen point Pierced through the destined victim, where his arm Join'd the broad breast: a wound that skilful care Haply had heal'd; but, him disabled now For farther service, the unpitying throng Of his tumultuous comrades from the wall Thrust headlong. Nor did Conrade cease to hurl His deadly javelins fast, for well within The tower was stored with weapons, to the chief Quickly supplied: nor did the mission'd Maid Rest idle from the combat; she, secure, Aim'd the keen quarrel, taught the cross-bow's use By the willing mind that what it well desires Gains aptly: nor amid the numerous throng, Though haply erring from their destined mark, Sped her sharp arrows frustrate. From the tower. Ceaseless the bow-strings twang: the knights below, Each by his pavais bulwark'd, thither aim'd Their darts, and not a dart fell woundless there, So thickly throng'd they stood, and fell as fast As when the monarch of the East goes forth Frem Gemna's banks and the proud palaces Of Delhi, the wild monsters of the wood Die in the blameless warfare: closed within The still-contracting circle, their brute force Wasting in mutual rage, they perish there, Or by each other's fury lacerate, The archer's barbed arrow, or the lance Of some bold youth of his first exploits vain, Rajah or Omrah, for the war of beasts Venturous, and learning thus the love of blood. The shout of terror rings along the wall, ROBERT SOUTHEY. 377 ¡ For now the French their scaling ladders place, And bearing high their bucklers, to the assault Mount fearless: from above the furious troops Hurl down such weapons as inventive care Or frantic rage supplies: huge stones and beams Crush the bold foe; some, thrust adown the height, Fall living to their death; some in keen pangs And wildly-writhing, as the liquid lead Gnaws through their members, leap down desperate, Eager to cease from suffering. Still they mount, And by their fellows' fate unterrified, Still dare the perilous way. Nor dangerless To the English was the fight, though from above Easy to crush the assailants: them amidst Fast fled the arrows; the large brass-wing'd darts, There driven resistless from the espringal, Keeping their impulse even in the wound, Whirl as they pierce the victim. Some fall crush'd Beneath the ponderous fragment that descends The heavier from its height; some, the long lance, Impetuous rushing on its viewless way, Transfix'd. The death-fraught cannon's thundering roar Convulsing air, the soldier's eager shout, And terror's wild shriek, echo o'er the plain In dreadful harmony. THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS: AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. '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." 378 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ↓ "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." 1 "You are old, Father Willlam," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason, I pray.” 66 I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remembered my God! And He hath not forgotten my age. "" Robert Tannahill. THIS Scottish poet, chiefly known for his exquisite songs in the Scot- tish dialect, was born at Paisley, on 3d June, 1774. He received a very limited education, and was early put to the occupation of weav- ing, where he began his song writing. He is also the author of some poems, but they are far inferior to his songs. A volume of his poems and songs was published in 1807, and was highly successful. Meet- ing some disappointment in issuing another volume, his mind, which had been previously weakened by consumption, gave way, and in a fit of depression he drowned himself, on 17th May, 1810. Born 1774. Died 1810. THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. KEEN blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle's turrets are covered wi' snaw; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw: The wild flow'rs o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they ha'e marched my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. } JOHN LEYDEN. 379 O Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, While down the bleak glen bawls the snaw-flooded foun- tain That murmured sae sweet to my laddie and me. 'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e, For, O gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan', The dark days o' winter were summer to me! John Leyden. A DISTINGUISHED Oriental scholar, was born at Denholm, in Rox- burghshire, in 1775. He was of humble parentage, but by his pro- digious power of mind and intense application he raised himself to a position of high eminence. He was ordained to the church; but his tastes inclining to oriental literature, he qualified himself in five months for the post of surgeon, and in that capacity he was put on the Madras establishment, where he prosecuted his oriental studies. He was afterwards appointed a Judge at Calcutta. He died August 28th, 1811. His chief poems are his "Scenes of Infancy," and some ballads. ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine Born 1775. { Died 1811. So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to cheer. By Cherical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendships smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Revives no more in after-time. 380 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear; A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed heart to cheer: Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine; Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true! I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart; the grave Dark and untimely met my view- And all for thee, vile yellow slave! Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey; Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! Walter Savage Landor. {Bied 1864. BORN at Ipseley Court, Warwickshire, on 30th January, 1775, of an ancient family, he was educated for the army, but his republican views caused him to decline supporting the monarchy in this way. He suceeded to the family estate about 1805, and in 1806 raised a troop at his own expense to support the Spaniards in their first insurrection. In 1815 he took up his abode in Italy, where he resided for many years. Landor's first poems were published in 1795, and the last in 1858. His prose writings, especially his Imaginary Conversations," are by far the finest of his composi- tions, although steeped in the bitter tone of the old mocking Paganism. 46 CHARLES LAMB. 381 ? 1 譬 ​THE MAID'S LAMENT. I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. checked him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found "Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears! 'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer, 'These may she never share!' Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell athwart the churchyard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ye be, And oh! pray, too, for me! Charles Lamb. A POET, but better known by his delightful essays, was born in Lon- don on 10th February, 1775. His life has a strange tragic interest, and the devotion of his life to the care of his sister is touching in the extreme. He was an accountant in the East India Company's office until 1825, when he retired with a handsome pension. His works were written at his leisure hours. His first poems were pub- lished in 1801, with but indifferent success. He attempted the drama, but failed; he now devoted his mind to prose essays, in which there is more of real poetry than in any of his verses. He met with the greatest encouragement, and his name has come down to us as one of the master essayists of his age. He met with an accident, which caused his death on 27th December, 1834. TO HESTER. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Born 1775. Died 1834. 19 382 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavour. A month or more she hath been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed, And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit. I know not by what name beside I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was trained in Nature's school; Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. My sprightly neighbour! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning. When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning? James Smith. Horace Smith. Born 1775. Died 1839. Born 1779. Died 1849. THE authors of "Rejected Addresses" were the sons of Robert Smith, solicitor to the Board of Ordnance, and were born in Lon- don. James followed the profession of his father, to whose appoint- ment he succeeded. Horace became a member of the Stock Ex- change. Their first contributions to literature were published in the Pic-nic" newspaper. They also contributed largely to the 46 JAMES SMITH-HORACE SMITH. 383 1 0 monthlies, in which were first published their poetical pieces. In 1812 appeared their great work, "Rejected Addresses," contain- ing imitations of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Scott, &c. Its success was unexampled, and it brought the authors both wealth and fame. James Smith was content with the fame thus acquired. and only wrote a few occasional pieces for the magazines; but Horace opened up a new field of honour, and became a most suc- cessful novel writer. James died at London, 24th December, 1839, and Horace at Tunbridge Wells, 12th July, 1849. FROM "REJECTED ADDRESSES." (AFTER SIR W. SCOTT.) AN awful pause succeeds the stroke, And o'er the ruins volumed smoke, Rolling around its pitchy shroud, Concealed them from the astonished crowd. At length the mist awhile was cleared, When lo! amid the wreck upreared, Gradual a moving head appeared, And Eagle firemen knew 'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered, The foreman of their crew. Loud shouted all in signs of woe, "A Muggins to the rescue, ho!” And poured the hissing tide; Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain, And strove and struggled all in vain; For rallying but to fall again, He tottered, sunk, and died! Did none attempt, before he fell, To succour one they loved so well! Yes, Higginbottom did aspire- His fireman's soul was all on fire- His brother-chief to save; But ah! his reckless generous ire Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke, Where Muggins broke before. But sulphury stench and boiling drench, Destroying sight, o'erwhelmed him quite; He sunk to rise no more. Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved, His whizzing water-pipe he waved; "Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps; You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps; & 384 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Why are you in such doleful dumps? A fireman, and afraid of bumps! What are they feared on? fools-'od rot 'em!". Were the last words of Higginbottom. THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE. (BY JAMES SMITH.) A TREE grew in Java, whose pestilent rind A venom distilied of the deadliest kind; The Dutch sent their felons the juices to draw, And who returned safe, pleaded pardon by law. and Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale, Advancing from windward to 'scape the death-gale: How few the reward of their victory earned! For ninety-nine perished for one who returned. Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer, Removed it through Holland, and planted it here; 'Tis now a stock-plant of the genus wolf's-bane, And one of them blossoms in Marybone Lane. The house that surrounds it stands first in the row, Two doors at right angles swing open below; And the children of misery daily steal in, And the poison they draw they denominate Gin. Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart, This compound of crime at a sovereign a quart; Let gin fetch per bottle the price of champagne, And hew down the Upas in Marybone Lane. FROM "ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION." (BY HORACE SMITH.) AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!) In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous! • JAMES SMITH-HORACE SMITH. 385 Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune; Thou'rt standing on thy legs above ground, mummy! Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade- Then say, what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest- if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles. Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass, Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled, For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed, Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled; Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. : HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. (BY HORACE SMITII.) DAY-STARS! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dewdrops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation. Ye matin worshippers! who, bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high. Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty, The floor of Nature's temple tesselate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty Your forms create! 17 of 1 386 { GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned; To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir the winds and waves-its organ thunder- Its dome the sky. P There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God. Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles! that in dewy splendour ،، Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore sublime! "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! ah, how transitory Are human flowers!" In the sweet scented pictures, heavenly artist! With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. ↓ SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL. 387 Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection, And second birth. Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, Far from all voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining, Priests, sermons, shrines! Sir Alexander Boswell. {Bied 1822. ELDEST SON of "Johnson's Boswell," and grandson of Lord Auchin- leck, a Scottish judge, was author of several amusing songs and poems in the Scottish dialect. He wrote some personal satires on Stuart of Dunearn, which led to a duel, in which Boswell was mortally wounded, and died 26th March, 1822. JENNY'S BAWBEE. I MET four chaps yon birks amang, Wi' hingin' lugs, and faces lang; I speired at neibour Bauldy Strang, Wha's thae I see? Quo' he, ilk cream-faced pawky chiel, Thought he'd o' cunning unco skeel, And here they cam, awa' to steal Jenny's bawbee. The first, a captain till his trade, Wi' skull ill lined, and back weel clad, Marched round the barn, and by the shed, And pappit on his knee. Quo' he: "My goddess, nymph and queen, Your beauty's dazzled baith my een;" But nought a beauty he had seen But-Jenny's bawbce. A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab, Wha speeches wove like ony wab, In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab, And a' for a fee: money Accounts he had through a' the town, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown; Haith now he thought to clout his gown Wi' Jenny's bawbee. í 388 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. A norland laird neist trotted up, Wi' bawsen'd naig and siller whup, Cried "There's my beast, lad, haud the grup, Or tie 't till a tree. * "What's gowd to me?-I've walth o' lan'; Bestow on ane o' worth your han';" He thought to pay what he was awn Wi' Jenny's bawbee. A' spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs, A Thing cam neist-but life has rubs Foul were the roads, and fou the dubs, Ah! waes me! A' clatty, squintin' through a glass, He girned, "I' faith, a bonny lass!" He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, Jenny's bawbee. She bade the laird gang comb his wig, The sodger no to strut so big, The lawyer no to be a prig, The fool cried "Tehee, I kent that I could never fail!" She preen'd the dish-clout till his tail, And cooled him wi' a water-pail, And kept her bawbee. Richard Gall. A PRINTER in Edinburgh, who wrote some very beautiful Scottish songs. MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE O. THY cheek is o' the rose's hue, My only jo and dearie O; Thy neck is like the siller-dew Upon the banks sae briery 0; Thy teeth are o' the ivory, O sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e! Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me, My only jo and dearie O. Born 1776. Died 1801. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 389 i The birdie sings upon the thorn, It sang o' joy, fu' cheerie O, Rejoicing in the summer morn, Nae care to mak it eerie O; But little kens the sangster sweet Aught o' the cares I hae to meet, That gar my restless bosom beat, My only jo and dearie O. } When we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinking bonny O, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day, Our joys fu' sweet and mony 0; Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie O. I hae a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me 0; I wish thou wert for ever mine, And never mair to leave me 0: Then I wad daut thee night and day, Nor ither wardly care wad hae, Till life's warm stream forgot to play, My only jo and dearie O. Thomas Campbell. CAMPBELL was born in Glasgow, on 27th July, 1777. He was of an old Highland family, the Campbells of Kirnan; his father was a Virginia merchant in Glasgow, and gave his family, of whom Thomas was the tenth child, a good education. Thomas was dis- tinguished at the University of Glasgow for his Greek translations; and in his fourteenth year he appears to have written English poetry, especially lyrical, with much taste and beauty. When still young, he removed to Edinburgh, where he took lodgings in Allison's Square. Here, in his twenty-second year, he composed "The Plea- sures of Hope," which was published in April, 1799; this work met with great success, and went through four editions in a year. He was enabled by the proceeds to take a tour on the Continent, where he wrote "Hobenlinden," "Ye Mariners," "The Exile of Erin," &c. On his return to Leith he was thought to be a spy, and a box con- taining papers was especially examined for proofs of his treason. The first paper they found contained Ye Mariners of England,' which, when published, spread his name like wildfire over the coun- try. In 1803 the poet repaired to London, and devoted himself to literature as a profession, and for many years he was engaged in most severe literary labours; amid which, however, he found time to write, besides smaller pieces, "Theodric," published in 1824, and The Pilgrim of Glencoe," published in 1842. The Government 64 46 f Born 1777. Died 1844. 11 390 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. had, in 1806, given him a pension of £200 a-year, and this, combined with the large sums derived from his poems and literary work, and a legacy left him in 1815, placed him in quite comfortable circum- stances. In 1826 he received what he considered his crowning hon- our, in having been chosen Lord Rector of Glasgow University. In 1843, to restore his failing health, he settled in Boulogne, but his strength never rallied, and he died there on 15th June. 1844. His remains were brought to London and interred in Westminster Abbey. The Polish Colonel Szyrma cast some earth from Koscius- ko's grave upon the bier, as a tribute of his countrymen to the friend of Poland. FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE." AT summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below. Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form, that Fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. Primeval HOPE, the Aonian muses say, When Man and Nature mourn'd their first decay; When every form of death, and every woe, Shot from malignant stars to earth below; When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War Yoked the red dragons of her iron car; When Peace and Mercy banish'd from the plain, Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again; All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind, But HOPE, the charmer, linger'd still behind, Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air, The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world-a sacred gift to man. Auspicious HoPE! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe; Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower; There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing, What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring! S THOMAS CAMPBELL. 391 What viewless forms the Eolian organ play, And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away. * * * * * 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 his aching heart for all the past— With many a smile my solitude repay, And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. * * * * * Warsaw's last champion from her height survey'd, Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,— "Oh! Heaven!" he cried, "my bleeding country save! Is there no hand on high to shield the brave? Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains, Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains! By that dread name, we wave the sword on high! And swear for her to live!—with her to die!" He said, and on the rampart-heights array'd His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd; Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form, Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm; Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly, Revenge, or Death,-the watchword and reply; Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm, And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm !--- C In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few! From rank to rank your volley'd thunder flew:- Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time, Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arm, nor mercy in her woe! Dropt from her nerveless grasp the shatter'd spear, Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career; HOPE, for a season, bade the world farewell, And Freedom shriek'd-as KOSCIUSKO fell! 392 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. R FROM "LOCHIEL'S WARNING." Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd my Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! [clan, They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array- Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day: For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight: Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors! Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling: oh! Mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale- Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, THOMAS CAMPBELL. 393 Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery, But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 17* 394 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They die to defend me, or live to deplore! THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track: 'Twas autumn,-and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. NOEL THOMAS CARRINGTON. 395 " D I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;- But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Born 1777. Noel Thomas Carrington. {Died 1830. A DEVONSHIRE poet who followed the profession of schoolmaster at Plymouth. He has very pleasingly depicted the scenery of his native county in his poem of Dartmoor. " "} THE PIXIES OF DEVON. THEY are flown, Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove In Superstition's web when Time was young, And fondly loved and cherished: they are flown Before the wand of Science! Hills and vales, Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost The enchantments, the delights, the visions all, The elfin visions that so blest the sight In the old days romantic. Nought is heard Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains— Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook, And waterfall; the day is silent else, And night is strangely mute! the hymnings high— The immortal music, men of ancient times Have ravished oft, are flown! O ye have lost, Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy Intense; with a rich mystery that awed The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year Found passionate listeners! 1 396 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The very streams Brightened with visitings of these so sweet Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew As the pomp passed to land, until the eye Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod, Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose, And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers, Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes Looked on their revels all the luscious night; And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved, Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp Elysian! Thomas Moore. MOORE was born in Dublin, on 28th May, 1779. His parents were Catholics and in humble circumstances, but gave him a tolerably good education; and in 1793, when the University of Dublin was opened to Catholics, he was sent there. In 1793 he contributed verses of considerable merit to a periodical called "Anthologia Hibernica; and in 1799 he removed to London, where appeared his translation of Anacreon, dedicated by permission to the Prince of Wales, which brought him into notice. His singing, too, became the rage in fashionable circles; and so popular was he that he obtained the appointment of Admiralty-Registrar for Bermuda, with a hand- some salary. He set out for Bermuda in 1804, but wearying of the place he returned to England, leaving his duties to be performed by a deputy. In 1807, Moore commenced his "Irish Melodies," a noble and patriotic work, which met with a most enthusiastic reception, especially from his countrymen; the first part was published in 1813, and the last part in 1834. In 1811, Moore married Miss Bessy Dyke, a lady who had attain some distinction on the Irish stage; she was a most suitable wife. and made for him a happy home. In 1812, Moore commenced a series of satirical effusions which met with prodigious success: the wit, ease, and playfulness of the satire cap- tivated every circle; and the poet's reputation was such that a friend was able to make arrangement with Murray the publisher for Moore to write an Eastern roinance in poetry, and to get for it the sum of three thousand guineas. This, for a poem yet unwritten, is one of the most striking events in poetical history. The poem was finished and published in 1817. It had a wonderful sale-six editions were sold in as many months; and the truth of the de- scriptions were the wonder and delight of Orientalists, who knew Moore had never been in the East; even Jeffrey hailed it "as the finest Orientalism we have had yet. Moore's star was at its zenith, when notice arrived of the fraud of his deputy in Bermuda, entail- ing on him a loss of £6000. An attachment was issued against his person, and Moore left for Paris; but by the kindness of friends he was ultimately enabled to compromise and settle the matter. Whilst on the Continent he composed "The Epicurean," a prose story, and The Loves of the Angels," published in 1823. Moore's circumstances were not such as to free his mind from anxiety; and on a hint to this effect to Lord John Russell, he in 1835 received a pension of £300 a-year from Government. During the rest of his career Moore was chiefly engaged as a prose writer; his Life of :" Born 1779. Died 1852. 95 ! THOMAS MOORE. 397 Sheridan, and Life of Lord Byron, are among the best of his works at this period. In 1838 he resolved on a visit to Ireland; the news preceded him, and wherever he appeared he was greeted with rap- turous enthusiasm. The closing years of Moore's life were sad and melancholy: his children one by one sunk into the grave, and a settled depression gathered over the poet's mind. deepening as he drew near his end. He died on 25th February, 1852. FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." BUT quenched to-night that ardour seems, And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow:- Never before, but in her dreams, Had she beheld him pale as now: And those were dreams of troubled sleep, From which 'twas joy to wake and weep; Visions that will not be forgot, But sadden every waking scene, Like warning ghosts, that leave the spot All withered where they once have been! How sweetly," said the trembling maid, Of her own gentle voice afraid, So long had they in silence stood, Looking upon that moonlight flood- "How sweetly does the moonbeam smile To-night upon yon leafy isle! Oft, in my fancy's wanderings I've wished that little isle had wings, And we, within its fairy bowers, Were wafted off to seas unknown, Where not a pulse should beat but ours, And we might live, love, die alone! Far from the cruel and the cold,— Where the bright eyes of angels only Should come around us, to behold. A Paradise so pure and lonely! Would this be world enough for thee?"— Playful she turn'd, that he might see The passing smile her cheek put on; But when she marked how mournfully His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; And, bursting into heart-felt tears, “Yes, yes,” she cried, "my hourly fears, My dreams have boded all too right— We part-for ever part-to-night! I knew, I knew it could not last- 'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past! 398 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS: Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die!" · FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." ALAS! how light a cause may move Dissension between hearts that love! Hearts that the world in vain has tried, And sorrow but more closely tied; That stood the storm when waves were rough, Yet in a sunny hour fall off, Like ships, that have gone down at sea, When Heaven was all tranquillity! A something light as air-a look, A word unkind or wrongly taken- Oh! love, that tempests never shook, A breath, a touch like this has shaken. And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds,-or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet ere it reach the plain below, Breaks into floods that part for ever. Oh you that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound, As in the Fields of Bliss above He sits, with flow'rets fetter'd round:- Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings; THOMAS MOORE. 399 18 For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird,-whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies,- Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies! THE BIRD LET LOOSE. THE bird, let loose in Eastern skies, When hast'ning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam. But high she shoots through air and light, Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free, Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, To hold my course to Thee! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs;- Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings! OH, THOU! WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR. Он, Thou, who dry'st 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 400 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, Is dimm'd and vanish'd too, 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 shows us worlds of light We never saw by day. DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY. DEAR Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still. Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine; Go, sleep, with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine. If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own. Ebenezer Elliot. THE CORN-LAW RHYMER, as he is generally called, was born at Mas- borough in Yorkshire, on 7th March, 1781. He appeared first as a poet in 1823; and when the Corn-Law agitation commenced, he lent the full vigour of his pen to further it. His Corn-Law rhymes had a great influence among his own class; but they are poor pro- ductions, and would never have entitled him to be ranked as a poet. Some of his other pieces show higher poetical powers. He died in 1849. THE POOR MAN'S DAY. SABBATH holy! To the lowly, Still art thou a welcome day. • Born 1781. Died 1849. # EBENEZER ELLIOT. 401. When Thou comest, earth and ocean, Shade and brightness, rest and motion, Help the Poor Man's heart to pray. Sun-waked Forest, Bird that soarest O'er the mute empurpled moor, Throstle's song that stream-like flowest, Wind that over dewdrop goest, Welcome now the woe-worn poor! Little River, Young for ever! Cloud gold-bright with thankful glee, Happy woodbine, gladly weeping, Gnat within the wild rose keeping, O! that they were blest as ye. Sabbath holy! For the lowly Paint with flowers thy glittering sod: For Affliction's sons and daughters Bid thy mountains, woods, and waters, Pray to God-the Poor Man's God! Tyrants curse ye While they nurse ye, Life for deadliest wrongs to pay; Yet, O Sabbath! bringing gladness Unto hearts of weary sadness, Still art Thou "The Poor Man's day." Sabbath's Father, Would'st Thou rather Some should curse than all be blest, If Thou hate not fruit and blossom, To the Oppressor's godless bosom Bring the Poor Man's day of rest,— With its healing, With his feeling, With his humble trustful bliss; With the Poor Man's honest kindness, Bless the rich man's heart of blindness, Teach him what religion is! . o 402 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Jane Taylor. JANE TAYLOR was born in London, in 1783. Her father became after- wards a dissenting minister at Colchester, where he educated his family. In conjunction with her sister Anne, she wrote and pub- lished a collection of children's hymns and rhymes, which have been universally admired. Jane is also the author of "Display," a prose work. She died in 1823. CRUCIFIXION OF CHRIST. Lo, at noon 'tis sudden night, Darkness covers all the sky; Rocks are rending at the sight: Children, can you tell me why? What can all these wonders be? Jesus dies on Calvary! Nail'd upon the cross, behold, How His tender limbs are torn; For a royal crown of gold They have made him one of thorn: Cruel hands, that dare to bind Thorns upon a brow so kind! See the blood is falling fast, From his forehead and his side; Hark! He now has breathed his last: With a mighty groan He died. Children, shall I tell you why Jesus condescends to die? He who was King above Left his kingdom for a grave, Out of pity out of love, That the guilty He might save. Down to this sad world He flew, For such little ones as you. Born 1783. Died 1823. Reginald Heber. REGINALD HEBER, D.D., Bishop of Calcutta, was born on 21st April, 1783, at Malpas in Cheshire, a living held by his father. He entered at Brasenose College at the age of seventeen, and, in his twentieth year, his poem “Palestine" gained the prize for English poetical composition. The poem caused a great sensation in the University, and was the occasion of his being brought prominently into notice. 1 Born 1783. Died 1826. REGINALD HEBER. 403 "" He appeared as a poet again in 1809, when he published "Europe. Having been educated for the Church, Heber obtained the living o.. Hodnet, where he devoted himself to the duties of his charge with great zeal and success; at the same time he married Amelia Shipley daughter of the Dean of St. Asaph. His leisure time was con- stantly engaged in literary work; and during this period he wrote many of those beautiful hymns which must ever be connected with his name. In 1823 he was appointed Bishop of Calcutta, and he entered on his work of supervision with great zeal and prudence. His whole mind seemed to have been occupied with how best to ad- vance Christianity in the East. In one of his tours he was taken ill at Trichinopoly, and died very suddenly on 3d April, 1826, univer- sally lamented, FROM "PALESTINE.” YET still destruction sweeps the lonely plain, And heroes lift the generous sword in vain. Still o'er her sky the clouds of anger roll, And God's revenge hangs heavy on her soul. Yet shall she rise; but not by war restored, Not built in murder,-planted by the sword; Yes! Salem, thou shalt rise; thy Father's aid Shall heal the wound His chastening hand has made: Shall judge the proud oppressor's ruthless sway, And burst his brazen bonds, and cast his cords away. Then on your tops shall deathless verdure spring, Break forth, ye mountains, and ye valleys, sing! No more your thirsty rocks shall frown forlorn, The unbeliever's jest, the heathen's scorn; The sultry sands shall tenfold harvest yield, And a new Eden deck the thorny field. E'en now, perchance, wide-waving o'er the land, That mighty Angel lifts his golden wand, Courts the bright vision of descending power, Tells every gate, and measures every tower; And chides the tardy seals that yet detain Thy Lion, Judah, from His destined reign. And who is He? the vast, the awful form, Girt with the whirlwind, sandall'd with the storm; A western cloud around His limbs is spread, His crown a rainbow, and a sun His head. To highest heaven He lifts His kingly hand, And treads at once the ocean and the land; And, hark! His voice amid the thunder's roar, His dreadful voice, that Time shall be no more! Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare, Lo! thrones arise, and every saint is there; Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway, The mountains worship, and the isles obey; + 404 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Nor sun nor moon they need,-nor day, nor night!- God is their temple, and the Lamb their light: And shall not Israel's sons exulting come, Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home? On David's throne shall David's offspring reign, And the dry bones be warm with life again. Hark! white-robed crowds their deep hosannas raise, And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise; Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song, Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong; "Worthy the Lamb! omnipotent to save, Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave!" THE COMING OF CHRIST. THE Lord shall come! the earth shall quake, The hills their fixed seat forsake; And, withering from the vault of night, The stars shall pale their feeble light. The Lord shall come! but not the same As once in lonely guise He came, A silent Lamb before His foes, A weary man, and full of woes. The Lord will come! a dreadful form, With rainbow wreath and robes of storm, On cherub wings and wings of wind, Anointed Judge of human kind! Can this be He who wont to stray A pilgrim on the world's highway; Oppress'd by Power and mock'd by Pride! O God! is this The Crucified? Go, tyrants! to the rocks complain ! And seek the mountain's shade in vain! But Faith, ascending from the tomb, Shall shouting sing "The Lord is come!" 1 LEIGH HUNT. 405 Leigh Hunt. Was born in Southgate, Middlesex, 19th October, 1784. His father was a clergyman of the Church of England, who was enabled to give his son a good education. So early as his sixteenth year he wrote and published verses. In 1805 he connected himself with a newspaper, and was so unfortunate as to be prosecuted for a libel on the Prince Regent. He was sentenced to two years' imprison- ment, which was relieved somewhat by the kind attentions of his friends, among whom were Moore and Byron. He also adorned his room with busts and flowers, and in a small corner of the yard con- trived to cultivate flowers and young fruit trees. On leaving prison he published the story of “Rimini" in verse, and also two volumes of miscellaneous poetry. In 1842 he published a drama, a Legend of Florence." He was also a writer of biography and a novelist. Mr. Hunt obtained in 1847 a pension of £200 a-year from Government, which he enjoyed till his death in 1859. เ JAFFAR. JAFFAR, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrust, Of what the good and ev'n the bad might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death; All Araby and Persia held their breath. All but the brave Mondeer-he, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go.. And facing death for very scorn and grief, (For his great heart wanted a great relief,) Stood forth in Bagdad, daily on the square, Where once had stood a happy house; and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymetar On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr. 1 Born 1784. Died 1859. Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this, The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, "Bring me this man," the Caliph cried; the man Was brought was gazed upon; the mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffàr delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me-loved me-put me on a par With his great self; how can I pay Jaffàr?” 0 406 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great. He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will, The Caliph's judgment shall be master still, Go! and since gifts thus move thee! take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit." "Gifts!" cried the friend. He took, and holding it High tow'rds the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This too I owe to thee, Jaffàr!" Bernard Barton. THE QUAKER POET was born near London, in 1784. He was employed for most part of his life as clerk in a banking-house in Woodbridge. Barton's first poems were published in 1811, and various other vol umes followed; they are characterised by much simplicity and purity of style, but have never been very popular. In his later days he obtained a pension of £100 a-year from Government. He died at yea Woodbridge, in February, 1849. POWER AND GENTLENESS. NOBLE the mountain-stream, Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground; Glory is in its gleam Of brightness-thunder in its deafening sound! Mark, how its foamy spray, Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes, Mimics the bow of day Arching in majesty the vaulted skies; Thence, in a summer-shower, Steeping the rocks around-01 tell me where Could majesty and power Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair? Yet lovelier, in my view, The streamlet flowing silently serene; Traced by the brighter hue, And livelier growth it gives-itself unseen ! Born 1734. Died: 1849, It flows through flowery meads, Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse; Its quiet beauty feeds The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs. } ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 407 Gently it murmurs by The village churchyard: its low, plaintive tone A dirge-like melody, For worth and beauty modest as its own. More gaily now it sweeps By the small school-house in the sunshine bright; And o'er the pebbles leaps, Like happy hearts by holiday made light. May not its course express, In characters which they who run may read, The charms of Gentleness, Were but its still small voice allowed to plead? What are the trophies gained By Power, alone, with all its noise and strife, To that meek wreath, unstained, Won by the charities that gladden life? Niagara's streams might fail, And human happiness be undisturbed: But Egypt would turn pale, Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curbed! Allan Cunningham. WAS born at Blackwood, near Dalswinton, in Dumfriesshire, 7. December, 1784. His father was a gardener, and Allan had few ad- vantages in the way of education. Allan was apprenticed to his uncle, a builder, but he ultimately abandoned this business, and became a clerk of works to Sir F. Chantrey, in London. In his leisure moments he wrote his Scottish songs, which were published from time to time, and which have made his name eminent among his countrymen. He is also well known as the editor of the Col- lected Edition of Burns' Works," to which he prefixed a very inter- esting Life of Burns. His last work was a "Life of Sir David Wil- kie." He died 29th October, 1842. 6. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast: And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Į (Born 1784. 1 Died 1842. 408 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free— While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. MY NANIE O. RED rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae, Mirk is the night and rainie O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, I'll gang and see my Nanie O. My Nanie O, my Nanie 0; My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, And nane can do't but Nanie O. In preaching-time sae meek she stands, Sae saintly and sae bonny O, I cannot get ae glimpse of grace, For thieving looks at Nanie O. My Nanie O, my Nanie O; The world's in love with Nanie O; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadna love my Nanie O. My breast can scarce contain my heart, When dancing she moves finely O; I guess what heaven is by her eyes, They sparkle sae divinely O. ¡ HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 409 My Nanie O, my Nanie O; The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Nanie O. Tell not, thou star at gray daylight, O'er Tinwald-top so bonny O, My footsteps 'mang the morning dew When coming frae my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; Nane ken o' me and Nanie O; The stars and moon may tell't aboon, They winna wrang my Nanie ?! Born 1785. Died 1806. Henry Kirke White. THIS accomplished genius was the son of a butcher in Nottingham, and was born on 21st August, 1785. He at first assisted in his father's business, but at last, anxious to have a profession which would give employment to his mind, he was apprenticed to an attorney. His habits of study were unremitting, and at the age of fifteen he obtained, in a competition, a silver medal from a London magazine for a translation from Horace. In 1803 he pub- lished a volume of poems, some of which were written in his thir- teenth year. The volume was severely handled by the critics, but fortunately Southey, who happened to read the pieces, wrote the young poet with words of encouragement. White was at one time inclined to deism, but an accidental reading of Scott's "Force of Truth" brought conviction to his mind of the truth of Christianity, and gave a new tinge to his character, and object to his life. He resolved to devote himself to the ministry, and by the help of some friends was enabled to go through the necessary studies. He earned the highest distinctions at his college, but he purchased them too dearly, as his unremitting application had totally ruined his health, and he died on 19th October, 1806, at the early age of twenty-one. His remains, collected by Southey, are among the finest compositions in our language. FROM "TIME.” How insignificant is mortal man, Bound to the hasty pinions of an hour! How poor, how trivial in the vast conceit Of infinite duration, boundless space! God of the universe-Almighty One- Thou who dost walk upon the winged winds, Or with the storm, thy rugged charioteer, Swift and impetuous as the northern blast, Ridest from pole to pole;-Thou who dost hold 18 410 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. The forkèd lightnings in thine awful grasp, And reinest in the earthquake, when thy wrath Goes down towards erring man,-I would address To Thee my parting pæan; for of Thee, Great beyond comprehension, who thyself Art time and space, sublime infinitude, Of Thee has been my song!-With awe I kneel Trembling before the footstool of thy state, My God, my Father!-I will sing to Thee A hymn of laud, a solemn canticle, Ere on the cypress wreath which overshades The throne of Death I hang my mournful lyre, And give its wild strings to the desert gale. Rise, son of Salem, rise, and join the strain, Sweep to accordant tones thy tuneful harp, And, leaving vain laments, arouse thy soul To exultation. Sing hosanna, sing, And halleluiah, for the Lord is great, And full of mercy! HYMN. AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah, wake, Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake; We sing the Saviour of our race, The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place. When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, oh where, shall man retire, To escape the horrors of his ire? 'Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly, While the dread tempest passes by: God sees his Well-beloved's face, And spares us in our hiding-place. Thus while we dwell in this low scene, The Lamb is our unfailing screen; To Him, though guilty, still we run, And God still spares us for his Son. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 411 ADDRESS TO CONTEMPLATION. THEE do I own, the prompter of my joys, The soother of my cares, inspiring peace; And I will ne'er forsake thee. Men may rave, And blame and censure me, that I don't tie My ev'ry thought down to the desk, and spend The morning of my life in adding figures With accurate monotony, that so The good things of the world may be my lot, And I might taste the blessedness of wealth: But, oh! I was not made for money getting; For me no much respected plum awaits, Nor civic honour, envied. For as still I tried to cast with school dexterity The interesting sums, my vagrant thoughts Would quick revert to many a woodland haunt, Which fond remembrance cherish'd, and the pen Dropt from my senseless fingers as I pictured, In my mind's eye, how on the shores of Trent I erewhile wander'd with my early friends In social intercourse. And then I'd think How contrary pursuits had thrown us wide, One from the other; scatter'd o'er the globe, They were set down with sober steadiness, Each to his occupation. I alone, A wayward youth, misled by Fancy's vagaries, Remain'd unsettled, insecure, and veering With ev'ry wind to ev'ry point o' th' compass. Yes, in the counting-house I could indulge In fits of close abstraction; yea, amid The busy bustling crowds could meditate, And send my thoughts ten thousand leagues away Beyond the Atlantic, resting on my friend. Aye, Contemplation, ev'n in earliest youth, I woo'd thy heav'nly influence! I would walk A weary way when all my toils were done, To lay myself at night in some lone wood, And hear the sweet song of the nightingale. Oh, those were times of happiness, and still To memory doubly dear; for growing years Had not then taught me man was made to mourn: And a short hour of solitary pleasure, Stolen from sleep, was ample recompense For all the hateful bustles of the day. 412 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. My op'ning mind was ductile then, and plastic, And soon the marks of care were worn away, While I was sway'd by every novel impulse, Yielding to all the fancies of the hour. But it has now assumed its character; Mark'd by strong lineaments, its haughty tone, Like the firm oak, would sooner break then bend. Yet still, O Contemplation! I do love To indulge thy solemn musings; still the same With thee alone I know to melt and weep, In thee alone delighting. John Wilson. PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY in the University of Edinburgh, was born on 18th May, 1785, at Paisley, where his father was a manu- facturer. At thirteen he was sent to Glasgow University, and from thence transferred to Oxford, where he won the Newdegate Prize for English verse. On leaving the University he bought a beautiful place on the banks of Windermere, where he spent four years in the enjoyment of the society of the "Lake poets." In 1812 was published the "Isle of Palms;" and in 1816, "The City of the Plague," which established his reputation as a poet. It was in prose, however, that he won his highest laurels; and in "Black- wood's Magazine," as " Christopher North," he wrote a succession of articles which filled the public with wonder and delight. In 1820, Wilson was appointed to the Moral Philosophy chair in Edinburgh, which he held till 1851, when he resigned in consequence of bad health. About the same time he received a pension from the Crown of £300 a-year. He died at Edinburgh, 3d April, 1854. THE SHIPWRECK. (From the "Isle of Palms.") BUT list! a low and moaning sound At distance heard, like a spirit's song, And now it reigns above, around, As if it called the ship along. The moon is sunk; and a clouded grey Declares that her course is run, Born 1785. Died 1854. And like a god who brings the day, Up mounts the glorious sun. Soon as his light has warmed the seas, From the parting cloud fresh blows the breeze; And that is the spirit whose well-known song Makes the vessel to sail in joy along. No fears hath she; her giant form O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm, JOHN WILSON. 413 : Majestically calm would go 'Mid the deep darkness white as snow! · But gently now the small waves glide Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side. So stately her bearing, so proud her array, The main she will traverse for ever and aye. Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast; Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last. Five hundred souls in one instant of dread Are hurried o'er the deck; And fast the miserable ship Becomes a lifeless wreck. Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock, Her planks are torn asunder, And down come her masts with a reeling shock, And a hideous crash like thunder. Her sails are draggled in the brine, That gladdened like the skies, And her pendant, that kissed the fair moonshine, Down many a fathom lies. Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues Gleamed softly from below, And flung a warm and sunny flush O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow, To the coral-rocks are hurrying down, To sleep amid colours as bright as their own. A SLEEPING CHILD. ART thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair? Oh! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death? Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent? Or art thou, what thy form would seem; The phantom of a blessed dream? Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of acstasy! & 414 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. That light of gleaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years. Thou smil'st as if thy soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring! And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye! What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy or error dim The glory of the seraphim! William Tennant. WAS born at East Anstruther, in Fife, in 1785. In 1812 he published "Anster Fair," in his own little village. It was some time before the poem became known to the literary world, but in 1814 a favour- able notice appeared in the "Edinburgh Review," which brought it into notice. Although much of it is coarse, there are many pieces of considerable beauty. He published some other pieces of little note. Tennant, by great industry, had acquired a good knowledge of Latin, Greek, Arabic, Syriac, and Persian; and after being for some time classical teacher in Dollar Academy, he was appointed Professor of Oriental Languages in the University of St. Andrews. He died in 1848. / Born 1785. Died 1848. FROM "ANSTER FAIR." HER form was as the Morning's blithesome star, That capped with lustrous coronet of beams, Rides up the dawning orient in her car, New-washed, and doubly fulgent from the streams- The Chaldee shepherd eyes her light afar, And on his knees adores her as she gleams; So shone the stately form of Maggie Lauder, And so the admiring crowds pay homage and applaud her. Each little step her trembling palfrey took, Shaked her majestic person into grace, And as at times his glossy sides she strook Endearingly with whip's green silken lace— The prancer seemed to court such kind rebuke, Loitering with wilful tardiness of pace- By Jove, the very waving of her arm Had power a brutish lout to unbrutify and charm! Her face was as the summer cloud, whereon The dawning sun delights to rest his rays! MRS. SOUTHEY. 415 : 1 Compared with it, old Sharon's vale, o'ergrown With flaunting roses, had resigned its praise; For why? Her face with heaven's own roses shone, Mocking the morn, and witching men to gaze; And he that gazed with cold unsmitten soul, The blockhead's heart was ice thrice baked beneath the Pole. Her locks, apparent tufts of wiry gold, Lay on her lily temples, fairly dangling, And on each hair, so harmless to behold, A lover's soul hung mercilessly strangling! The piping silly zephyrs vied to unfold The tresses in their arms so slim and tangling, And thrid in sport these lover-noosing snares, And played at hide-and-seek amid the golden hairs. Her eye was as an honoured palace, where A choir of lightsome Graces frisk and dance; What object drew her gaze, how mean soe'er, Got dignity and honour from the glance; Woe to the man on whom she unaware Did the dear witchery of her eye elance! 'Twas such a thrilling, killing, keen regard— May Heaven from such a look preserve each tender bard! Mrs. Southey. CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES was the only child of Captain Bowles of Buckland, near Lymington, Hants. She was born in 1787. Having while very young lost both her parents, she spent much of her early life in retirement. For many years she contributed to the magazines poems which were greatly admired. In 1820 she published "Ellen Fitz Arthur," a poem, and her name as the author was then given to the world. The "Widow's Tale," "Solitary Hours," "Chapters on Churchyards," &c., followed, and obtained for the author a high place among the roll of poetesses. In 1839 she married Robert Southey the poet, with whom she had for many years been intimate, evidently to cheer and take care of him in his declining years. From the state of Southey's mind soon after, this task was one of great difficulty, and required the utmost self- sacrifice. On his death, Mrs. Southey was left nearly destitute, which, in her then state of health, was very trying; but she was relieved from this distress by a pension from Government of £200 a-year. Her last volume of poetry was published in 1847. She died in 1854. MARINER'S HYMN. LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Christian, God speed thee! Born 1787. Died 1854, 416 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. an Let loose the rudder-bands- Good angels lead thee! Set thy sails warily, Tempests will come; Steer thy course steadily; Christian, steer home! Look to the weather-bow, Breakers are round thee: Let fall the plummet now, Shallows may ground thee. Reef in the foresail there; Hold the helm fast! So-let the vessel wear- There swept the blast. "What of the night, watchman! What of the night?" "Cloudy-all quiet- No land yet―all's right.” Be wakeful, be vigilant- Danger may be At an hour when all seemeth Securest to thee. How! gains the leak so fast? Clean out the hold- Hoist up thy merchandise, Heave out thy gold; There-let the ingots go-- Now the ship rights; Hurra! the harbour's near- Lo! the red lights! Slacken not sail yet At inlet or island; Straight for the beacon steer, Straight for the high land. Crowd all thy canvas on, Cut through the foam- Christian cast anchor now- Heaven is thy home! Po LORD BYRON. 417 1 Lord Byron. GEORGE GORDON BYRON was by the father's side English, and by the mother's side Scotch; he was born in London, on the 22d January, 1788. When he was two years old his parents removed to Aberdeen for economy's sake, and in due time placed Byron at a day-school there, where he remained till he was ten years old. In 1798, by the death of a grand-uncle, Byron became heir to an English peerage, and removed with his mother to the family seat of Newstead Abbey. Two years after he was sent to Harrow, where he remained till 1805. On leaving Harrow he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, and here his muse began to plume her wings. His pieces were at first handed about in MS., and at last, in 1807, was published "The Hours of Idleness." Fortunately for the world, the "Edinburgh Review" made a fierce and undeserved onslaught on the noble author. Till that moment Byron was unconscious of his powers; but the critique stung him to the quick, and he resolved on revenge. Before the year was out, "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" burst upon the literary world, a satire as scathing as he himself could desire. While his name was thus filling the public ear, he took his seat in the House of Lords, and shortly after sailed for the Mediterranean. On his return to England in 1812, he published the first two cantos of "Childe Harold," the first fruits of his wander- ings. The result was, as he himself expresses it, "he awoke one morning and found himself famous. A series of Eastern tales followed-"The Giaour,” "Bride of Abydos," "The Corsair," and "Lara." Byron was now the idol of the gay circles of London. Apparently at last satiated with its enjoyment, he, without any real attachment, proposed to Miss Milbanke, a northern heiress, and was accepted. The marriage was an unhappy one, and in a year after Lady Byron sought a refuge in her father's house from her troubles. carrying with her their only child, Ada, afterwards Countess of Lovelace. Byron never saw them again. Embarrassed with debt, reckless, and yet conscious of his high powers, Byron again set out for the continent, never again to set foot on his native land. Some of his finest pieces were written during this period-"The Prisoner of Chillon," Manfred," the remaining cantos of "Childe Harold." &c. In 1821 the Greek war of Independence broke out. Byron's heart sympathised deeply in their struggle for freedom, and the world saw with joy the poet forsake his life of indolent vice, and join in a noble struggle. He landed in Greece in 1823, and showed much judgment amid the disorder in the patriot army; but the hardships of the camp were soon too much for his frame, weakened as it was by long habits of vice, and a wetting he got while out riding brought on an attack of fever, under which he died at Missolonghi, on 19th April, 1824. 39 66 99 CHILLON. AND then there was a little isle, Which in my very face did smile, The only one in view; .A small green isle, it seem'd no more, Scarce broader than my dungeån floor, But in it there were three tall trees, And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, S Born 1788. Died 1824. 18* 418 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And by it there were waters flowing, And on it there were young flowers growing, Of gentle breath and hue. The fish swam by the castle wall, And they seem'd joyous each and all; The eagle rode the rising blast, Methought he never flew so fast As then to me he seemed to fly; And then new tears came in my eye, And I felt troubled-and would fain I had not left my recent chain; And when I did descend again, The darkness of my dim abode Fell on me as a heavy load; It was as is a new-dug grave, Closing o'er one we sought to save,— And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, Had almost need of such a rest. THE DREAM. I SAW two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Arising from such rustic roofs:—the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array so fix'd, Not by the sport of nature, but of man: These two, a maiden and a youth, were there Gazing-the one on all that was beneath, Fair as herself-but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful; And both were young-yet not alike in youth. As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him; he had look'd Ma ▸ đạ LORD BYRON. 419 } 1 Upon it till it could not pass away; He had no breath, no being, but in hers: She was his voice; he did not speak to her, But trembled on her words. She was his sight, For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, Which colour'd all his objects:-He had ceased To live within himself: she was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all: upon a tone, A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, And his cheek change tempestuously—his heart Unknowing of its cause of agony. But she in these fond feelings had no share; Her sighs were not for him; to her he was Even as a brother-but no more; 'twas much, For brotherless she was, save in the name Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him; Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honoured race.-It was a name Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and why? Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood Looking afar if yet her lover's steed, Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. FROM "MANFRED." Manfred. The spirits I have raised abandon me— The spells which I have studied baffle me— The remedy I reck'd of tortured me; I lean no more on superhuman aid, It hath no power upon the past, and for The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness, It is not of my search.—My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye, And, thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight-thou shinest not on my heart. And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath, Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs In dizziness of distance: when a leap, 420 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. pag ma A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed To rest for ever-wherefore do I pause? I feel the impulse-yet I do not plunge; I see the peril-yet do not recede; And my brain reels-and yet my foot is firm: There is a power upon me which withholds, And makes it my fatality to live; If it be life to wear within myself This barrenness of spirit, and to be My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased To justify my deeds unto myself- The last infirmity of evil. Ay, Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, (An eagle passes) Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, Well may'st thou swoop so near me-I should be Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, With a pervading vision.-Beautiful! How beautiful is all this visible world! How glorious in its action and itself! But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make A conflict of its elements, and breathe The breath of degradation and of pride, Contending with low wants and lofty will, Till our mortality predominates. And men are-what they name not to themselves, And trust not to each other. Oh, that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment-born and dying With the blest tone which made me! 1 ADIEU TO HIS NATIVE LAND. ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; LORD BYRON. 421 $ I Farewell awhile to him and thee, My Native Land-Good Night! "A few short hours, and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. "Come hither, hither, my little page! Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along." "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind: For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee and One above." THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO. THERE was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? Or the car rattling No! 'twas but the wind, 'er the stony street; 1 422 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. + On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet But hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before; Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell- He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarmning drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips "The foe! They come! they come!" THE CATHEDRAL. BUT thou, of temples old, or altars new, Standest alone-with nothing like to thee— Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He LORD BYRON. 423 + Forsook His former city, what could be, Of earthly structures, in His honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aislea In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; And why? it is not lessen'd; but thy mind, Expanded by the genius of the spot, Has grown colossal, and can only find A flt abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, See thy God face to face, as thou dost now, His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. Thou movest—but increasing with the advance, Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise Deceived by its gigantic elegance; Vastness which grows-but grows to harmonize— All musical in its immensities; Rich marbles-richer painting-shrines where flame The lamps of gold—and haughty dome which vies In air with Earth's chief structures, though their fame Sits on the firm-set ground-and this the clouds must claim. SOLITUDE. OH! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye Elements!-in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted-Can ye not Accord me such a being! Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not Man the less, but Nature more. P1 424 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows, far and near,, And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here. ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, "Tis done but yesterday a King! And arm'd with Kings to strive- And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject-yet alive! I LORD BYRON. 425 1 Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Who bow'd so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught'st the rest to see. With might unquestion'd,-power to save,- Thine only gift hath been the grave To those that worshipp'd thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition's less than littleness! The Desolator desolate! The victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope, That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince-or live a slave- Thy choice is most ignobly brave! FROM "MAZEPPA." "BRING forth the horse!'-the horse was brought, In truth, he was a noble steed, A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, Who look'd as though the speed of thought Were in his limbs; but he was wild, Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, With spur and bridle undefiled- 'Twas but a day he had been caught; And snorting, with erected mane, And struggling fiercely, but in vain, In the full foam of wrath and dread To me the desert-born was led: They bound me on, that menial throng, Upon his back with many a thong: They loosed him with a sudden lash- mega 426 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Away!—away!—and on we dash!— Torrents less rapid and less rash. "Away!-away!-my breath was gone- I saw not where he hurried on: 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, And on he foam'd-away!-away!— The last of human sounds which rose, As I was darted from my foes, Was the wild shout of savage laughter, Which on the wind came roaring after A moment from that rabble rout: With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, And writhing half my form about, Howl'd back my curse; but 'midst the tread, The thunder of my courser's speed, Perchance they did not hear nor heed: It vexes me-for I would fain Have paid their insult back again.” Thomas Pringle. WAS born at Blaiklaw in Roxburghshire, in 1788. He received a good education, and after leaving the University he was appointed a clerk in the Register Office, Edinburgh, and his literary tastes had to be developed during his leisure hours. He became a contributor to, and afterwards editor of, Blackwood's Magazine." Pringle afterwards emigrated to the Cape, where he remained some years, but ultimately returned to England. His poetical works are Scenes of Teviotdale, 'Ephemerides," and "African Sketches." He died in 1834. ་་ 99 66 b. AFAR IN THE DESERT. Born 1788. Died 1834. AFAR in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I turn to the past; And the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years; And the shadows of things that have long since fled, Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead- Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon—— Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon— Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft-- Companions of early days lost or left- REV. JOHN KEBLE. 427 1 And my Native Land! whose magical name Thrills to my heart like electric flame; The home of my childhood-the haunts of my prime; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, When the feelings were young and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Paradise opening to view! All-all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone: And I, a lone exile, remembered of none, My high aims abandoned, and good acts undone- Aweary of all that is under the sun; With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the Desert afar from man. Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side; When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife; The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear; And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear; And malice and meanness, and falsehood and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh— Oh, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the Desert alone to ride! Rev. John Keble. A CLERGYMAN of the Church of England, and author of the "Christian Year" and "Lyra Innocentium." The following beauti- ful piece is founded on Proverbs xiv. 10. Born 1789. Died 1866. TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. WHY should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has will'd, we die. Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh. Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe, Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart. Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow- Hues of their own, fresh borrow'd from the heart. And well it is for us our God should feel Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer 428 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. P May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal On cloud-born idols of this lower air. For if one heart in perfect sympathy Beat with another, answering love for love, Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie, Nor listen for those purer strains above. William Thom. A NATIVE Of Inverury, in Aberdeenshire, and author of some touch- ing poetry. His occupation was that of a weaver. After publish- ing in the newspapers various pieces which attracted some notice, he issued in 1844 "Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver," which were well received. But distress and penury hastened his end: he died at Dundee in 1848. Born 1789. Died 1848. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By auntie, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 'Tis the puir doited loonie-the mitherless bairn. The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed, Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair; But morning brings clutches a' reckless and stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! Yon sister, that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed, Now rests in the mools where her mammy is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in Heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn! Oh! speak na him harshly--he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile; In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn? BRYAN WALTER PROCTOR. 429 ✰ Born 1790. Bryan Walter Proctor. {Died 1874. WRITING under the nom de plume of Barry Cornwall, was born about the year 1790. He studied for the law, and was called to the bar in 1831. His first publication was “Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems," published in 1819, which established his reputation as a poet. His other publications are numerous, and he is especially admired for his English songs, which have become great favourites. Proctor is also a prose writer of some eminence. He was for many years one of the Commissioners of Lunacy, a valuable appointment, but which he resigned in 1860. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. O THOU vast Ocean! ever-sounding Sea! Thou vast symbol of a drear immensity! Thou thing that windest round the solid world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone, Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone. Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the east and in the west At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strifc. The earth hath naught of this: no chance or change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest-wakened air; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go: Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow: But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their wonted home; And come again, and vanish; the young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming; And Winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn, Dies in his stormy manhood; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies. Oh! wonderful thou art, great element: And fearful in thy spleeny humours bent, And lovely in repose; thy summer form Is beautiful; and when thy silver waves Make music in earth's dark and winding caves, I love to wander on thy pebbled beach, Marking the sunlight at the evening hour And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach- Eternity Eternity-and Power. 1 430 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Charlotte Elizabeth. BORN at Norwich, 1st October, 1790. Her father was a clergyman of the English Church. She was married when young to Mr. George Phelan. After his death in 1837, she married Mr. Tonna, She is best known by her religious prose writings, which are chiefly for the young. THE CHRISTIAN'S WARFARE. SOLDIER go--but not to claim Mouldering spoils of earth-born treasure, Not to build a vaunting name, Not to dwell in tents of pleasure. Dream not that the way is smooth, Hope not that the thorns are roses: Turn no wishful eye of youth Where the sunny beam reposes:- Thou hast sterner work to do, Hosts to cut thy passage through: Close behind thee gulfs are burning- Forward! there is no returning. Soldier rest!-but not for thee Spreads the world her downy pillow; On the rock thy couch must be, While around thee chafes the billow: Thine must be a watchful sleep, Wearier than another's waking; Such a charge as thou dost keep Brooks no moment of forsaking. Sleep as on the battle-field, Girded-grasping sword and shield. Those thou canst not name nor number Steal upon thy broken slumber. Soldier rise!—the war is done, Lo! the hosts of hell are flying; 'Twas thy Lord the battle won; Jesus vanquish'd them by dying. Pass the stream-before thee lies All the conquer'd land of glory; Hark what songs of rapture rise, These proclaim the victor's story. Soldier, lay thy weapon down; Born 1790. Died 1846. Quit the Cross and take the Crown: Triumph! all thy foes are banish'd, Death is slain and Earth has vanish'd. DAVID VEDDER. 431 ་ David Vedder. BORN in Orkney in 1790. He contributed largely poetical pieces to the periodicals. In 1832 he published "Orcadian Sketches," and in 1840 he issued a collected edition of his poems. He died at Edin- burgh in 1854. THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. TALK not of temples-there is one Built without hands, to mankind given; Its lamps are the meridian sun And all the stars of heaven; Its walls are the cerulean sky, Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity- All nature worships there! P The Alps arrayed in stainless snow, The Andean ranges yet untrod, At sunrise and at sunset glow Like altar-fires to God. A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, As if with hallowed victims rare; And thunder lifts its voice in praise- All nature worships there! p The ocean heaves resistlessly, And pours his glittering treasure forth; His waves the priesthood of the sea- Kneel on the shell-gemmed earth, And there emit a hollow sound, As if they murmured praise and prayer; On every side 'tis holy ground- All nature worships there! * * The cedar and the mountain pine, The willow on the fountain's brim, The tulip and the eglantine In reverence bend to Him; The song-birds pour their sweetest lays, From tower and tree and middle air; The rushing river murmurs praise— All nature worships there! Born 1790. Died 1854. I 432 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. NAKAN THE VOICE OF TIME. THE World, with all the joys it hath, Is an illusive show; And Life is a slippery mountain-path, With a yawning gulf below:- Whilst some dread power in visible Impels us onward, onward still! Yet we would all our steps retrace, Or linger by the way; Deem arid wastes like a paradise, Could we here prolong our stay: But the dread power invisible Impels us onward,-onward still! A thousand wild conflicting schemes Impair our happiness; Fame's fleeting breath,-ambition's dreams, Our fevered spirits oppress:- Yet we would gladly bear them all,- But, "onward!-onward!"-is the call. We pluck the flowerets from the lea,- The hues celestial fade; We shake the goodly spreading tree,- But we find the fruit decayed:- The limpid brook, and the crystal rill, Taste bitter!-onward! onward still! We turn, and gaze from day to day On the blooming scenes we have past; And we shudder to see them swept away By the desolating blast:- Yet visions of bliss our souls will thrill, Till the voice cries,—“onward! onward still!" The gold of the earth, in one pyramid, May not buy an hour's delay; All the precious pearls in the ccean hid Cannot bribe the tyrant away:- Tho' our souls are sick, and our blood runs chill,- 'Tis "onward! onward! onward!" still. CHARLES WOLFE. 433 1 (Born 1791. Died 1828. Charles Molte. Was born in Dublin, in 1791. After leaving Trinity College, Dublin, he took orders in the Episcopal Church, and was first curate of Ballyclog, in Tyrone, which he afterwards exchanged for Donough- more. He began writing verses while at the University, and in 1817 he wrote his ode on "The Burial of Sir John Moore," which has ob- tained for him one of the highest positions as a poetical writer. Wolfe died in 1823. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him— But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone- But we left him alone with his glory! ! 19 434 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. SONG. 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 The time would e'er be o'er, And 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 left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary! thou art dead! If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene- I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While c'en thy chill bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave- And I am now alone! I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking too 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! Henry Hart Milman. DEAN of St. Paul's, was born at London, 10th February, 1791. His father was Sir. F. Milman, physician to George III. Besides poetry, of which he published several volumes, he was also a prose writer of considerable power. Born 1791. Died 1868. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 435 i HYMN OF THE CAPTIVE JEWS. GOD of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage suppress; Father of mercies! at one word of thine An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness; And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, And marble cities crown the laughing lands, And pillared temples rise Thy name to bless. O'er Judah's land Thy thunders broke, O Lord! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword, Even her foes wept to see her fallen state; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame, For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate. O'er Judah's land Thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad city lift her crownless head; And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam, Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead. The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers, To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers, And angel-feet the glittering Sion tread. The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead Thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy, Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Caanan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome. 1792. Drowned 1822. Percy Bysshe Shelley. {Born THIS great but erring genius was the eldest son of a wealthy Eng- lish baronet, and was born at Field Place, in Sussex, on 4th August, 1792. From his earliest years he seems to have entertained opinions subversive of all authority, human and divine. At Eton and Oxford he got into difficulties with the authorities, and at Oxford openly avowed himself an atheist. Shelley began verse-writing in his fif- teenth year, but it was not till his eighteenth year that he appeared £ 1 ! 436 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. before the public in his atheistic poem of "Queen Mab. His other pieces, "Alastor." "The Revolt of Islam," "Prometheus Unbound,' "The Cenci," &c., are all tinged with the same ideas. In 1818 Shel- ley visited Italy, where he renewed his acquaintance with Byron. He took up his abode on the Gulf of Lerici. He was drowned on 8th July, 1822, in a storm in the Bay of Spezzia. A fortnight after his remains were found, and, agreeably to a formerly expressed desire, his body was burnt, and the ashes conveyed to Rome, where they were buried in the Protestant burying-ground, uear the pyra- mid of Caius Cestus. A CALM WINTER'S NIGHT. How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh, Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear, Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which Love has spread To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, Robed in a garment of untrodden snow- Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, So stainless that their white and glittering spires Tinge not the moon's pure beam-yon castled steep, Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower So idly, that rapt fancy deemeth it A metaphor of peace,—all form a scene Where musing Solitude might love to lift. Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; Where Silence undisturbed might watch alone, So cold, so bright, so still. THE PINE FOREST BY THE SEA. WE wander'd to the Pine Forest That skirts the ocean's foam; The lightest wind was in its nest, The tempest in its home. The whisp'ring waves were half asleep, The clouds were gone to play, And on the bosom of the deep The smile of heaven lay; It seem'd as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which scatter'd from above the sun A light of Paradise! " 1 } PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 437 : We paused amid the pines that stood The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude As serpents interlaced,- And soothed by every azure breath That under heaven is blown, To harmonies and hues beneath, As tender as its own: Now all the tree-tops lay asleep Like green waves on the sea; As still as is the silent deep The ocean-woods may be. How calm it was! the silence there By such a chain was bound, That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew, With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seem'd from the remotest seat Of the wide mountain waste, To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced. A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life; To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature's strife; And still I felt the centre of The magie circle there, Was one fair form that fill'd with love The lifeless atmosphere. We paused beside the pools that lie Under the forest bough; Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky Gulf'd in a world below; A firmament of purple light Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, And purer than the day- In which the lovely forests grew, As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. 1 : ↓ } 1 с 438 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH PÕETS. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green woods The white sun, twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green: And all was interfused beneath With an Elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. John Clare. AN uneducated English poet, born at Helpstone, near Peterborough, in 1793. His parents were in the meanest circumstances, and he only obtained some education by his extra work on the farm, and by the benevolence of an exciseman, who gave him lessons. In 1820 he published a volume of poems, which created some attention; and a number of noblemen and gentlemen became interested in the career of the young poet. In 1821 he published another volume of poems. His affairs shortly after became embarrassed, and amid the wreck of his fortunes his mind gave way, and he was placed in a private asylum, where he died in 1861. DAWNINGS OF GENIUS. In those low paths which poverty surrounds, The rough rude ploughman, off his fallow grounds— That necessary tool of wealth and pride— While moiled and sweating, by some pasture's side, Will often stoop, inquisitive to trace 7 The opening beauties of a daisy's face; Oft will he witness, with admiring eyes, The brook's sweet dimples o'er the pebbles rise And often bent, as o'er some magic spell, He'll pause and pick his shaped stone and shell: Raptures the while inward powers inflame, And joys delight him which he cannot name; Ideas picture pleasing views to mind, For which his language can no utterance find; Increasing beauties, freshening on his sight, Unfold new charms, and witness more delight; So while the present please, the past decay, And in each other, losing, melt away. Born 1793. Died 1864. WILLIAM M'COMB. 439 44 Thus pausing wild on all he saunters by, He feels enraptured, though he knows not why; And hums and mutters o'er his joys in vain, And dwells on something which he can't explain. The bursts of thought with which his soul's perplexed Are bred one moment, and are gone the next; Yet still the heart will kindling sparks retain, And thoughts will rise, and Fancy strive again. So have I marked the dying ember's light, When on the hearth it fainted from my sight, With glimmering glow oft redden up again, And sparks crack brightening into life in vain; Still lingering out its kindling hope to rise, Till faint and fainting, the last twinkle dies. Dim burns the soul, and throbs the fluttering heart, Its painful, pleasing feelings to impart; Till by successless sallies wearied quite, The memory fails, and Fancy takes her flight: The wick, confined within its socket, dies, Borne down and smothered in a thousand sighs. William M'Comb. A NATIVE of Coleraine, born 17th August, 1793. At the early age of thirteen he left school, and was put to business. After holding dif- ferent situations for some years, he began business as a bookseller in Belfast, and for many years was the leading bookseller there. In 1817, Mr. M'Comb published his first volume of poetry, The Dirge of O'Neill." This was followed by "The School of the Sabbath," in 1822. During many succeeding years, his muse pro- duced only occasional pieces, many of which, however, had a wide circulation. In 1849 was published as the fruit of his matured mind, "The Voice of, a Year, and other Poems." Fugitive pieces connected with passing events appeared from time to time till his death in September, 1873. Born 1793. Died 1873. "THE STILL SMALL VOICE." 1 Kings xix. 11, 12. HE cometh, he cometh! the Lord passeth by: The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh; The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast; But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast. He cometh, He cometh! the Lord he is near; The earth it is reeling, all nature's in fear; The earthquake's approaching, with terrible form; But the Lord of Sabaoth is not in the storm. i KL 440 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. · of Ile cometh, He cometh! the Lord is in ire; The smoke is ascending, the mount is on fire; O say, is Jehovah revealing his name! He is near, but Jehoval is not in the flame. He cometh, He cometh! the tempest is o'er; He is come, neither tempest nor storm shall be more; All nature reposes-earth, ocean, and sky, Are still as the voice that descends from on high. How sweet to the soul are the breathings of peace, When the still voice of pardon bids sorrow to cease When the welcome of mercy falls soft on the ear, "Come hither, ye laden-ye weary, draw near!" There is rest for the soul that on Jesus relies, There's a home for the homeless prepared in the skies; There's a joy in believing, a hope and a stay, That the world cannot give, nor the world take away. O had I the wings of a dove I would fly, And mount on the pinions of faith to the sky, Where the still and small breathing to earth that was given Shall be changed to the anthem and chorus of heaven. Mrs. Hemans. 1 FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born at Liverpool, 25th September, 1793, of respectable parents, who afterwards removed to St. Asaph, in Wales. So early as the age of fifteen, she published a volume of poetry; and two years later, "The Domestic Affections, and other Poems. This volume brought her into immediate notice. The same year she married Captain Hemans. The marriage seems not to have been a very happy one, lor, after the birth of five children, her husband set out on a visit to Italy, and they never met again. In 1819 she published "Sir William Wallace," a poem; and from this time till her death, a constant series of her works issued from the press. It is said of her, "that few have written so much and so well as she." About the year 1830, she removed to Dublin, where she superintended the education of her five boys, and where she died on 26th April, 1834. Born 1793. Died 1834. THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. THE wine month shone in its golden prime, And the red grapes clustering hung, But a deeper sound through the Switzers' clime Than the vintage music rung- 1 MRS. HEMANS. 441 A sound through vaulted cave, A sound through echoing glen, Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave; 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. But a band, the noblest band of all, Through the rude Morgarten strait, With blazon'd streamers and lances tall, Moved onwards in princely state. They came with heavy chains For the race despised so long— But amidst his Alp-domains, The herdsman's arm is strong! The sun was reddening the clouds of morn When they entered the rock-defile, And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn Their bugles rang the while. But on the misty height Where the mountain people stood There was stillness as of night, When storms at distance brood. There was stillness as of deep dead night, And a pause—but not of fear- While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might Of the hostile shield and spear. On wound these columns bright Between the lake and wood, But they looked not to the misty height Where the mountain people stood. And the mighty rocks came bounding down Their startled foes among, With a joyous whirl from the summit thrown, Oh! the herdsman's arm is strong! They came like lauwine hurled From Alp to Alp in play. When the echoes shout through the snowy world, And the pines are bo.ne away. With their pikes and massy clubs they brake The cuirass and the shield, And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake From the reapers of the field! The field but not of sheaves: Proud crests and pennons lay, Strewn o'er it thick as the birchwood leaves In the autumn tempest's way. 1 က် 19* 442 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ROMAN GIRL'S SONG. ROME, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! On thy seven hills of yore Thou sat'st a queen. Thou had'st thy triumphs then Purpling the street, Leaders and sceptred men Bow'd at thy feet. They that thy mantle wore As gods were seen- Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! Rome! thine imperial brow Never shall rise; What hast thou left thee now?- Thou hast thy skies! Blue, deeply blue, they are, Gloriously bright! Veiling thy wastes afar With coloured light. Many a solemn hymn, By starlight sung,. Sweeps through the arches dim Thy wrecks among. Thou hast fair forms that move With queenly tread; Thou hast proud fanes above Thy mighty dead. Yet wears thy Tiber's shore A mournful mien, Rome, Rome! thou art no more As thou hast been! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. THEY grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee, Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. + MRS. HEMANS. 443 The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight- Where are those dreamers now? One, 'midst the forest of the west, By a dark stream is laid, The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar-shade. The sea, the blue lone sea hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep: He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain; He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves by soft winds fann'd; She faded 'midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee. They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth! Alas, for love! if thou wert all And nought beyond, O earth! THE SOUND OF THE SEA. THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea! For ever and the same; The ancient rocks yet ring to thee- Those thunders nought can tamé. -Oh! many a glorious voice is gone From the rich bowers of earth, And hushed is many a lovely one Of mournfulness or mirth. ! 1 KAKO 444 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. But thou art swelling on, thou deep! Through many an olden clime, Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep Until the close of time. It fills the noontide's calm profound, The sunset's heaven of gold; And the still midnight hears the sound, Even as first it rolled. Let there be silence, deep and strange, Where sceptred cities rose! Thou speakest of One who doth not change- So may our hearts repose. John Keats. "" Was born in London, where his father kept a livery stable, October 29, 1795. In his fifteenth year he was apprenticed to a surgeon. He rather neglected his profession for literary pursuits; and in 1817 he published, under the auspices of Leigh Hunt, a volume of poems. In 1818 he issued another piece, "Endymion," a poetical romance. It was criticised rather severely in the "Quarterly Review," and the effects were felt deeply throughout the rest of his short life. He profited, however, by the hints given him, and produced "Hyperion, a work every way superior to anything he had yet written, and of which Byron spoke with rapture. "Lamia, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes, &c., was issued in 1820, and added yet to his fame. But hereditary consumption had become developed in his system, and he was advised to try the soft breezes of Italy, where he arrived in November, 1820. He lingered on without hope or even desire of amendment, and died on 27th December of the same year. He was buried in the Protestant burying-ground at Rome, near the monu- ment of Caius Cestus. "" Born 1795. › Died 1820. FROM "HYPERION." DEEP in the shady sadness of a vale, Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone, Still as the silence round about his lair; Forest on forest hung about his head Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more By reason of his fallen divinity Spreading a shade: the Naiad 'mid her reeds Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. of JOHN KEATS. 445 Along the margin sand large footmarks went No further than to where his feet had stray'd, And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were closed; While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the earth, His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. It seem'd no force could wake him from his place; But there came one, who, with a kindred hand, Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low With reverence, though to one who knew it not. She was a goddess of the infant world; By her in stature the tall Amazon Had stood a pigmy's height: she would have ta'en Achilles by the hair, and bent his neck; Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, Pedestal'd haply in a palace court, When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. But oh! how unlike marble was that face! How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self! There was a listening fear in her regard, As if calamity had but begun; As if the vanward clouds of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear Was, with its storèd thunder, labouring up. AUTUMN. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd; and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thec oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever secks abroad may find 4 446. GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. ! Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or in a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; And sometimes, like a gleaner, thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,- While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn, Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne; Hedge-crickets sing; and now, with treble soft, The red-breast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. William and Mary Howitt. {William, born 1705. born MEMBERS of the Society of Friends. In 1823 William Howitt married Miss Mary Botham, and the same year they published a poem, "The Forest Minstrel," as their joint production. It was favourably received, and since then both have been extensive contributors to poetical and prose literature. FROM "THE FOREST MINSTREL." AWAY with the pleasure that is not partaken! There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en: I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again. When we sit by the fire that so cheerily blazes On our cozy hearthstone, with its innocent glee, Oh! my soul warms, while my er fondly gazes, To see my delight is partaken oy thee! And when, as how often, I eagerly listen To stories thou read'st of the dear olden day, How delightful to see our eyes mutually glisten, And feel that affection has sweetened the lay. THOMAS NOON TALFOURD. 447 } ga Yes, love-and when wandering at even or morning, Through forest or wild, or by waves foaming white, I have fancied new beauties the landscape adorning, Because I have seen thou wast glad in the sight. And how often in crowds, where a whisper offendeth, And we fain would express what there might not be said, } How dear is the glance that none el e comprehendeth, And how sweet is the thought that is secretly read. Then away with the pleasure that is not partaken! There is no enjoyment by one only ta'en: I love in my mirth to see gladness awaken On lips, and in eyes, that reflect it again. Thomas Noon Talfourd. Born 1795. { Died 1854. JUDGE TALFOURD was born at Reading in 1795, his father being a brewer there. Talfourd studied for the law, and was called to the bar in 1821. In 1835 he published his tragedy of "Ion," which was very successful. Other works followed, both in poetry and prose. In 1849 he was raised to the Bench; and in 1854, while delivering a charge to the grand jury at Stafford, he was seized with a fit of apoplexy, and died before assistance could be procured. FROM "ION." ION, our sometime darling, whom we prized As a stray gift, by bounteous Heaven dismissed From some bright sphere which sorrow may not cloud To make the happy happier! Is he sent To grapple with the miseries of this time, Whose nature such ethereal aspect wears As it would perish at the touch of wrong? By no internal contest is he trained For such hard duty; no emotions rude Hath his clear spirit vanquished-Love, the germ Of his mild nature, hath spread graces forth, Expanding with its progress, as the store Of rainbow colour which the seed conceals Sheds out its tints from its dim treasury, To flush and circle in the flower. No tear Hath filled his eye save that of thoughtful joy When, in the evening stillness, lovely things Pressed on his soul too busily; his voice, If, in the earnestness of childish sports, پل 448 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Raised to the tone of anger, checked its force, As if it feared to break its being's law, And faltered into music; when the forms Of guilty passion have been made to live In pictured speech, and others have waxed loud In righteous indignation, he hath heard With sceptic smile, or from some slender vein Of goodness, which surrounding gloom concealed, Struck sunlight o'er it; so his life hath flowed From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill May hover round its surface, glides in light, And takes no shadow from them. Hartley Coleridge. ELDEST Son of the great poet of this name, was born at Clevedon, near Bristol. In childhood he manifested unusual talents, and a Oxford gained high distinctions, but unfortunately he at the same time acquired intemperate habits, which caused the forfeiture of his fellowship, and blighted his after prospects. Hartley was a well-intentioned man, but infirmity of purpose characterised all his future exertions, and though a successful prose writer and poet, he never attained the eminent position in society to which his genius would have entitled him. $ ADDRESS TO GOLD FISHES. RESTLESS forms of living light Quivering on your lucid wings, Cheating still the curious sight With a thousand shadowings; Various as the tints of even, Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, Reflected on your native streams In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams: Harmless warriors, clad in mail Of silver breastplate, golden scale;- Mail of Nature's own bestowing, With peaceful radiance mildly glowing- Fleet are ye as fleetest galley Or pirate rover sent from Sallee; Keener than the Tartar's arrow, Sport ye in your sea so narrow. Born 1790 Died 1844 ! • THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. Was the sun himself your sire? Were ye born of vital fire? Or of the shade of golden flowers, Such as we fetch from Eastern bowers To mock this murky clime of ours? Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, Weaving many a mazy dance; Seeming still to grow in size When ye would elude our eyes— Pretty creatures! we might deem Ye were happy as ye seem- As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe, As light, as loving, and as lithe, As gladly earnest in your play, As when ye gleamed in far Cathay; And yet, since on this hapless earth There's small sincerity in mirth, And laughter oft is but an art To drown the outcry of the heart; It may be that your ceaseless gambols, Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles, Your restless roving round and round The circuit of your crystal bound- Is but the task of weary pain, An endless labour, dull and vain; And while your forms are gaily shining, Your little lives are inly pining! · Nay-but still I fain would dream That ye are happy as ye seem. p 449 Thomas Haynes Bayly. Born 1797. 1839. ONE of the most successful of our song writers, was born 13th Octo- ber, 1797, at Bath. His father was a wealthy solicitor in Bath, and destined his son for the Church, but the early development of Bay- ly's poetical powers led to his neglect of study, and he abandoned all idea of it. In 1826 he married Miss Hayes, an Irish lady, and an income settled on him by his father, with the lady's fortune, enabled them to live in affluence. His songs and plays, and contributions to literature, also brought him considerable sums. "The Soldier's Tear," "I'd be a Butterfly," "Oh! no, we never mention her," &c., enjoyed an extraordinary popularity. He died in 1839. WE MET. WE met 'twas in a crowd-and I thought he would shun me; He came-I could not breathe, for his eye was upon me; : باری 450 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. He spoke his words were cold, and his smile was un- alter'd; I knew how much he felt, for his deep-toned voice fal- ter'd. I wore my bridal robe, and I rivall'd its whiteness; Bright gems were in my hair, how I hated their bright- ness; He called me by my name, as the bride of another- Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my mother! And once again me met, and a fair girl was near him: He smiled, and whispered low-as I once used to hear him. She leant upon his arm-once 'twas mine, and mine only— I wept, for I deserved to feel wretched and lonely. And she will be his bride! at the altar he'll give her The love that was too pure for a heartless deceiver. The world may think me gay, for my feelings I smother; Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my mother! THE MISLETOE BOUGH. THE misletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall; And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, And keeping their Christmas holiday. The baron beheld with a father's pride His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride; While she with her bright eyes seem'd to be The star of the goodly company. · 'I'm weary of dancing now;" she cried; 'Here tarry a moment-I'll hide-I'll hide! ،، 1 And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace "The clue to my secret lurking place." Away she ran-and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; And young Lovell cried, Oh where dost thou hide? I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." (6 They sought her that night! and they sought her next day! And they sought her in vain when a week pass'd away! In the highest-the lowest-the loneliest spot, Young Lovell sought wildly-but found lier not. 1 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 451 And years flew by, and their grief at last Was told as a sorrowful tale long past; And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, "See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride." At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid, Was found in the castle-they raised the lid- And a skeleton form lay mouldering there, In the bridal wreath of that lady fair! Oh! sad was her fate!—in sportive jest She hid from her lord in the old oak chest. It closed with a spring!-and, dreadful doom, The bride lay clasp'd in her living tomb! William Motherwell. { JEANIE MORRISON. I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The love of life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond love grows cool. Was born at Glasgow, and when yet young was appointed deputy to the sheriff-clerk in Paisley. In 1819 he connected himself with a magazine, and contributed some pieces of poetry to it. In 1827, as the fruit of seven years' labour, he published a collection of "Scot- tish Ballads," ancient and modern. He became after this succes- sively the editor of the "Paisley Magazine," "Paisley Advertiser," and Glasgow Courier;" in the editorship of the latter newspaper he continued till his death. In 1832 he published a collected edition of his own poems. He was busy obtaining materials for a Life of Tannahill, when he was cut off by apoplexy in 1835, 66 O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears! They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blythe blinks o' langsyne. Born 1797. Died 1835. 3 452 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 'Twas then we loved ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time!-sad time!-twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To lear ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered ever mair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent down owre ae braid pag Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. O mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', saio, We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays— The schule then skaled at noon- When we ran aff to speel the braes- The broomy braes o' June? The throssil whistled in the wood, The burn sung to the trees, And we with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe aboon the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat! Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed `time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung! ✓ 1 HERBERT KNOWLES. 453 } #3 1 Herbert Knowles. A NATIVE of Canterbury, whose early promise was cut short by death in his nineteenth year. The following stanzas were published in the CA Quarterly Review," and soon obtained a wide circulation. LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. "It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.”. MATT. xvii. 4. Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below Born 1798. Died 1817. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held or the tint which it wore. To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain; Who hid in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise! The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. 454 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Robert Gilfillan. A NATIVE of Dunfermline, he was for some time a clerk in Leith, and subsequently collector of poor-rates there. THE EXILE'S SONG. OH! why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie! The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And, to the Indian maid, The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie! Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail o' slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie! There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain, But the first joys o' our heart Born 1798. Died 1850. Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie! 1 JAMES HISLOP. 455 i } Born 1798. Died 1827. James Hislop. BORN in Kirkconnel, near Sanquhar, in July, 1798. In early life he was occupied as a shepherd in the neighbourhood of Airsmoss, interesting for its Covenanting associations. Here, at the grave of one of the Covenanters, he composed "The Cameronian's Dream." He is also the author of several other beautiful poems. Hislop afterwards became a teacher, and, through the influence of Lord Jeffrey, he was appointed schoolmaster in a man-of-war. He died of fever at St. Jago, 4th December, 1827. THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM. In a dream of the night I was wafted away, To the muirland of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his bible are seen, Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green. 'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood; When in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn 'mong the heather was lying. 'Twas morning; and summer's young sun from the east Lay in loving repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable the clear shining dew, Glistened there 'mong the heath-bells and mountain flowers blue. And far up in heaven near the white sunny cloud, The song of the lark was melodious and loud, And in Glenmuir's wild solitude, lengthened and deep, Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep. And Wellwood's sweet valleys breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning. But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings, Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings, Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to- morrow. :. 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl was crying, #1 456 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was un- breathed; With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of Salvation. The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing; But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter, As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter. Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded. Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and un- bending, They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling, When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark clouds descended; Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining, And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation. On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding, Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye, A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory! THOMAS HOOD. 457 1 Thomas Hood. THIS poet, humorist, and accomplished writer, was born in London, his father being a bookseller there. Hood was sent to a merchant's office early in life, but his health failing, he was sent to Dundee to recruit, and on his return to London was apprenticed to an engraver, under whom he learned much of the art which was useful to him in his after career. In 1821 he adopted literature as a profession, and was appointed to the editorship of the London Magazine, which he held till its discontinuance. Hood was a busy writer, and enlivened the weeklies and monthlies with his wit and humour. He is the author of several volumes of poetry and prose; but the piece by which he is best known is "The Song of the Shirt," which first ap- peared in "Punch." It struck home to the sympathies of man's nature, and aroused the feelings of a benevolent public in favour of the poor seamstress. After a long and wasting illness, Hood died 3d May, 1845. 1 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread. Stitch-stitch-stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of the Shirt!" "Work-work-work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work! Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave, Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! “Work-work--work! Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work! Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "O men, with sisters dear! O men, with mothers and wives, Born 1798. Died 1845. 20 458 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. It is not linen you're wearing out! But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt. 66 'Work-work-work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread, and rags. That shattered roof-and this naked floor- A table-a broken chair; And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread." With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread. Stitch-stitch -stitch! } In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, Would that its tone could reach the rich! She sang this "" Song of the Shirt!" 7 DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 459 A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON. THOυ happy, happy elf! (But stop-first let me kiss away that tear) Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite! With spirits feather light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin, (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy! There goes my ink!) Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale, In harmless sport and mirth, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows, Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny, (Another tumble--that's his precious nose!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint, (Where did he learn that squint?) 寰 ​Born 1798. Died 1851. David Macbeth Moir. THE well known Delta (A) of "Blackwood's Magazine" was born at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh, in 1798. He passed through the Uni- versity with credit, and commenced practice as a surgeon in his na- tive town, where he continued till his death. At the age of nineteen he sent his first verses to the press, and for thirty years he continued to enrich "Blackwood" with a series of poems, remarkable for their depth and purity of feeling. In the same magazine was first pub- lished "Mansie. Wauch," a prose embodiment of Scottish character of the richest humour. He died in 1851. 460 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. . FROM "THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS." A VISION. ONCE on a time, when all was still, When midnight mantled vale and hill, And over earth the stars were keeping Their lustrous watch, it has been said, A poet on his couch lay sleeping, As pass'd a vision through his head: It may be rash-it can't be wrong To pencil what he saw in song; And if we go not far amiss, 'Twas this—or something like to this. Firstly, through parting mists, his eye The snowy mountain-peaks explored, Where, in the dazzling gulfs of sky, The daring eagle wheeled and soared; And, as subsiding lower, they Owned the bright empire of the day, Softly arrayed in living green, The summits of the hills were seen, On which the orient radiance played, Girt with their garlands of broad trees, Whose foliage twinkled in the breeze, And formed a lattice-work of shade: And darker still, and deeper still, As widened out each shelving hill, Dispersing placidly they showed, The destined plains for man's abode- Meadow, and mount, and champaign wide; And sempiternal forests, where Wild beasts and birds find food and lair; And verdant copse by river side, Which threading these-a silver line- Was seen afar to wind and shine Down to the mighty sea that wound Islands and continents around, And, like a snake of monstrous birth, In its grim folds encircled earth! Then wider as awoke the day, Was seen a speck-a tiny wing That, from the sward, drifting away, Rose up at heaven's gate, to sing ?+ DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 461 1 A matin hymn melodious: Hark! That orison!-it was the lark, Hailing the advent of the sun, Forth like a racer come to run His fiery course; in brilliant day The vapours vanishing away, Had left to his long march a clear Cloud-unencumbered atmosphere; And glowed, as on a map unfurled, The panorama of the world. Fair was the landscape-very fair- Yet something still was wanting there; Something, as 'twere, to lend the whole Material world a type of soul. The dreamer wist not what might be The thing a-lacking; but while he Pondered in heart the matter over, Floating between him and the ray Of the now warm refulgent day, What is it that his eyes discover? As through the fields of air it flew, Larger it loomed, and fairer grew That form of beauty and of grace, Which bore of grosser worlds no trace, Until, as Earth's green plains it neared, Confest, an Angel's self appeared. Eye could not gaze on shape so bright, Which from its atmosphere of light, And love, and beauty, shed around, From every winnow of her wings, Upon the fainting air perfumes, Sweeter than Thought's imaginings; And at each silent bend of grace, The dreamer's ruptured eye could trace, (Far richer than the peacock's plumes,) À rainbow shadow on the ground, As if from out elysium's bowers, From brightest gold to deepest blue, Blossoms of every form and hue Had fallen to earth in radiant showers. Vainly would human words convey Spiritual music, or portray Seraphic loveliness-the grace Flowing like glory from that face,- 462 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. 1 Which, as 'twas said of Una's, made Where'er the sinless virgin strayed, A sunshine in the shady place: The snow-drop was her brow; the rose Her cheek; her clear full gentle eye The violet in its deepest dye; The lily of the Nile her nose; Before the crimson of her lips Carnations waned in dim eclipse; And downwards o'er her shoulders white As the white rose in fullest blow, Her floating tresses took delight To curl in hyacinthine flow: Her vesture seemed as from the blooms Of all the circling seasons wove, With magic warp in fairy looms, And tissued with the woof of love. Born 1799. Died 1827. Robert Pollok. THIS distinguished poet was born at Muirhouse, in Renfrewshire, where his father was a farmer. He studied at the University of Glasgow, and was educated for the ministry in the (Presbyterian) United Secession Church. Previous to being licenced he had finished his "Course of Time," a poem so ambitious for a young student, that he had difficulty in obtaining a publisher. Through the influence of Professor Wilson it was at length published in Edinburgh, and speedily obtained an extensive circulation. Pollok is also the author of some prose tales on the Covenanters, which have had a considerable sale. But health had been undermined by excessive study. He undertook a journey to Italy in the hope of re-establishing it; but it was too late, the disease was too far advanced, and he returned only to die at Southampton on 15th September, 1827. FRIENDSHIP. NOT unremembered is the hour when friends Met. Friends, but few on earth, and therefore dear, Sought oft, and sought almost as oft in vain; Yet always sought, so native to the heart, So much desired and coveted by all. Nor wonder those-thou wonderest not, nor need'st. Much beautiful, and excellent, and fair, Than face of faithful friend, fairest when seen In darkest day; and many sounds were sweet, Most ravishing and pleasant to the ear; But sweeter none than voice of faithful friend, Sweet always, sweetest heard in loudest storm. J ROBERT POLLOK. 463 Some I remember, and will ne'er forget; My early friends, friends of my evil day; Friends in my mirth, friends in my misery too; Friends given by God in mercy and in love; My counsellors, my comforters, and guides; My joy in grief, my second bliss in joy; Companions of my young desires; in doubt My oracles, my wings in high pursuit. O, I remember, and will ne'er forget, Our meeting spots, our chosen sacred hours, Our burning words that uttered all the soul, Our faces beaming with unearthly love; Sorrow with sorrow sighing, hope with hope Exulting, heart embracing, heart entire. As birds of social feather helping each His fellow's flight, we soared into the skies, And cast the clouds beneath our feet, and Earth, With all her tardy, leaden-footed cares, And talked the speech, and ate the food of heaven! BYRON. THERE was another, large of understanding, Of memory infinite, of judgment deep, Who knew all learning, and all science knew; And all phenomena in heaven and earth Traced to their causes; traced the labyrinths Of thought, association, passion, will; And all the subtile, nice affinities. Of matter traced; its virtues, motions, laws; And most familiarly and deeply talked Of mental, moral, natural, divine. Leaving the earth, at will he soared to heaven, And read the glorious visions of the skies; And to the music of the rolling spheres Intelligently listened; and gazed far back Into the awful depths of Deity; Did all that mind assisted most could do: And yet in misery lived, in misery died, Because he wanted holiness of heart. A deeper lesson this to mortals taught, And nearer cut the branches of their pride: That not in mental, but in moral worth, God excellence placed, and only to the good, To virtue, granted happiness alone. 464 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Alaric Alexander Watts. Born 1797. 1864. 16 BORN in London, 19th March, 1797. He was for some time a tutorin a family in Manchester, and during his residence there he published, in 1822, Poetic Sketches." In the same year he became editor of a Leeds paper, and afterwards a busy labourer in the literary field. In 1850 he published his most perfect poems, "Lyrics of the Heart." In 1853 he was presented by Government with a pension of £100 a- year, which he enjoyed till his death, 5th April, 1864. TEN YEARS AGO. I Too am changed-I scarce know why- Can feel each flagging pulse decay; And youth and health, and visions high, Melt like a wreath of snow away; Time cannot sure have wrought the ill; Though worn in this world's sickening strife, In soul and form, I linger still In the first summer month of life; Yet journey on my path below, Oh! how unlike-ten years ago! But look not thus: I would not give The wreck of hopes that thou must share, To bid those joyous hours revive, When all around me seemed so fair. We've wandered on in sunny weather, When winds were low, and flowers in bloom, And hand in hand have kept together, And still will keep, 'mid storm and gloom; Endeared by ties we could not know When life was young-ten years ago! Has Fortune frowned? Her frowns were vain, For hearts like ours she could not chill; Have friends proved false? Their love might wane, But ours grew fonder, firmer still. Twin barks on this world's changing wave, Steadfast in calms, in tempests tried; In concert still our fate we'll brave, Together cleave life's fitful tide; Nor mourn, whatever winds may blow, Youth's first wild dreams-ten years ago! LORD MACAULAY. 465 / Lord Macaulay. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY was born at Rothley Temple, Leices tershire, on 25th October, 1800. His father was Zachary Macaulay, son of a Scotch minister, from the Isle of Lewis. Thomas was edu- cated at Cambridge, where he gained two medals for prize poems. In 1825 appeared in the "Edinburgh Review "his article on Milton, which attracted universal notice; it was the first of that long series of brilliant papers which were the earlier basis of his fame. He studied for the English bar, into which he was admitted in 1826. In 1830 Macaulay was returned as Whig member for Calne, and was a prominent supporter of Reform. In 1834 he went to India as a member of the Supreme Council of Calcutta. Returning to England with a fortune, he re-cntered political life as Secretary at War in 1839. In 1840, he was returned as M.P. for the city of Edinburgh, which he represented till 1847, when he lost his election. He declined to re-enter Parliament for any other place, and devoted his leisure to the composition of the well-known "Lays of Ancient Rome," published in 1842, and of the "History of England," which met with a reception equal to Gibbon's immortal work. Honours were heaped upon him. He was elected rector of Glasgow University in 1849. In 1850 he was appointed Professor of Ancient History in the Royal Academy. In 1852 he was re-elected M.P. for the city of Edinburgh without canvass of any kind. In 1853 he received the Prussian Order of Merit; and in 1857 he was raised to the peerage as Baron Macaulay of Rothley. His health seems to have been injured by the confinement attending his literary labours, and he died on 20th De- cember, 1859. 20* FROM "THE LAYS OF ANCIENT ROME." THEN out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate; 'To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods; 'And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast; And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame? 'Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. 1 Born 1809. Died 1859. 466 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now, who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: 'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.' And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: 'I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.' 'Horatius,' quoth the Consul, 'As thou say'st, so let it be.' And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great men helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the tribunes beard the high And the fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Letitia Elizabeth Landon. {Biea 1838. Born Died THIS accomplished lady, best known by her literary signature of L. E, L., was born at Chelsea in 1802. Her father was in comfortable circumstances. At a very early age she contributed to the Maga- zines and Annuals; and so great was her reputation, that rival pub- She was lishers vied with each other to secure her productions. also the author of several prose fictions. In June, 1838, she married { 1 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 467 I : I • George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle, and shortly after- wards proceeded there with him." She resumed her literary labours; but, it is supposed by an overdose of a powerful medicine, taken for relief of spasms in the stomach, she was found dead in her room, October 16, 1838. THE POLE STAR. A STAR has left the kindling sky- A lovely northern light; How many planets are on high, But that has left the night. I miss its bright familiar face, It was a friend to me; Associate with my native place, And those beyond the sea. It rose upon our English sky, Shone o'er our English land, And brought back many a loving eye, And many a gentle hand. It seemed to answer to my thought, It called the past to mind, And with its welcome presence brought All I had left behind. Thou lovely polar star, mine eyes, Still turned the first on thee, Till I have felt a sad surprise, That none looked up with me. But thou hast sunk upon the wave, Thy radiant place unknown; I seem to stand beside a grave, And stand by it alone. Farewell! ah, would to me were given A power upon thy light! What words upon our English heaven Thy loving rays should write! Kind messages of love and hope Upon thy rays should be; Thy shining orbit should have scope Scarcely enough for me. Oh, fancy vain, as it is fond, And little needed too: My friends! I need not look beyond My heart to look for you. 1 408 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. f 气 ​ Thomas Aird. BORN at Bowden, in Roxburghshire, 28th August, 1802. He received a university education. In 1835 he was appointed editor of the Dumfries Herald," which was for years under his able manage- ment. His works evince a considerable amount of poetical talent. Born 1802 Died 1876 THE SWALLOW. THE swallow, bonnie birdie, comes sharp twittering o'er the sea, And gladly is her carol heard for the sunny days to be; She shares not with us wintry glooms, but yet, no faith. less thing, She hunts the summer o'er the earth with wearied little wing. The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon the ferny hills; Light winds are in the leafy woods, and birds, and bub- bling rills, Then welcome, little swallow, by our morning lattice heard, Because thou com'st when Nature bids bright days be thy reward! Thine be sweet mornings with the bee that's out for honey-dew; And glowing be the noontide for the grasshopper and you; And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the sun to light thee home: What can molest thy airy nest? sleep till the day-spring come! The river blue that rushes through the valley hears thee sing, And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dip- ping wing. The thunder-cloud, over us bowed, in deeper gloom is seen, When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen. 1 The silent power that brought thee back with leading- strings of love To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, THOMAS KIBBLE HARVEY. 469 Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves. Born 1804. Thomas Kibble Harvey. Bied 1859. BORN in Manchester, in 1804. He has spent a busy life in literary employment. He published the first volume of his poems in 1824; they are characterised by great beauty and vigour of expression. THE CONVICT SHIP. MORN on the waters! and, purple and bright, Bursts on the billows the flushing of light; O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun, See the tall vessel goes gallantly on; Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail, And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale; The winds come around her, in murmur and song, And the surges rejoice as they bear her along: See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds, And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds: Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray, Over the waters-away, and away! Bright as the visions of youth ere they part, Passing away, like a dream of the heart! Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by, Music around her, and sunshine on high— Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow, Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below. Night on the waves!-and the moon is on high, Hung like a gem on the brow of the sky, Treading its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light! Look to the waters!-asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherished home on some desolate plain! Who-as she smiles in the silvery light, Spreading her wings on the bosom of night, Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky, A phantom of beauty-could deem with a sigh, 470 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin, And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within? Who, as he watches her silently gliding, Remembers that wave after wave is dividing, Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever, Hearts which are parted and broken for ever? Or deems that he watches, afloat on the waves, The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave? 'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song! Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world, With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurled; All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes, Yet chartered by sorrow, and freighted with sighs: Fading and false is the aspect it wears, As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears; And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know, Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below, Whilst the vessel drives on to that desolate shore Where the dreams of our childhood are vanished and o'er. Born 1802. Died 1839. Winthorp M. Praed. THE SON of a wealthy London banker, he had every aid that oppor- tunity could give for cultivating his talents. He entered public life as Member of Parliament, and in 1835 held the office of secretary to the Board of Control. His poetical pieces were contributed of the periodicals. QUINCE. NEAR a small village in the West, Where many very worthy people Eat, drink, play whist, and do their best To guard from evil church and steeple, There stood-alas, it stands no more!- A tenement of brick and plaster, Of which, for forty years and four, My good friend Quince was lord and master, Welcome was he in hut and hall, To maids and matrons, peers and peasants; He won the sympathies of all By making puns and making presents. Y WINTHORP M. PRAED. 471 Though all the parish was at strife, He kept his counsel and his carriage, And laughed, and loved a quiet life, And shrunk from Chancery-suits and marriage. Sound was his claret and his head, Warm was his double ale and feelings; His partners at the whist-club said That he was faultless in his dealings. He went to church but once a-week, Yet Dr. Poundtext always found him An upright man, who studied Greek, And liked to see his friends around him. Asylums, hospitals, and schools He used to swear were made to cozen; All who subscribed to them were fools- And he subscribed to half-a-dozen. It was his doctrine that the poor Were always able, never willing; And so the beggar at the door Had first abuse, and then a shilling. Some public principles he had, But was no flatterer nor fretter; He rapped his box when things were bad, And said, "I cannot make them better." And much he loathed the patriot's snort, And much he scorned the placeman's snuffle, And cut the fiercest quarrels short With, "Patience, gentlemen, and shuffle!" For full ten years his pointer, Speed, Had couched beneath his master's table, For twice ten years his old white steed Had fattened in his master's stable. Old Quince averred upon his troth They were the ugliest beasts in Devon; And none knew why he fed them both With his own hands, six days in seven. Whene'er they heard his ring or knock, Quicker than thought, the village slatterns Flung down the novel, smoothed the frock, And took up Mrs. Glasse or patterns. 472 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS 1 Alice was studying baker's bills; Louisa looked the queen of knitters; Jane happened to be hemming frills; And Nell by chance was making fritters. But all was vain. And while decay Came like a tranquil moonlight o'er him, And found him gouty still and gay, With no fair nurse to bless or bore him; His rugged smile and easy chair, His dread of matrimonial lectures, His wig, his stick, his powdered hair, Were themes for very strange conjectures. Some sages thought the stars above Had crazed him with excess of knowledge; Some heard he had been crossed in love Before he came away from college; Some darkly hinted that His Grace Did nothing, great or small, without him; Some whispered, with a solemn face, That there was something odd about him. I found him at threescore-and-ten A single man, but bent quite double; Sickness was coming on him then To take him from a world of trouble. He prosed of sliding down the hill, Discovered he grew older daily; One frosty day he made his will, The next he sent for Dr. Baillie. And so he lived, and so he died. When last I sat beside his pillow, He shook my hand: "Ah me!" he cried, Penelope must wear the willow! Tell her I hugged her rosy chain "" While life was flickering in the socket And say that when I call again I'll bring a license in my pocket. "I've left my house and grounds to Fag- I hope his master's shoes will suit him!- And I've bequeathed to you my nag, To feed him for my sake, or shoot him. GERARD GRIFFIN. 473 The vicar's wife will take old Fox, She'll find him an uncommon mouser; And let her husband have my box, My Bible, and my Assmanshäuser. "Whether I ought to die or not My doctors cannot quite determine; It's only clear that I shall rot, And be, like Priam, food for vermin, My debts are paid. But Nature's debt Almost escaped my recollection; Tom, we shall meet again; and yet I cannot leave you my direction!" SEVEN DREARY WINTERS. SEVEN dreary winters gone and spent, Seven blooming summers vanished too, Since on an eager mission bent, I left my Irish home and you. Gerard Griffin. AN Irish writer, best known from his prose compositions, and by some dramatic pieces he was able to get introduced into the theatres. His poetical talent appeared later on in his history. The following piece was written about 1830, when he was retiring from the world, and preparing to enter the Christian Brotherhood in Cork. How passed those years I will not say; They cannot be by words renewed- God wash their sinful parts away! And blest be He for all their good. With even mind and tranquil breast I left my youthful sister then, And now in sweet religious rest I see my sister there again. } Returning from that stormy world, How pleasing is a sight like this! To see that bark with canvas furled- Still riding in that port of peace. Oh! darling of a heart that still, By earthly joys so deeply trod, Born 1803. Died 1.40. 474 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. At moments bids its owner feel The warmth of nature and of God! Still be his care in future years To learn of thee truth's simple way, And free from foundless hopes or fears, Serenely live, securely pray. And when our Christmas days are past, And life's vain shadows faint and dim, Oh! be my sister heard at last, When her pure hands are raised for him! Charles Swain. He was born in Manchester, where he carried on the business of engraver. In his leisure moments he found time to write many songs and domestic pieces, which obtained great popularity. THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING. THERE are noble heads bowed down and pale, Deep sounds of woe arise, And tears flow fast around the couch Where a wounded warrior lies; The hue of death is gathering dark Upon his lofty brow, And the arm of might and valour falls, Weak as an infant's now. I saw him 'mid the battling hosts, Like a bright and leading star, Where banner, helm, and falchion gleamed, And flew the bolts of war. When, in his plenitude of power, He trod the Holy Land, I saw the routed Saracens Flee from his blood-dark brand. I saw him in the banquet hour Forsake the festive throng, To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt, And give his soul to song; For dearly as he loved renown, Born 1803. He loved that spell-wrought strain Which bade the brave of perished days Light conquest's torch again. WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 475 1 * Then seemed the bard to cope with Time, And triumph o'er his doom- Another world in freshness burst Oblivion's mighty tomb! Again the hardy Britons rushed Like lions to the fight, While horse and foot-helm, shield, and lance, Swept by his visioned sight! But battle shout and waving plume, The drum's heart-stirring beat, The glittering pomp of prosperous war, The rush of million feet, The magic of the minstrel's song, Which told of victories o'er, Are sights and sounds the dying king Shall see shall hear no more! It was the hour of deep midnight, In the dim and quiet sky, When, with sable clock and 'broidered pall, A funeral-train swept by; Dull and sad fell the torches' glare On many a stately crest- They bore the noble warrior king To his last dark home of rest. William Laidlaw. Died 1845. He was a frequent companion SON of a farmer in Selkirkshire. of Sir Walter Scott in his wanderings through the Borders. In the following piece, Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, added the last four lines to complete the story. LUCY'S FLITTIN’. 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'n, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and neibours sae dear: For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer; She cam there afore the bloom cam on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e. 476 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. # She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart her flittin' to see; “Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and ran in; The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her e'e; As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin', 'Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. "Oh! what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter? And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e? If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither; Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see; I fear I hae tint my puir heart a' thegither, Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frac my e'e. "Wi' the rest o' my claes I hac rowed up the ribbon, The bonny blue ribbon that Jamie gae me; Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin', I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e. Though now he said naething but 'Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He couldna say mair but just, Fare-ye-weel, Lucy!' Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee. • "The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie;"--she turned and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah! weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonny sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! 2 Born Rev. Robert Montgomery. {Bied 1855. " LITTLE is known of his early history, and he first appears before the public in his nineteenth year, as the author of "The Inspector," a weekly publication. After the publication of some minor pieces, in 1828 appeared "The Omnipresence of the Deity," and in 1829, Satan," &c., both of which had considerable popularity. Encour aged by his success as an author, Robert Montgomery studied for the church, and was ordained in 1835 curate of Whittington, in Shropshire. He removed in 1836 to Percy Street Chapel, London, and from thence to St. Jude's Episcopal Church, Glasgow. In 1843 he returned to Percy Street Chapel, where he continued till his death, on 3d December, 1855. • JAMES BALLANTINE. 477 | FROM "SATAN." THEN, is there not a spirit-world?—The blind May question, and the mocking idiot laugh, But in her, round her, wheresoe'er she moves, Mortality might reap immortal faith, And feel what cannot in the flesh be known— In the wild mystery of Earth and Air, Sun, moon, and star, and the unslumbering sca, There is a meaning and a power, commixt For thought, and for undying fancy tuned. And by thy panting for the unattained On earth; by longings which no language speaks; By the dread torture of o'ermastering doubt; By thirst for beauty, such as eye ne'er saw, And yet, is ever mirror'd on the mind; By Love, in her rich heavenliness arrayed; By Guilt and Conscience-that terrific pair Who make the dead to mutter from their tombs, .. Or colour nature with the hues of hell, By all the fire and frenzy of the soul, And Revelation's everlasting voice—Oh man, Thou art immortal as thy Maker is! Now is mine hour, the hour of conflict come, When the dark future over nature frowns Like destiny; now Spirit is herself Again, and Thought, within her cell retired, Doth hold dim converse with eternal things. James Ballantine. AN Edinburgh poet, and author of some of the most exquisite songs in the Scottish dialect ever written. In 1856 he collected and pub- lished them in one volume. Mr. Ballantine is also author of some amusing prose pictures of Scottish life. As a master house- painter he gained great credit by his stained-glass transparencies, and the art displayed in house decoration. Born 1808. Died 1877. ILKA BLADE O' GRASS. CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, Though pressed an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. 478 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles, nae doubt ye've been, Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een, Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and clud- less sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parch'd and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine, we should feel owre proud and hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or how, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. CASTLES IN THE AIR. THE bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in the ase, Glowerin in the fire wi' his wee round face; Laughin' at the fuffin' lowe-what sees he there? Ha! the young dreamer's biggin' castles in the air! His wee chubby face, an' his tousy curly pow, Are laughin' an' noddin' to the dancin' lowe, He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glow'rin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, He sees little sodgers pu'in' them a' doun; Warlds whomlin' up an' doun, bleezin' wi' a flare, Losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air! For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men, A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare, There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air. *** } 1 1 THE HON. MRS. NORTON. 479 ✔ You Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld; His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak him auld; His brow is brent sae braid, so pray that Daddy Care Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by Night; Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken-heads are turned-wi' castles in the air. Born 1808. The Hon. Mrs. Norton. {Bied 1877. CAROLINE ELIZABETH Sarah SHERIDAN was born in 1808. She is granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. From her earliest years she had a taste for versification, and while in her teens ap- peared before the public as an author. In March, 1877, she married Sir William Stirling-Maxwell, but only lived a few months thereafter. THE WIDOWED MOTHER. OFT since that hour, in sadness I retrace My childhood's vision of thy calm, sweet face; Oft see thy form, its mournful beauty shrouded In thy black weeds, and coif of widow's woe; Thy dark, expressive eyes, all dim and clouded By that deep wretchedness the lonely know; Stifling thy grief, to hear some weary task, Conn'd by unwilling lips with listless air: Hoarding thy means lest future need might ask More than the widow's pittance then could spare. Hidden, forgotten by the great and gay, Enduring sorrow not by fits and starts, But the long self-denial day by day, Alone amidst thy brood of careless hearts! Striving to guide, to teach, or to restrain, The young rebellious spirits crowding round, Who saw not, knew not, felt not for the pain, And could not comfort-yet had power to wound. Ah! how my selfish heart, which since has grown Familiar with deep trials of its own, With riper judgment, looking to the past, Regrets the careless days that flew so fast, Stamps with remorse each wasted hour of time, And darkens every folly into crime. 480 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Reb. Horatius Bonar, D.D. Born 1808. A DISTINGUISHED clergyman of the Free Church of Scotland, Edin- burgh. He was born at Edinburgh, 19th December, 1808. His spirit- ual songs and his prose works are full of the richest fruits of Christ. ian experience. IS THIS ALL? (From "Hymns of Faith and Peace.”) Sometimes I catch sweet glimpses of His face, But that is all. Sometimes He looks on me, and seems to smile, But that is all. Sometimes He speaks a passing word of peace, But that is all. Sometimes I think I hear His loving voice Upon me call. And is this all He meant when thus He spoke, "Come unto me?" Is there no Is there no steadier light for thee in Him? O come and see? deeper, more enduring rest, In Him for thee? O come and see! O look, and look again; All shall be right; O taste His love, and see that it is good, Thou child of night. O trust thou, trust thou in His grace and power, Then all is bright. Nay, do not wrong Him by thy heavy thoughts, But love His love. justice to His tenderness, His mercy prove; Take Him for what He is; Oh take Him all, And look above! Do thou full Then shall thy tossing soul find anchorage, And steadfast peace; Thy love shall rest on His; thy weary doubts For ever cease. Thy heart shall find in Him, and in His grace, Its rest and bliss! 1 MRS. BROWNING. 481 1 Christ and His love shall be thy blessed all For evermore! Christ and His light shall shine on all thy ways For evermore! Christ and His peace shall keep thy troubled soul For evermore! Mrs. Browning. ELIZABETH BARRETT, one of the greatest of the female poets of Brit- ain, was born in London, of a family in affluent circumstances. At a very early age she wrote verses, and became a frequent contribu- tor to the periodicals. In 1838 she published a collection of her fugi- tive pieces, which won for her an extraordinary reputation. Miss Barrett was in feeble health, and retired to Torquay to recruit; but she obtained no benefit from her stay, and returned to London a confirmed invalid. Confined to her chamber, she there devoted herself to that poetry "of which she seemed born to be the priest- ess." In 1844 she published a new edition of her poems, greatly enlarged; and about 1849, in partly restored health, she married Robert Browning the poet. They repaired to Italy, and the change was greatly beneficial to Mrs. Browning. They resided there till her death, on 29th June, 1861. "O MAIDEN, heir of kings, A king has left his place; The Majesty of death has swept VICTORIA'S TEARS. ("When the Princess Victoria was first informed that she was Queen of Great Britain, she was so affected by the responsibilities of her new position, that she burst into tears,") All other from his face. And thou, upon thy mother's breast, No longer lean adown- But take the glory for the rest, And rule the land that loves thee best." The maiden wept; She wept to wear a crown! They decked her courtly halls— They reined her hundred steeds- They shouted at her palace gate, "A noble Queen succeeds!" Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep, Her praise has filled the town: And mourners God had stricken deep Looked hearkening up, and did not weep! Alone she wept, Who wept to wear a crown. 21 Born 1809. Died 1861. 482 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. She saw no purple shine, For tears had dimmed her eyes: She only knew her childhood's flowers Were happier pageantries! And while the heralds played their part For million shouts to drown- "God save the Queen," from hill to mart― She heard, through all, her beating heart, And turned and wept! She wept, to wear a crown. God save thee, weeping Queen! Thou shalt be well beloved, The tyrant's sceptre cannot move As those pure tears have moved; The nature in thine eye we see, Which tyrants cannot own— The love that guardeth liberties; Strange blessing on the nation lies, Whose sovereign wept, Yea, wept, to wear its crown. God bless thee, weeping Queen, With blessing more divine; And fill with better love than earth's, That tender heart of thine; That when the thrones of earth shall be As low as graves brought down, A pierced hand may give to thee, The crown which angels wept to see. Thou wilt not weep To wear that heavenly crown. 1 Alfred Tennyson. Born 1809. . THE greatest poet of his times, was born in 1809. He is son of the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson of Sowerby, Lincolnshire. He entered at Trinity College, Cambridge; some of his poems, dated 1830, were written there. In 1833 appeared a volume of poems which awakened great interest for the author, though they were somewhat severely handled by the critics. It is supposed that this circumstance will account for the lapse of nine years which oc- curred before his next volume was published, in 1842. The great advance made by the poet was apparent, and the marvellous brilliancy of colouring and profoundness of thought displayed in the new pieces caused public opinion to acknowledge him as the first of living poets. În 1847 appeared "The Princess;" in 1850 "In Memoriam," "Maud" in 1855; and in 1858 "Idylls of the King," which more than sustained his previous reputation. He succeeded to the laureateship on the death of Wordsworth in 1850. 1 1: : } ALFRED TENNYSON. 4-3 CHRISTMAS BELLS. (From "In Memoriam.") RING Out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be. • It is the day when he was born, A bitter day that early sank Behind a purple frosty-bank Of vapours, leaving night forlorn. 2. 1 484 : GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. + $ a The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of north and east, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns, To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that pass, To darken on the rolling brine, That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass. Bring in great logs, and let them lie, To make a solid core of heat; Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat Of all things ev'n as he were by. We keep the day. With festal cheer, With books and music, surely we Will drink to him, whate'er he be, And sing the songs he loved to hear. Richard Monckton Milnes. Born 1809. ELDEST Son of R. P. Milnes, Esq. of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. In 1837 he was returned M.P. for the borough of Pontefract. Besides taking an active part in public business and questions of social progress, he has ever been the friend of literature. In 1863 he was raised to the peerage by the title of Baron Houghton. I LONDON CHURCHES. I STOOD, One Sunday morning, Before a large church-door, The congregation gathered And carriages a score- From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before. Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set, But above the Cross there glistened A golden Coronet. P F ! ; RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 485 For her the obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide, Lightly, as up a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide- There might be good thoughts in her For all her evil pride. But after her a woman Peeped wistfully within, On whose wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline— The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin. The few free-seats were crowded Where she could resɩ and pray; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array- "God's house holds no poor sinners,” She sighed, and crept away. THE MEN OF OLD. I KNOW not that the men of old Were better than men now, Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, Of more ingenuous brow: I heed not those who pine for force A ghost of time to raise, As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days. Still is it true, and over-true, That I delight to close This book of life self-wise and new, And let my thoughts repose On all that humble happiness The world has since foregone The daylight of contentedness That on those faces shone! With rights, though not too closely scanned, Enjoyed, as far as known- With will, by no reverse unmanned- With pulse of even tone- 486 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. They from to-day and from to-night Expected nothing more, Than yesterday and yesternight; Had proffered them before. A man's best things are nearest him, Lie close about his feet, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath We struggle and aspire-- Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh desire. ! John Bethune. Son of a farm labourer in Fife, who amid the most discouraging circumstances educated himseif, and whose works have obtained an honourable place in literature. In conjunction with his brother Alexander, he first appeared as an author in "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," published in 1838. On his death in 1839, his brother edited a volume of poetical pieces left by him. · BAY THE FIRST OF WINTER. Он! sadly sighs the wint'ry breeze Along the desert lea; 15. And moaning 'mid the forest trees It sings a dirge to me,- The solemn dirge of dying flowers- The death song of the emerald bowers- The first loud whistled lay, Which summons Winter's stormy powers On his coronation-day. T Born 1810. Died 1839. Darker and darker grows the sky; With voice more loud and louder still The stormy winds sweep by, and fill 'The ear with awful melody. Each tone of that majestic harp Wakes other tones within to warp... My soul away, ainid its bass, !! To the greenwood, which lately was A picture to my eye- Which now is murk and bare! Alas! Its sere leaves rustle by. JOHN BETHUNE. L 487 } 1 But ah! that tempest music tells A tale which saddens more- Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells On many a rocky shore, When the poor bark is dash'd and driven, And plunged below, and tossed to heaven, Amid the ocean's roar. And oh! its wild and varied song Hath an appalling power, As swellingly it sweeps along O'er broken tree and blasted flower. The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips, The sigh of sorrowing breath, The dread, dread crash of sinking ships, The gurgling shriek of death, Affection's wildest, warmest wish, Devotion's holiest cry, Are blended with that maddening blast, And on the chords of sympathy Their varying accents now are cast. Yet more-it tells of more- Of Him who on its murky wing Rides calmly, and directs its roar, Or stills it with His nod: Its voice is raised even now to sing A wilder melody to God, Who holds it in night's silent hush Within the hollow of His hand, Or bids it from His presence rush In desolation o'er the land: At His command alone it raves O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves. WITHERED FLOWERS. ADIEU! ye withered flowerets! Your day of glory's past; But your parting smile was loveliest, For we knew it was your last: No more the sweet aroma Of your golden cups shall rise, To scent the morning's stilly breath, Or gloaming's zephyr sighs. 1 488 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. " Ye were the sweetest offerings Which friendship could bestow- A token of devoted love In pleasure or in woe! Ye graced the head of infancy, By soft affection twined Into a fairy coronal Its sunny brows to bind. Ye decked the coffins of the dead, By yearning sorrow strew'd Along each lifeless lineament, In death's cold damps bedew'd; Ye were the pleasure of our eyes In dingle, wood, and wold, In the parterre's sheltered premises, And on the mountain cold. But ah! a dreary blast hath blown Athwart you in your bloom, And, pale and sickly, now your leaves The hues of death assume: We mourn your vanished loveliness, Ye sweet departed flowers! For ah! the fate which blighted you An emblem is of ours. There comes a blast to terminate Our evanescent span: For frail, as your existence, is The mortal life of man! And is the land we hasten to A land of grief and gloom? No! there the Lily of the Vale And Rose of Sharon bloom! And there a stream of ecstasy Through groves of glory flows, And on its banks the Tree of Life In heavenly beauty grows; And flowers that never fade away, 4 Whose blossoms never close, Bloom round the walks where angels stray, And saints redeemed repose. And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth, We wither and depart, ! ! CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D. 489 And leave behind, to mourn our loss, Full many an aching heart; Yet, when the winter of the grave Is past, we hope to rise, Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness, To blossom in the skies. Charles Mackay, LL.D. Born 1812. A NATIVE of Perth, where he was born in 1812. In his infancy he was removed to London, and his early youth was spent in Belgium. He commenced his literary career in 1834, by the publication of a volume of poems. He now fairly devoted himself to a literary career, and while editing the "Glasgow Argus," from 1844 to 1847, volume after volume of poems appeared from his pen. Returning to London, he became editor of the "Illustrated London News, besides continuing to issue his poetical works. He is also the author of some prose works. In 1852 Mackay made a tour in America, and he has embodied his impressions in a lively volume, "Life and Liberty in America.” He resided in the United States from 1862 to 1866. CLEAR THE WAY. MEN of thought! be up and stirring Night and day: Sow and seed-withdraw the curtain- Clear the way! Men of action, aid and cheer them, As ye may! There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way! Once the welcome light has broken, Who shall say What the unimagined glories Of the day? What the evil that shall perish In its ray? Aid the dawning, tongue and pen; Aid it, hopes of honest men; Aid it, paper-aid it, type- Aid it, for the hour is ripe, 490 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And our earnest must not slacken. Into play. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way! Lo! a cloud's about to vanish From the day; And a brazen wrong to crumble Into clay. ↓ Lo! the right's about to conquer, Clear the way! With the Right shall many more Enter smiling at the door; With the giant Wrong shall fall Many others, great and small, That for ages long have held us For their prey. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way !i * Robert Browning. wind BORN at London in 1812, he was educated at the London University. He first appeared as an author in 1835. His poem "Paracelsus,' then published, attracted general attention in the literary world. In 1837 he published "Strafford," a tragedy. This was followed by "Sordello," in 1840. In 1849 he published a collected edition of his smaller pieces. In the same year he married Miss Elizabeth Bar- rett, a well-known poetess, and from that time they resided chiefly on the Continent. His wife died in 1861. ;; i I EVELYN HOPE. BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead, Sit and watch by her side an hour, That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think The shutters are shut, no light may pass, Save two long rays through the hinges' chink. Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name It was not her time to love: besides, Her life had many a hope and aim. Born 1812. 1 PROFESSOR AYTOUN. 491 ܢ ܕ ܗ ܘ ܗ 8 9 Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir- Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? What, your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew, And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals, nought beside?: { "1 Professor Aytoun. BORN in Edinburgh in 1813, of a Fifeshire family, he was educated for the Scottish bar, to which he was admitted in 1840. In 1845 he was appointed Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in Edin- burgh University. His poetical talents were early displayed. "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," his finest poems, were originally con- tributed to "Blackwood's Magazine. They were issued in a col- lected form in 1849. Bothwell, a poem, appeared in 1856. The Professor was appointed by Lord Derby's Government, in 1852, Sheriff and Vice-Admiral of Orkney. 66 "1 THE BURIED FLOWER. In the silence of my chamber, When the night is still and deep, And the drowsy heave of ocean Mutters in its charmèd sleep: Oft I hear the angel voices That have thrilled me long ago;- Voices of my lost companions, Lying deep beneath the snow. S Born 1813. 4. Died 1865. ! Where are now the flowers we tended? Withered, broken, branch and stem; Where are now the hopes we cherished? Scattered to the winds with them.” For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones! Nursed in hope and reared in love, Looking fondly ever upward To the clear blue heaven above: 492 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Smiling on the sun that cheered us, Rising lightly from the rain, Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again: Never shaken, save by accents From a tongue that was not free. As the modest blossom trembles At the wooing of the bee. O! 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded youth, All the vows that we believed in, All the words we spoke in truth. Sever'd—were it sever'd only By an idle thought of strife, Such as time may knit together; Not the broken chord of life! O my heart! that once so truly Kept another's time and tune,— Heart, that kindled in the morning, Look around thee in the noon! Where are they who gave the impulse To thy earliest thought and flow? Look across the ruined garden— All are withered, dropped, or low! * * * O! I fling my spirit backward, And I pass o'er years of pain; All I loved is rising round me, All the lost returns again. * Brighter, fairer far than living, With no trace of woe or pain, Robed in everlasting beauty, Shall I see thee once again. By the light that never fadeth, Underneath eternal skies, When the dawn of resurrection Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. > ROBERT MURRAY M'CHEYNE. 493 TO YONDER SIDE. THE Cooling breath of evening woke The waves of Galilee, Till on the shore the waters broke In softest melody. Robert Murray M'Cheyne. A DEVOTED and talented minister of the Church of Scotland in Dun- dee, who wrote some religious poetry imbued with the deepest de- votional feeling. 'Now launch the bark," the Saviour cried, The chosen twelve stood by, “And let us cross to yonder side, Where the hills are steep and high. Gently the bark o'er the water creeps, While the swelling sail they spread, And the wearied Saviour gently sleeps, With a pillow 'neath His head. dark "" On downy bed the world seeks rest, Sleep flies the guilty eye, But he who leans on the Father's breast May sleep when storms are nigh. But soon the lowering sky grew O'er Bashan's rocky brow, The storm rushed down upon the bark, And waves dashed o'er the prow. The pale disciples trembling spake, While yawned the watery grave, "We perish, Master,-Master, wake! Carest Thou not to save?" Calmly He rose, with sovereign will, And hushed the storm to rest. Born 1813. Died 1843. So have I seen a fearful storm O'er wakened sinner roll, Till Jesus' voice, and Jesus' form Said, "Peace, thou weary soul." "Ye waves," He whispered, "Peace! be still!" They calmed like a pardoned breast. 494 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. And now He bends His gentle eye His wondering followers o'er, Why raise this unbelieving cry? I said 'to yonder shore."" Ti ¿ (C ܊ : When first the Saviour wakened me, And showed me why he died, He pointed o'er life's narrow sea, And said, "to yonder side." "Peace, peace! be still thou raging breast, My fulness is for thee," The Saviour speaks, and all is rest, Like the waves of Galilee. Robert Nicoll. A NATIVE of Auchtergaven in Perthshire, who amid many difficulties worked himself up into the position of editor of the "Leeds Times," to which he devoted himself heart and soul. His poems are short pieces and songs, which show some talent. He died in his twenty- fourth year. THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. HIGH thoughts! Born 1814. Died 1837. They come and go, Like the soft breathings of a listening maiden, While round me flow The winds, from woods and fields with gladness laden; When the corn's rustle on the ear doth come- When the eve's beetle sounds its drowsy hum- When the stars, dewdrops of the summer sky, Watch over all with soft and loving eye- While the leaves quiver By the lone river, And the quiet heart From depths doth call And garners all— Earth grows a shadow Forgotten whole, And heaven lives In the blessed soul! Į 1 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 495 High thoughts! They are with me When, deep within the bosom of the forest, Thy morning melody Abroad into the sky, thou, throstle, pourest. When the young sunbeams glance among the trees- When on our ear comes the soft song of bees-- When every branch has its own favourite bird, And songs of summer from each thicket heard!— Where the owl flitteth, Where the rose sitteth, And holiness High thoughts! Seems sleeping there; While nature's prayer Goes up to heaven In purity, Till all is glory And joy to me! ! They are my own- When I am resting on a mountain's bosom, And see below me strown The huts and homes where humble virtues blossom; When I can trace each streamlet through the meadow— When I can follow every fiful shadow- When I can watch the winds among the corn, And see the waves along the forest borne; Where bluebell and heather Are blooming together, And far doth come The Sabbath bell, O'er wood and fell; I hear the beating Of nature's heart; Heaven is before me- God! Thou art! Philip James Bailey, Born 1816. BORN in Nottingham, on 22d April, 1816. He matriculated at the University of Glasgow, and afterwards studied for the English bar, to which he was called in 1840. In 1839 he published "Festus," an extraordinary poem, abounding in grand and splendid ideas. It met with great success, and he at once took a high place among the poets of our age. In 1855 appeared "The Mystic," and in 1858 "The Age," both of which sustain his reputation. 496 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. FROM "FESTUS." Genius. It is the strain Of all high spirits towards him. Thou couldst not, Even if thou wouldst, behold God: masked in dust, Thine eye did light on darkness: but when dead, And the dust shaken off the shining essence, God shall glow through thee as through living glass, And every thought and atom of thy being Shall guest His glory, be overbright with God. Hadst thou not been by faith immortalised For the instant, then thine eye had been thy death. Come, I will shew. thee heaven and all angels. Lo! the recording angel. Festus. Him I see High-seated, and the pen within his hand Plumed like a storm-portending cloud which curves Half over heaven, and swift in use divine As is a warrior's spear! Genius. The book wherein Are writ the records of the universe Lies like a world laid open at his feet. And there, the Book of Life which holds the names, Form'd out in starry brilliants, of God's sons- The spirit-names which angels learn by heart, Of worlds beforehand. Wilt thou see thine own! Festus. My name is written in the Book of Life. It is enough. That constellated word Is more to me and clearer than all stars, Henceforward and for aye. Frances Browne. A BLIND poetess, daughter of the postmaster of Stranorlar in Donegal. When only eighteen montlis old she lost her sight from smallpox, yet as she advanced in life she became noted for her rapid acquisition of knowledge. In 1840 she published in the Irish Penny Journal "Songs of our Land;" in 1841 she sent some pieces to the "Athenæum," which were much admired; and in 1844 she published a volume of her poems. In 1847 she issued a second volume of poems, all remarkable for rich poetic diction, and for vigorous thought and deep feeling. The following piece refers to an Irish exile. Born 1816. THE LAST FRIENDS. I COME to my country, but not with the hope That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow, . FRANCES BROWNE. 497 For the vigour of soul that seemed mighty to cope With time and with fortune hath fled from me now; And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore, Hath perished, and left but a weary regret For the star that can rise on my midnight no more— But the hills of my country they welcome me yet! The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still, When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track; From the wide spreading deserts and ruins, that fill The lands of old story they summoned me back; They rose on my dreams through the shades of the West, They breathed upon sands which the dew never wet, For the echoes were hushed in the home I loved best- But I knew that the mountains would welcome me yet! The dust of my kindred is scattered afar— They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave; For serving the strangers through wandering and war, The isle of their memory could grant them no grave. And I, I return with the memory of years, Whose hope rose so high though in sorrow it set; They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears- But our mountains remember their promises yet! Oh, where are the brave hearts that bounded of old, And where are the faces my childhood hath seen? For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown cold, But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still green; Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth, When brothers in heart in their shadows we met; And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death, For their summits are sacred to liberty yet! Like ocean retiring, the morning mists now Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land; And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow, For which time hath no furrow and tyrants no brand: Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle- Éfface the dark seal that oppression hath set; Give back the lost glory again to the soil, For the hills of my country remember it yet! P 498 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. & . THE FIRST. THE first, the first!-oh! nought like it Our after-years can bring- For summer hath no flowers so sweet As those of early spring. The earliest storm that strips the tree Still wildest seems and worst; Whate'er hath been again may be— But never as at first For many a bitter blast may blow O'er life's uncertain wave, And many a thorny thicket grow Between us and the grave; But darker still the spot appears, Where thunder-clouds have burst Upon our green unblighted years- No grief is like the first. Our first-born joy-perchance 'twas vain— Yet, that brief lightning o'er, The heart, indeed, may hope again, But can rejoice no more; Life hath no glory to bestow Like it-unfallen, uncursed; There may be many an after-glow, But nothing like the first. The rays of hope may light us on, Through manhood's toil and strife, But never can they shine as shone The morning stars of life: Though bright as summer's rosy wreath, Though long and fondly nursed— Yet, still they want the fearless faith Of those that bless'd us first. Its first deep love in memory The heart for ever bears; For that was early given and free- Life's wheat without the tares. It may be death hath buried deep- It may be fate hath cursed- But yet no later love can keep The greenness of the first. ! 8 J T REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY. 499 And thus, whate'er our onward way, The lights or shadows cast Upon the dawning of our day, Are with us to the last. But, ah! the morning breaks no more On us, as once it burst- For future springs can ne'er restore The freshness of the first. • 1 Reb. Charles Kingsley. A POET, theologian, and novelist, and one of the most remarkable and philanthropic men of his age. He is chiefly known by his prose writings, but his poetical talents are considerable. He was born near Dartmoor, in Devonshire, in 1819, and was intended for the profession of the law. His tastes, however, led him to take orders in the church, in which he obtained the rectory of Eversley, made famous by its connection with his name. In 1859 he was appointed Professor of Modern History in Cambridge University. Born 1819. Died 1875. THREE FISHERS WENT SAILING. THREE fishers went sailing out into the west, Out into the west, as the sun went down; Each thought on the woman who loved him best, And the children stood watching them out of the town. For men must work and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour be moaning. Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbour be moaning. For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner it's over the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town. 500 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Gerald Massey. BORN at Tring, in Hertfordshire, in 1828. He was in early life an errand-boy. He fought his way to distinctionamid the greatest dis- couragements, and in 1854 established his name as a poet by the pub- lication of the ballad of "Babe Christabel and other Poems," which met with great success. In 1856 he published “Craigcrook Castle, a volume which sustained his reputation; he is also a contributor to literary journals, and has adopted literature as his profession. 1 FROM "BABE CHRISTABEL." AND thou hast stolen a jewel, Death! Shall light thy dark up like a star, A beacon kindling from afar Our light of love, and fainting faith. Through tears it gleams perpetually, And glitters through the thickest glooms, Till the eternal morning comes To light us o'er the jasper sea. With our best branch in tenderest leaf, We've strewn the way our Lord doth come; And, ready for the harvest home, His reapers bind our ripest sheaf. Our beautiful bird of light hath fled: Awhile she sat with folded wings- Sang round us a few hoverings- Then straightway into glory sped. Born 1828. K And white-winged angels nurture her; With heaven's white radiance robed and crowned, And all love's purple glory round, She summers on the hills of myrrh. Through childhood's morning-land, serene She walked betwixt us twain, like love; While, in a robe of light above, Her better angel walked unseen, Till life's highway broke bleak and wild; Then, lest her starry garments trail In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, The angel's arms caught up the child. "1 ! ALEXANDER SMITH. 501 1 Her wave of life hath backward rolled To the great ocean; on whose shore We wander up and down, to storc Some treasures of the times of old: And aye we seek and hunger on For precious pearls and relics rare, Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart for love of her that's gone. O weep no more! there yet is balm In Gilead! Love doth ever shed Rich healing where it nestles-spread O'er desert pillows some green palm! Strange glory streams through life's wild rents, And through the open door of death We see the heaven that beckoneth To the beloved going hence. God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed; The best fruit loads the broken bough; And in the wounds our sufferings plough, Immortal love sows covereign seed. Alexander Smith. BORN in Kilmarnock, on 31st December, 1829, has earned a reputa tion as a poet. He was originally employed as a pattern-drawer in a Glasgow factory, till in 1853 appeared "A Life Drama," which was so well received, that the public attention was directed to the author, and in 1854 he was elected Secretary to the Edinburgh Uni- versity. The situation gave him good opportunities of cultivating his literary talents, and in 1857 appeared "City Poems.” He was also a contributor to several periodicals. He died in 1867 at the early age of thirty-seven years. Born 1829. Died 1867. FROM "A LIFE DRAMA.” As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes, Sees in sweet dreams a beaming youth of glory. And wakes to weep, and ever after sighs For that bright vision till her hair is hoary; Ev'n so, alas! is my life's passion story. For Poesy, my heart and pulses beat; For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet; As Moses' serpent the Egyptians' swallow'd, One passion eats the rest. My soul is follow'd - 502 GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. By strong ambition to out-roll a lay Whose melody will haunt the world for aye, Charming it onward on its golden way. Oh, that my heart was quiet as a grave Asleep in moonlight! For, as a torrid sunset boils with gold Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul A passion burns from basement to the cope. Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee, As passionately, my rich-laden years, My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys, As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find Delicious death on wet Leander's lip. Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth, Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canst Clothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me? Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold! As well may some wild maiden waste her love Upon the calm front of a marble Jove. I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes. I love thee, Poesy! thou art a rock, I, a weak wave, would break on thee, and die! How tenderly the moon doth fill the night! Not like the passion that doth fill my soul; It burns within me like an Indian sun. A star is trembling on the horizon's verge, That star shall grow and broaden on the night, Until it hangs divine and beautiful In the proud zenith- Might I so broaden on the skies of fame! — O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to God! I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool-so tries 4 Some lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sands By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphinx, Staring right on with calm eternal eyes. A DOUBTING HEART. Adelaide Anne Proctor. DAUGHTER of "Barry Cornwall," and author of two volumes of poems entitled "Lyrics and Legends." She died in February, 1801. WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead. ļ • Born 1835. Died 1864. } D ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. 503 Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. O doubting heart! Far over purple seas, They wait in sunny ease The balmy southern breeze, To bring them to their northern home once more, Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow, While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again. The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth! O doubting heart! - The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon-for spring is nigh— Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night. What sound can break the silence of despair? O doubting heart! The sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air. THE END. 6 ce 1 : FIRESIDE POETRY. { VOLUME II. SACRED GEMS FROM THE POETS. : е ļ 1 1 1 : } ¡ · CONTENTS. • Abide with Prayer Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel Adam's first Awakening to Life . Advent Hymn Affliction Sweetened VOL. II. Against a Rich Man Despising Poverty Again the Lord of Life and Light • An Evening Blessing Angels Holy, High and Lowly. Angel instructing Adam, The Angels' Song of Victory An Infant's Prayer An Offering Apology for Religion Arise, My Soul, Arise Around the Throne of God in Heaven Art Thou Weary Ask ye what Great Thing I Know At Evening Time it shall be Light At the Foot of the Cross Ascension Hymn . Awake! Awake! O Zion . Giles Fletcher All Glory, Laud, and Honour. Mrs. Barbauld . Theodulph Anon. All Work is Holy . An Appeal to God for Man's Salvation John Lydgate William Cowper Anchor of Hope, The And Wilt Thou Pardon, Lord Joseph of the Studium Bear thy Brother's Burden Belshazzar's Feast • • • • George Herbert . Leigh Hunt. John Milton ..James Edmestone • Henry H. Milman A. M. Toplady. Prof. Blackie Milton Milton Henry Neele Joachim Lange Edward Young Charles Wesley Anne Houlditch · Stephen of Sabas B. H. Kennedy . F. Turner Mrs. Charles The Venerable Bede B. Gough. PAGE 50 401 54 233 150 44 152 13 404 24 Anon. Bryan W. Proctor • • • • 114 343 12 . 273 394 . 356 • 10 339 • • 141 15 240 295 55 57 255 • 84 94 403 232 iv CONTENTS. Benares Bible, The. Bible, The Birth of the Messiah, The • • Brevity of Life Brightest and Best Broken Cisterns Brother, now Thy Toils are O'er • Calvary Character of a True Pastor Chamouny at Sunrise Charity Child, The Choice of the Christian Heroes, The Christ is All Christian Hope. Christian Pilgrim, The Christian's Pilgrimage, The Christian Soldier, The Christmas Day. Christmas Hymn Church, The Come and See Come unto Me Come, Weary Souls Come, ye Mourners Come, ye Saints Comfort • • • • Coming of Christ, The Communion with Christ Confession Consolation • ! Contemplation, A Conversion of St. Paul, The Corner-Stone, The Cottager, The Cottar's Saturday Night, The Covenanter's Night Hymn, The Creating Wisdom Creation Finished, The • PAGE Letitia Elizabeth Landon 267 George Herbert. 47 178 Sir Walter Scott John Milton Francis Quarles 57 46 Reginald Heber 201 Thomas Raffles 223 Gerard Moultrie 358 · • • • • • • · • • • Mrs. Southey Thomas Ken Samuel T. Coleridge Matthew Prior John Newton Anon. Horatius Bonar Sir Walter Scott George Crabbe John Wesley James Montgomery . Reginald Heber . Thomas Campbell Dean Alford Mrs. Charles A. Midlane Anne Steele Amelia Opie Thomas Kelly 377 126 170 174 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 294 59 231 290 158 99 243 368 137 162 256 87 53 Jeremy Taylor Josiah Conder Horatius Bonar William Hurn John Gay John Keble John Chandler William Cowper Robert Burns • David M. Moir Isaac Watts John Milton • • • • 74 182 82 133 . 378 285 . 178 159 111 181 202 188 . 299 256 • • • • 221 • • Į CONTENTS. V Crown Him with Many Thorns Matthew Bridges Cry of Nature and the Voice of God, The. Kempenfelt. Day by Day we Magnify The, Day of Judgment, The Day of Rest, The Day of Rest, The Day of Resurrection, 'Tis the Death and Immortality Death Bed, The Death of St. Alban, The Death of the Good Man • • Death of the Scoffer, The. Depth of Mercy Despiser, The Destruction of Jerusalem Destruction of the Assyrians Destruction of the First-Born Divine Love Domestic Scene, A Doubt Not, Fear Not Dove, The Dream, The • Drop of Dew, A Dying Christian, The Dying Mother, The • Evening Hymn Evening Hymn . Evening Prayer Eve of St. Agnes Earth has many a Noble City Easter Day Echo Eternal God, our Humble Souls. Eternal Spirit! by whose Power Evening Cloud, The Evening Hymn. • • Cecil F. Alexander 348 Richard Crashaw . 60 Canon Stowell 264 Christopher Wordsworth 281 John of Damascus 11 Edward Young 96 400 Thomas Hood 352 107 Frederick G. Lee Robert Blair William Cowper Charles Wesley 139 115 Caroline J. Yorke 391 184 225 63 51 248 407 189 • • • • • • • · • • • Robert Southey Lord Byron Mrs. Hemans. Anon Thomas Moore John Mason Andrew Marvell Richard Huie Robert Pollok • Abraham Cowley Edmund Waller • • • PAGE . 367 129 • • • • • • • Aurelius Prudentius. Martin Luther Anon Philip Doddridge W. H. Bathurst Prof. John Wilson . Adelaide A. Proctor Anon. Anatolius Anon. Alfred Tennyson • • • • 97 65 338 £60 3 25 387 110 255 Faith Elizabeth Barrett Browning 295 Faith, Hope and Love at the Sepulchre J. D. Burns Fear of Man, The . 331 John J. Winkler 83 215 336 403 5 389 292 vi CONTENTS. Festus Fierce was the Wild Billow Fight is O'er, the Crown is Won, The Fling out the Banner, let it Float Foolish Virgins, The For Divine Illumination For Me, Eternal Spirit. For the Fount of Life Eternal For those my unbaptized Rhymes Forest Scene, A. Forgiveness Fountain of Mercy Fountain of Siloam • From Depths of Woe From Distant Corners of our Land • Genealogy of Christ, The Glories of the Firmament, The Glory of God, The God's Angels God is Love God's Love God Omnipresent God Praised by the Creation God the Life and Light of All . God Visible in His Works God's Worship Good Works . Good Morrow • Goodness of God, The . Gospel Invitation, The Grace and Peace Grace of God Gracious Shepherd, The Gratitude, Grave, The Grave of a Christian. • • Great Canon, The Great Forerunner of the Morn, The Great God! for aid Guidance Through Life, Ha' Bible, The · • • • ❤ • • • • • • • • • • • Philip J. Bailey Anatolius R. F. Littledale. Bishop Doane Alfred Tennyson Samuel Johnson Hannah More Bishop Lowth Edward Young Simon Browne • Peter Damiani 17 Robert Herrick 45 Wm. and Mary Howitt 252 Lady E. Carew 58 Alice Flowerdew • . 161 Robert M. M'Cheyne 308 Martin Luther. 27 W. L. Alexander • • • Hon. Mrs. Norton Lord Tiegnmouth . Reginald Heber. Mrs. Ann Gilbert Thomas Parnell Thomas Moore Horace Smith Isaac Watts William Cowper Geo. Gascoigne B. W. Noel • John Wesley John R. Macduff Caroline Fry James Edmestone Gerard T. Noel. James Montgomery James Edmestone Andrew of Crete Bede. Thomas Ken. Jane Taylor Robert Nicoll. PAGE 322 6 349 263 292 118 153 • • 118 93 92 284 387 203 198 89 190 193 88 . 143 31 • 259 113 • 291 · 371 220 23J 199 179 236 8 10 74 205 313 CONTENTS. vii Hail! King Supreme. Hail! Thou Bright and Sacred Morn Hail, Thou Head Hark! 'tis a Martial Sound Harp, Awake! Harp of Zion Harvest Harvest, The Hay-fields, The . • Happiness for All Happiness not to be Found in the Crea- ture Hear my Cry Hear my Prayer, O God Heaven and Earth Heavenly Country, The Heavenly Love · Heavenly Service Hebrew Hymn He Giveth His Beloved Sleep He Liveth Long who Liveth Well Hitherto hath the Lord Helped us Home Above, A Home in view Hope Beyond the Grave Hour of Prayer, The Hour of Prayer, The . House of God, The Hosanna • • Idolatry of the Heart, The I Lay my Sins on Jesus Immortal Mind, The . I'm but a Stranger here I saw the Cross of Jesus • • • • • • • • PAGE 80 340 Bernard of Clairvaux 19 John Flavel 67 • · Sir R. Blackmore Julia A. Elliott Sir H. W. Baker John Newton James Beattie Charlotte Elliott Montague Stanley James Edmestone John Keble How are Thy Servants blest, O Lord. Joseph Addison Hymn for Christmas. Thomas Chatterton Hymn for Family Worship, A Hymn for the Sons of the Clergy Hymn-God Eternal! Lord of All Hymn of Praise. Hymn on the Transfiguration Anne Collins Thomas Kelly Henry Downton William Knox Robert Bloomfield John H. Gurney Jane Taylor Horatius Bonar • T. Westwood Fred. W. Faber John Gambold Ralph Erskine C. L. Ford Sir Walter Scott Anon. Horatius Bonar Robert Robinson • • • • • R. F. Littledale Dean Stanley. • • Henry Kirke White Mrs. Anne Grant James E. Millard. • • Anon. Horatius Bonar Anne Steele T. Rawson Taylor . F. Whitfield 70 171 374 226 . 168 270 207 287 409 319 121 98 406 177 390 236 146 328 132 145 227 297 239 242 86 155 213 160 344 350 319 • • • • • · • 397 288 125 280 364 viii CONTENTS. $ I Stand at the Door and Knock I thank Thee God! for Weal and Woe Jacob Wrestling with the Angel · Jesu! the very thought of Thee Jesus Last Man, The Layman's Faith, A Let Me Go . • • ! Charles Wesley 116 Bernard of Clairvaux 18. Henry Collins 354 Fred. W. Faber 315 Jesus is God! the Solid Earth Jesus my All John Cennick. 128 Jesus, my Saviour B. Beddome 126 : John R. Macduff 372 Jesus, my Saviour, Look on me. Jesus our Righteousness Count Zinzendorf 108 Jesus, Still the Storm Horatius Bonar 289 Frances Browne 321 Jowish Pilgrim, The John the Baptist Wm. Drummond . 41 131 Joy of the Lord is your Strength, The John Newton. Judgments of God, The 71 Thomas Spratt Anon. Just as Thou Art 411 Just as 1 am. Charlotte Elliott 228 • Labourer's Morning Hymn. Lamb is the Light Thereof, The • . • • Lines Written on the Sea-Shore Litany, A. Little Children, The • Looking Upward Lord, my Rock, to Thee I Cry Lord's Prayer, The Love Never Faileth Love of God, The Loving-kindness of the Lord, The Luther's Hymn . Man Created in the Image of God • • • • • • • Let us Not Sleep as do Others Let not the Sun go Down upon your Wrath Life Beyond the Grave Light of the World, The Light to Lighten the Gentiles, The Lines on the Coliseum • • • • Joseph Grigg. Eliza Cook • John Berridge Anon. Thomas Campbell . John Dryden Mary Pyper W. Gaskell 4 • James Edmestone Isaac Watts F. Beaumont Edward Churton Richard Whately Robert Southey G. Tersteegen. Samuel Medley Martin Luther 1 • PAGE 134 324 • • Eliza Cook 326 115 Charles Wesley. Edward Bickersteth 216 Thos. Cotterill.. 191 Rev. Dr. Shuttleworth 395 Amelia Opie 169 John Donne 38 241 88 • • • • • · 124 390 • 186 68 405 408 265 219 184 106 147 25 42 1 { CONTENTS. ix Man, His Trials. Man's Mortality Marriage at Cana Maximus • dles Mercy, Free, Boundless Mercy. Messiah, at Thy Glad Approach. Messiah, The Midnight Thoughts Millenium, The. Missionary, The Morning Hymn . Morning Hymn, A Morning Hymn Morning Star, The Mourner, The • • My Mother My Times are in Thy Hand Nabuchodonosor Nature Nearer, My God, to Thee New-Year's Hymn New-Year's Wish, A Never Sleep the Sun up Night-piece, A No More Sea Numbering our Days · Oh! Weep for Those Oh! What is Man? Oh! Worship the King Old Humphrey's Inquiries . O Jesus Christ the Loving O Jesu! King most Wonderful One in Christ • • • • PAGE 147 35 200 335 103 154 100 402 James Edmestone 239 Wm. and Mary Howitt 251 John Hawkesworth 123 Thomas Ken . 72 • • • John Fawcett. Simon Wastell Reginald Heber Adelaide A. Proctor John A. Rothe Michael Bruce Occupy till I Come Ode O'er the Distant Mountains Breaking. John S. B. Monsell Offering, The Josiah Conder O God Unseen, but not Unknown Oh! for the Robes of Whiteness Alex. Pope J. A. F. • Geoffrey Chaucer William Couper Sarah F. Adams James Edmestone Henry Francis Lyte Henry Vaughan Thomas Parnell Rev. J. Longmuir Wm. Habington Henry G. Tomkins Joseph Addison On Mungo Park's Finding Moss in the African Desert Anon. 403 Dr. Philip Nicolai. 33 Jane C. B. Simpson 369 Mrs. Emily Judson 327 Anne Laetitia Waring 375 • • Robert Montgomery C. L. Smith Lord Byron Sir John Davies Sir Robert Grant George Mogridge Bianco Da Siena • R. M. M'Cheyne • · • • • • 353 86 303 230 283 378 224 37 214 217 23 Bernard of Clairvaux 20 Prof. E. Robinson 250 • • • · · [ • 22 138 342 241 247 66 90 381 51 309 1 f X CONTENTS. Pain Palm Tree, The Paradise Parting Passion of Christ, The . Peace of Mind On the Death of a Mother Amelia Opie On the Death of an Infant Daughter Allen Cunningham On the Death of one of his Children. Legh Richmond On the Night-blowing Cereus . Flora Hastings Orphan's Stay, The O Thou! before whose Radiant Shrine Mrs. Hemans John Burton O Thou that Hearest Prayer O Time of Tranquil Joy J. D. Burns Our Abiding City Thomas Kelly Out of the Deep Cry I to Thee Myles Coverdale Prayer Prayer Prayer Prayer, A • • • Penitential Hymn, A Per Pacem ad Lucem Pilgrim's Home, The Pillars of the Earth are Thine, The Poetical Preacher, The Poor Man's Day, The Praise Praise for Redemption Praise God Praise to God Praise to God • • • • • Prayer, A Prayer, A Prayer Answered by Crosses Prayer for All, The Prayer for Divine Aid Prayer for Those at Sea Prayer for the Wanderers. Prayer in Adversity Prayer is the Breath of God Prayer in the Storm Prayer on the Prospect of Death PAGE 170 210 183 274 Letitia Elizabeth Landon 268 • 248 271 • € 330 172 28 • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • Anon. A. R. Bonar Archbishop Trench John S. B. Monsell 399 399 278 302 235 222 44 337 388 116 307 195 . 260 89 Henry Francis Lyte. 245 29 Henry H. Milman Thomas Raffles Henry King Adelaide A. Proctor Anon. Charles Wesley John Bethune Ebenezer Elliott Robert Pollok Isaac Watts Eliza Cook Joseph Hart B. Beddome • Archbishop Parker. Reginald Heber Archbishop Trench. Robert Herrick Hannah More John Newton Victor Hugo James Merrick • • • William Whiting Amelia Opie George Sandys B. Beddome • • Reginald Heber. Robert Burns. • · • • • 202 277 325 122 126 45 153 133 269 130 332 169 40 127 . 203 164 • • • • • CONTENTS. xi F Prayer to the Holy Spirit Prayer to the Holy Spirit. Prayer to the Lord, A . Prayer was Appointed to Convey Praying Always with All Prayer Pressing On Prisoner's Song, A Psalm XXIX. Psalm CXXX. Psalm CXLVIII. Public Worship Public Worship Rainbow, The Remember Me Renouncing the World Repentance Repentance and Faith . Resignation Resignation Resurrection Hymn Retirement Retirement · • Return, O Wanderer Return, The · • Sabbath, The Sabbath, The Sabbath Evening . Ring Out, Wild Bells Rise, my Soul Rock of Ages Roseate Hues of Early Dawn, The Ruth and Naomi Ruth's Choice · • Sabbath in Scotland, The Sabbath in the Sanctuary, The Sacramental Lines Sacred Book of God, The Saviour, The Saviour's Grace Proclaim, The Search the Scriptures · • · • • • • • • · • · • • • · • Dr. Reed Thomas T. Lynch . Bianco Da Siena Joseph Hart James Montgomery Horatius Bonar Madame Guyon King James the First Myles Coverdale. Prof. Blackie. James Gabb Joseph James Flora Hastings Thomas Haweis Jane Taylor Charles Mackay Rev. W. Alexander Anne Steele James Grahame Martin F. Tupper James Edmestone James Grahame J. W. Cunningham John Bethune PAGE 218 345 23 122 180 290 79 36 28 295 354 401 Thomas Kelly Samuel Wesley Thomas Morell 275 144 204 304 384 124 105 4 137 94 200 305 Alfred Tennyson 293 Robert Seagrave 104 Augustus M. Toplady 148 Cecil F. Alexander 346 William Tennant Anon. 211 396 • Matthew Green Aurelius Prudentius. William Cowper Edward Young Wm. B. Collyer John Bethune • • • • • • • • • 166 300 238 167 194 306 173 81. 197 Geo. G. C. Overend. 329 1 E xii ! Searching after God Seaside Thoughts Seasonable Weather Self-Examination Shadow of the Rock, The Shepherd of Tender Youth Shun Delays. Since First Thy Word Sing, my Tongue . Sing to the Lord Sleeping in Jesus. Son of Man, The Soul that Loves God, The Sovereign Ruler, The Spirit's Work, The Stanzas Star of Bethlehem, The Star of Morn and Even Star Shines Forth in Heaven, A CONTENTS. • • • Thunder Storm, The . Thy Kingdom Come Temper, The . Temple of Christ, The Temptation of Adam by Eve That Fearful Day Thanksgiving Ode • • • PAGE 75 209 43 386 316 Clements of Alexandria 1 Robert Southwell 34 Thomas Moore. 190 Fortunatus 7 208 398 274 78 156 Lady Georgiana Fullerton 383 Miss M. A. Stodart 392 Henry Kirke White 212 Francis Turner Palgrave 332 2 • • • • • • • Stricken Deer, The Submission to the Will of God God Success is from the Lord . Suppliant Canon to Jesus Sun, The James Thomson Sunrise Thomas Moore . Sweet the Moments, Rich in Blessing Walter Shirley Sweetly the Holy Hymn C. H. Spurgeon • • • • • • • • Thomas Heywood. Bernard Barton George Wither Anon. Fred. W. Faber • John Bowdler Mrs. Mackay Arthur T. Russell Madame Guyon John Ryland There comes a Galley Sailing There is a Name I Love to Hear. There is a River There's Nought on Earth to Rest upon F. Whitfield Thou art Gone up on High Thou art the Way, to Thee Alone Thou whose Almighty Word Thou, who didst Stoop Below Ephrem Syrus William Cowper Richard Baxter • • • • | Mrs. Emma Toke 143 62 Miss M. A. Stodart. 360 Theoctistus 15 109 189 136 376 Bishop Doane John Marriott Sarah Miles James Edmestone Eliza Cook • • • • • · George Herbert Ada Cambridge Milton 54 Theodore 14 William Wordsworth 175 John Tauler 21 F. Whitfield . 363 William Hurn 158 361 351 263 • • • • • · • • 49 366 . 193 • 373 237 323 • A 1 1 CONTENTS. xiii 1 Thy Will be Done Thy Will be Done Time PAGE 229 343 324 370 39 45 216 197 To the Redeemer. Touched with a Feeling of our Infirmities Cecil F. Alexander. 348 To Yonder Side Robert M. M Cheyne 311 Miss M. A. Stodart 360 154 Michael Bruce Henry Howard. 30 William Wordsworth 176 To A Young Friend To Heaven. To his Saviour To the Honoured Ancient · True Joy Trust for the Future Trust in God Trust in the Saviour · Walk in a Churchyard, A Wanderer's Return, The War • • • • Vain Show, The Verses Left at a Friend's House Vigil, The. Vision of Eliphaz. Vouchsafe, Then, O Thou most Al- mighty Spright. Watchman! What of the Night? Way is Long and Dreary, The We Have Left All • • · · • • • • • Charlotte Elliott Sarah F. Adams Eliza Cook Jane C. B. Sinipson Ben Jonson We Looked for Happiness and Peace J. M. Bell What Shall we Be? . C. J. P. Spitta When Jesus Came to Earth of Old Old When Prayer Delights the Least When Watching Those we Love and Prize Cecil F. Alexander . Archbishop Trench Who Can, by Searching, Find Out God Who is He? Who Was it Made Thy Tiny Light. Why Comes this Fragrance? Widow, The Widow's Mite, The Widow's Son of Nain, The Winter-A Dirge. • Robert Herrick George Mogridge John Bickersteth · Richard Baxter Robert Burns Anna Shipton Lord Byron • • Eliza Cook Edmund Spenser 275 Archbishop Trench Anon. 410 141 William Couper George Croly 192 Adelaide A. Proctor 335 • • Henry Francis Lyte. 245 385 266 347 277 Edward Robert Lord Lytton 333 Henry H. Milman 234 Montague Stanley 208 Thomas Davis 364 Anna H. Potts 409 Robert Montgomery 932 James Hamilton 314 163 Robert Burns. • 61 164 353 225 • • 33 325 1 xiv CONTENTS. 1 Wisdom Written in a Little Lady's Album Robert Pollok Fred. W. Faber • 1 Year Just Gone, The Anon. 409 Ye Princes' Sonnes, Yield to the Lorde King James the First 36. Young Believer's Prayer, The Charlotte Elliott 229 Zion, at thy Shining Gates B. H. Kennedy PAGE 261 318 • 272 } 1 INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGE ADAMS, SARAH F., Addison, Joseph, Alexander, Rev. W. L., D.D., 291 342 85 Chaucer, Geoffrey, Churton, Edward, D.D., Clemens of Alexandria, Alexander, Cecil Frances, 346 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 384 Collins, Anne, Alexander, Rev. W., 299 Collins, Rev. Henry, 5 Collyer, W. Bengo, D.D., 8 Conder, Josiah, Cook, Eliza, 322 Cotterill, Thomas, 328 Coverdale, Myles, 151 Cowley, Abraham, 63 209 Cowper, William, 136 159 255 Crabbe, Rev. George, 61 Crashaw, Richard, 60 145 Croly, Rev. George, 192 42 Cunningham, Allan, 210 126 Cunningham, Rev. John W., 104 9 Alford, Dean, Anatolius, Andrew of Crete, BAILEY, PHILIP J., Baker, Sir Henry' W., Barbauld, Mrs., Barton, Bernard, Bathurst, Rev. W. H., . Baxter, Richard, Beattie, James, LL.D., Beaumont, Francis, Beddome, Rev. B., Bede, The Venerable, Bell, G. M., Bernard of Clairvaux, Berridge, John, Bethune, John, Bianco da Siena, Bickersteth, Rev. Edward, . Bickersteth, Rev. John, Blackie, Professor, Blackmore, Sir Richard, Blair, Robert, Bloomfield, Robert, Bonar, Rev. Horatius, D.D., Bonar, Rev. A. R., Bowdler, John, Bridges, Matthew, Browne, Frances, Browne, Simon, Browning, Elizabeth B., Burton, John, Byron, Lord, • Bruce, Michael, Burns, Rev. J. D., Burns, Robert, • • CAMBRIDGE, Ada, Campbell, Thomas, • • • • Carew or Carey, Lady E., Cennick, John, Chandler, Rev. John, Charles, Mrs., Chatterton, Thomas, • · • • • • · • • • • · 385 DAMIANI, PETER, 18 Davies, Sir John, 123 Davis, Rev. Thomas, 305 Doane, Bishop, 23 Doddridge, Rev. Philip, 215 Donne, Rev. John, 197 Downton, Rev. Henry, 295 Drummond, William, Dryden, John, . 79 107 168 EDMESTONE, JAMES, 285 Elliott, Charlotte, 399 Elliott, Ebenezer, 208 Elliott, Julia Anne, 367 Erskine, Ralph, 321 92 294 154 330 • • 224 Ford, C. L., 58 128 Gambold, John, 368 Gascoigne, George, 356 Gaskell, W., 155 Gay, John, • 366 Fullerton, Lady G., . 186 • PAGE 21 265 1 182 70 354 200 230 323 191 28 GABB, REV. JAMES, B. A., • · • FABER, FREDERICK W., Fawcett, John, D.D., Flavel, John, Fletcher, Giles, 162 Flowerdew, Alice, 271 Fortunatus, Venantius H. C., • 17 37 364 262 . 110 38 374 41 68 · 315 147 67 43 161 7 406 Fry, Caroline (Mrs. Wilson), 219 363 • • • • 236 227 195 340 98 • 354 121 31 408 99 xvi INDEX OF AUTHORS. Gilbert, Mrs. Ann, Gough, Benjamin, Grahame, James, Grant, Mrs. Anne, Grant, Sir Robert, Green, Matthew, Grigg, Joseph, Gurney, John Hampden, Guyon, Madame, PAGE 198 Marvell, Andrew, 339 Mason, Rev. John, 166 Medley, Samuel, 160 Merrick, James, 214 Midlane, A., • • HABINGTON, William, Hamilton, Rev. James, Hart, Joseph, Hastings, Lady Flora, Haweis. Thomas • • Hawkesworth, John, Heber, Bishop Reginald, • Hemans, Mrs., . Herbert, George, Herrick, Robert, Heywood, Thomas, Hood, Thomas, JAMES I.. James, Joseph, John of Damascus, Johnson, Dr. Samuel, Jonson, Ben, . Joseph of the Studium, Judson, Mrs. Emily, ' LANDON, LETITIA E. Lange, Joachim, Lee, Rev. Frederick G., Littledale, Richard F. Longmuir, Rev. J., Lowth, Bishop, Luther, Martin, Lydgate. John, Lynch, Thomas Toke, Lyte, Henry Francis, Lytton, E. R. Lord, KEBLE, JOHN, Kelly, Thomas, Kempenfelt. Admiral Rich'd, Ken, Thomas, Kennedy, Benjamin H., King, Bishop Henry, Knox, William, • Houlditch, Anne (or Shep- herd), Howard, Henry, Howitt, William and Mary,. 250 343 29 Hugo, Victor, Huie, Richard, Hunt, Leigh, Hurn, William, 269 338 401 157 MACDUFF, REV. J. R., Mackay, Charles, LL.D., Mackay, Mrs., • M'Cheyne, Rev. Robert M., Marriott, John, • • • • 105 Miles, Sarah, 270 134 Millard, James E., D.D., Milman. Henry Hart, 77 Milton, John, · 51 314 122 274 Mogridge, George, Moir, David Macbeth, Monsell, John S. B., Montgomery, James, Montgomery, Robert, 144 Moore, Thomas, 123 More, Hannah, 200 Morell, Thomas, Moultrie, Gerard, 247 47 45 NEELE, HENRY, 75 400 36 401 11 118 PALGRAVE, FRANCIS T., Parker, Archbishop, Parnell, Rev. Thomas, Pollock, Robert, Pope, Alexander, Potts, Anna H., 15 Prior, Matthew, 39 327 242 171 129 • Newton, Rev. John, Nicolai, Dr. Philip, Nicoll, Robert, Noel, Rev. B. W.. Noel, Rev. Gerard T., Norton, The Hon. Mrs., 72 272 OPIE, MRS. AMELIA, Overend, George G. C., 44 226 • · • Proctor, Adelaide Anne, Proctor, Bryan W.,. Prudentius, Aurelius, Pyper, Mary, 331 29 89 260 . 100 402 81 335 232 3 405 46 222 218 183 267 Robinson, Rev. Professor E., 249 84 Robinson, Robert, . 146 103 . 274 156 • QUARLES, FRANCIS, RAFFLES, REV. THOMAS, Reed, Rev. Dr., Richmond, Rev. Legh, 352 Rothe, John Andrew, 349 Russell, Arthur Tozer, 381 Ryland, John, D.D., 118 • 24 SANDYS, GEORGE, 24 Scott, Sir Walter, 345 Seagrave, Robert, 245 Shipton, Anna, 333 Shirley, Hon. and Rev. W., Shuttleworth, Rev. Dr., 371 Simpson, Jane C. B.. 304 Smith, C. L., . 393 Smith, Horace, PAGE 65 97 308 Southey, Mrs., 193 Southey, Robert, LL.D., 147 130 377 373 344 233 53 216 256 . 302 178 282 189 153 197 358 O . • • • • • 255 131 33 312 259 199 284 40 177 104 358 136 395 . 369 378 193 221 183 • 169 329 • INDEX OF AUTHORS. xvii ; • Southwell, Robert, Spenser, Edmund, Spitta, Charles J. P., Sprat, Rev. Thomas, Spurgeon, Rev. C. H., Stanley, Dean, Stanley, Montague, Steele, Anne, Stephen of Sabas, Stodart, Miss M. A., Stowell, Canon, Syrus, Ephrem, • TAULER, JOHN, Taylor, Bishop Jeremy, Taylor, Jane, Taylor, Thomas R., Teignmouth, Lord, Tennant, William, Tennyson, Alfred, • PAGE ΤΟ 376 VAUGHAN, HENRY, . 319 297 WALLER, Edmund, 124 Waring, Anna L., 12 Wastell, Simon, Watts, Isaac, 264 Wesley, Rev. Charles, 2 Wesley, Rev. John, Wesley, Rev. Samuel, 360, 392 • • • Theoctistus of the Studium, Theodore of the Studium, Theodulph of Orleans, Thomson, James, Toke, Mrs. Emma, Tomkins, Henry G., Toplady, Augustus M., 34 Trench, Archbishop, 32 Tupper, Martin F., 265 Turner F., • 21 Westwood, T., 59 Whately, Richard. D.D., 204 White, Henry Kirke, 280 Whitfield, Rev. Frederick, 387 Whiting,_William, 211 Wilson, Professor John, 292 Winkler, John Joseph, 15 Wordsworth, Christopher, 14 Wordsworth, William, 13 109 YOUNG, DR. EDWARD, 351 Yorke, Caroline J., 353 148 ZINZENDORF, Count, • • 1 • PAGE . 275 300 395 66 50 375 * • 35 87 114 111 81 409 219 212 361 332 215 83 42 281 174 93 391 103 1 1 1 1 SACRED GEMS FROM THE ENGLISH POETS. Clemens of Alexandria. CLEMENS OF ALEXANDRIA, Sometimes called Alexandrinus, was one of the earliest of hymn-writers. He is said to have been born at Athens, but was educated at Alexandria, where he was appointed presbyter of the Church about the year 190. He wrote commentaries on vari- ous parts of Scripture, and other prose works, which were much commended by Eusebius and Jerome. He died about the year A. D. 217. The following hymn, composed by him, is supposed to be the oldest Christian hymn extant. It is freely translated by an unknown author. It has been said of this hymn that "through'all the images here so quaintly interwoven, like a stained window, of which the eye loses the design in the complication of colours, we may surely trace, as in quaint old letters on a scroll winding through all the mosaic of tints, 'Christ all in all!'" SHEPHERD OF TENDER YOUTH. SHEPHERD of tender youth, Guiding in love and truth Through devious ways; Christ our triumphant King, We come Thy name to sing, And here our children bring, To shout Thy praise! A Thou art our Holy Lord, The all-subduing Word, Healer of strife! Thou didst Thyself abase, That from sin's deep disgrace Thou mightest save our race, And give us life. Died 217. 2 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. · Thou art the great High Priest; Thou hast prepared the feast Of heavenly love; While in our mortal pain, None calls on Thee in vain, Help Thou dost not disdain, Help from above. Ever be Thou our Guide, Our Shepherd, and our Pride, Our Staff and Song! Jesus, Thou Christ of God, By Thy perennial Word, Lead us where Thou hast trod, Make our faith strong. So now, and till we die, Sound we Thy praises high, And joyful sing! Let all the holy throng Who to Thy Church belong, Unite and swell the song To Christ our King! Ephrem Syrus. Died 381. EPHREM SYRUS was born about the beginning of the fourth century in Mesopotamia. He devoted himself to the study of the Scriptures, and became a deacon of the Church at Edessa. He has been called the Father of Syriac Psalmody. He was the author of many reli- gious works, which were translated into several languages. The date of his death is between 378 and 381. A STAR SHINES FORTH IN HEAVEN. A STAR shines forth in heaven suddenly. O wondrous orb! less than the sun, yet greater; Less in its outward light, but greater in Its inward glory-pointing to a mystery. That morning star sent forth its beams afar Into the land of those who had no light; Led them as blind men, by a way they knew not, Until they came and saw the Light of men, Offered their gifts, received eternal life, Worshipped, and went their way. Thus had the Son two heralds: one on high And one below. Above, the Star rejoiced; Below, the Baptist bore Him record: Two heralds thus-one heavenly, one of earth; i ་ AURELIUS PRUDENTIUS. 3 That witnessing the nature of the Son, The majesty of God, and this His human nature; O mighty wonder! thus were they the heralds Both of His Godhead and His manhood. Who held Him only for a son of earth, To such the Star proclaimed His heavenly glory; Who held Him only for a heavenly spirit, To such the Baptist spoke of Him as Man. And in the holy temple Simeon held the Babe Fast in his aged arms, and sang to Him: To me in Thy mercy, An old man, Thou art come. Thou layest my body In peace in the tomb. Thou soon wilt awake me, And bid me arise; Wilt lead me transfigured, To Paradise. Then Anna took the Babe upon her arms, And pressed her mouth upon His infant lips; Then came the Holy Spirit on her lips, As erst upon Isaiah's when the coal Had touched his silent lips, and opened them. With glowing heart she sang: Oh! Son of the King, Though Thy birthplace was mean, All-hearing, yet silent, All-seeing, unseen, Unknown, yet all-knowing, God, and yet Son of Man, Praise to Thy name! Aurelius Prudentius. AURELIUS CLEMENS PRUDENTIUS was born in Spain-some suppose in the city of Saragossa-in the year 348. He was a lawyer, and was much honoured by the Emperor Honorius. When between fifty and sixty years of age he retired from court, and returned to his native country, where he died about the year 413. He spent the last years of his life in the composition of hymns and sacred poetry. ( Born 348. Died 413. EARTH HAS MANY A NOBLE CITY. EARTH has many a noble city; Bethlehem, thou dost all excel! Out of thee the Lord from heaven Came to rule His Israel. • моторные " 4 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Fairer than the sun at morning Was the star that told His birth, To the world its God announcing, Seen in fleshly form on earth. Eastern sages at His cradle Make oblations rich and rare; See them give, in deep devotion, Gold and frankincense and myrrh. Sacred gifts of mystic meaning! Incense doth their God disclose; Gold the King of kings proclaimeth; Myrrh His sepulchre foreshows. Jesu! whom the Gentiles worshipped At. Thy glad Epiphany, Unto Thee, with God the Father, And the Spirit, glory be! RESURRECTION HYMN. No more, ah! no more sad complaining; Resign these fond pledges to earth; Stay, mothers, the thick-falling tear-drops,- This death is a heavenly birth. What mean these still caverns of marble, Fair shrines that the dear ashes keep? How sweetly they tell of the loved ones, Not dead, but soft resting in sleep! What though on the pale, icy forehead No gleam of the intellect break, A moment it slumbers, till, nobler, Its powers in their beauty awake. Soon, soon through the motionless body The warm, loving life-tide shall pour, And, blushing with joy, shall revisit The home it has dwelt in before. These clods, 'neath the hillock reposing, Long wasting in silent decay, Shall follow the souls that have loved them, On winged winds soaring away. So green from the seed springs the blossom, Long perished, long hid in the mould; ! ' ANATOLIUS. 5 LO And, fresh from the turf, it remembers The wide-waving harvests of old. Take, Earth, to thy bosom so tender, Take, nourish this body! How fair, How noble in death! We surrender These relics of man to thy care. This, this was the home of the spirit, Once built by the breath of our God; And here, in the light of His wisdom, Christ, Head of the risen, abode. Guard well the dear treasure we lend thee; The Maker, the Saviour of men Shall never forget His belovèd, But claim His own likeness again. Speed on, perfect year, to the morning God's fulness shall dawn on the just; And thou, open Grave! shall restore us The glorified form from the dust. EVENING HYMN. THE day is past and over,- All thanks, O Lord, to Thee! I pray Thee now that sinless The hours of dark may be. Anatolius. Died 458. ANATOLIUS was a priest of the Greek Church, who was made a bishop at the Second Council of Ephesus, in the year 449. His "Evening Hymn" is said to be as much used in the Greek Isles as the evening hymn of Bishop Ken is in our own country. M O Jesu, keep me in Thy sight, And save me through the coming night. The joys of day are over,— I lift my heart to Thee, And ask Thee that offenceless The hours of dark may be. Oh Jesu, make their darkness light, And save me through the coming night. The toils of day are over,- I raise the hymn to Thee; And ask that free from peril, The hours of dark may be. : 6 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. O Jesu, keep me in Thy sight, And guard me through the coming night. Lighten mine eyes, O Saviour, Or sleep in death shall I; And he, my wakeful tempter, Triumphantly shall cry. He could not make their darkness light, Nor guard them through the hours of night. Be Thou my soul's preserver, O God, for Thou dost know How many are the perils Through which I have to go. Lover of men! O hear my call, And guard and save me from them all. FIERCE WAS THE WILD BILLOW. FIERCE was the wild billow, Dark was the night, Oars laboured heavily, Foam glimmered white; Mariners trembled, Peril was nigh, Then said the God of God: "Peace! it is I." Ridge of the mountain-wave, Lower thy crest! Wail of the stormy wind, Be thou at rest! Peril can none be, Sorrow must fly, When, saith the Light of Light: "Peace! it is I." Jesu! Deliverer! Come Thou to me! Soothe Thou my voyaging Over life's sea! Thou, when the storm of death Roars, sweeping by, Whisper, O Truth of Truth! "Peace! it is I." 1 VENANTIUS H. C. FORTUNATUS. 7 Venantins H. C. Fortunatus. {Died 609. {Born 64 VENANTIUS H. C. FORTUNATUS was born in Treviso about the year 530. He was educated at Ravenna, and was named by his contem- poraries Scholasticissimus," owing to the learning he had ac- quired. For many years he lived a life of pleasure, but, about the year 565, he was aroused to think of better things, and resolved to devote his future life to the service of God. About this time, Rhadegunda, Queen of France, had founded a monastic institution at Poitiers, and, under her influence, Fortunatus became Bishop of Poitiers in the year 599. He wrote many books of verse, but his name has been preserved chiefly by his hymns. SING, MY TONGUE. SING, my tongue, the glorious battle, With completed victory rife, And above the cross's trophy, Tell the triumph of the strife- How the world's Redeemer conquer'd By surrendering of His life. Thirty years among us dwelling, His appointed time fulfill'd; Born for this, He meets his passion, For that this He freely will'd; On the cross the Lamb is lifted, Where His life-blood shall be spilled. He endured the nails, the spitting, Vinegar, and spear, and reed, From that Holy Body broken, Blood and water forth proceed; Earth, and stars, and sky, and ocean, By that flood from stain are freed. Thou alone wast counted worthy This world's ransom to uphold; For a shipwreck'd race preparing Harbour, like the ark of old, With the sacred blood anointed From the smitten Lamb that roll'd. To the Trinity be glory Everlasting, as is meet; Equal to the Father, equal To the Son, and Paraclete. Trinal unity, whose praises All created things repeat. 1 00 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Andrew of Crete. ANDREW OF CRETE was born at Damascus about the year 660. He is sometimes called St. Andrew of Jerusalem, because it was in that city that he entered on a monastic course. He afterwards went to Constantinople, where he became a deacon of the Great Church. He was made Archbishop of Crete by Bardanes Philippicus, who · then reigned in Constantinople. He at one time held heretical opinions, but afterwards returned to the faith of the Church. His principal poetical work, "The Great Canon," is regarded by the Greeks as the king of canons. It extends to more than three hun- dred stanzas, and is a collection of scriptural examples, intended to be used by penitents confessing their sins. Among his other prin- cipal poetical works are "The Triodion" and the "Pentecostaríon. Seventeen of his homilies are preserved. The date of his death has been given by some as A. D. 761. The Rev. Dr. J. M. Neale, the translator of the following extract, puts his death in 732, in the island of Hierissus, near Mitylene. ' THE GREAT CANON. WHENCE shall my tears begin? What first-fruits shall I bear Of earnest sorrow for my sin? Or how my woes declare? Oh, Thou, the Merciful and Gracious One! Forgive the foul transgressions I have done. With Adam I have vied, Yea, passed him, in my fall; And I am naked now, by pride And lust made bare of all; Of Thee, O God! and that celestial band, And all the glory of the Promised Land. • If Adam's righteous doom, Because he dared transgress Thy one decree, lost Eden's bloom Ånd Eden's loveliness, No earthly Eve beguiled My body into sin; A spiritual temptress smiled Concupiscence within. Unbridled passion grasped the unhallowed sweet; Most bitter-ever bitter-was the meat. By mine own act, like Cain, A murderer was I made; What recompense, O Lord! must I expect, Who all my life Thy quickening laws neglect? By mine own act my soul was slain When Thou wast disobeyed; Born 660. Died 732. 1 THE VENERABLE BEDE. 9 And lusts each day are quickened, warring still Against Thy grace with many a deed of ill. Thou formed'st me of clay, O Heavenly Potter! Thou In fleshly vesture didst array, With life and breath endow. Thou who didst make, didst ransom, and dost know, To Thy repentant creature pity show! My guilt for vengeance cries; But yet Thou pardonest all; And whom Thou lov'st Thou dost chastise, And mourn'st for them that fall. Thou, as a Father, mark'st our tears and pain, And welcomest the prodigal again. I lie before Thy door, Oh, turn me not away! Nor in mine old age give me o'er To Satan for a prey! But ere the end of life and term of grace, Thou Merciful! my many sins efface! The Priest beheld, and passed The way he had to go; A careless glance the Levite cast, And left me to my woe. But Thou, O Jesu, Mary's Son! console; Draw nigh, and succour me, and make me whole! Thou spotless Lamb divine, Who takest sins away! Remove, remove the load that mine Upon my conscience lay! And of Thy tender mercy, grant Thou me To find remission of iniquity! Born 672, Died 735. The Venerable Bede. THE VENERABLE BEDE was born at the village of Jarrow about the year 672. His education was conducted principally at the monastery in the neighbourhood, where he soon distinguished himself as an eminently pious scholar, and was ordained a priest by John of Beverley, Bishop of Hexam. Besides doing the duties of an eccle- siastic, he devoted himself to literary work at the monastery; and his industry was very remarkable, as is proved by his numerous works. He died on the 26th of May, 735. His principal work was his "Anglo-Saxon Chronicles." He also wrote A Book on the Art CT A* 10 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. of Poetry," "A Book of Hymns," "The Histories of Saints, "Homilies of the Fathers," &c., &c. He took great delight in sacred poetry, and sang praises to God on his dying bed. THE GREAT FORERUNNER OF THE MORN. THE great forerunner of the morn, The herald of the Word, is born; And faithful hearts shall never fail With thanks and praise his light to hail. With heavenly message Gabriel came That John should be that herald's name, And with prophetic utterance told His actions great and manifold. John, still unborn, yet gave aright His witness to the coming Light; And Christ, the Sun of all the earth, Fulfilled that witness at His birth. Of woman born shall never be A greater prophet than was he, Whose mighty deeds exalt his fame To greater than a prophet's name. But why should mortal accents raise The hymn of John the Baptist's praise? Of whom, or ere his course was run, Thus spake the Father to the Son: Behold my herald who shall go Before Thy face Thy way to show, And shine as with the day-star's gleam Before Thine own eternal beam. All praise to God the Father be! All praise, Eternal Son to Thee! Whom with the Spirit we adore, For ever and for evermore! ASCENSION HYMN. A HYMN of glory let us sing; New hymns throughout the world shall ring; By a new way none ever trod Christ mounteth to the throne of God.` "" JOHN OF DAMASCUS. 11 The Apostles on the mountain stand, The mystic mount in Holy Land; They with the Virgin Mother see Jesus ascend in majesty. The angels say to the eleven, 46 Why stand ye gazing into Heaven?” This is the Saviour, this is He; Jesus hath triumphed gloriously! They said the Lord should come again, As these beheld Him rising then, Calm, soaring through the radiant sky, Mounting its dazzling summits high. May our affections thither tend, And thither constantly ascend, Where, seated on the Father's throne, Thee, reigning in the heavens, we own! Be Thou our present joy, O Lord, Who wilt be ever our reward! And as the countless ages flee,. May all our glory be in Thee! John of Damascus. Died about 780. JOHN OF DAMASCUS was born in Damascus about the beginning of the eighth century. He was a priest of the Church at Jerusalem. and afterwards retired to a monastery between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. He wrote several pieces of sacred poetry. "TIS THE DAY OF RESURRECTION. 'Tis the day of resurrection! Earth, tell it out abroad! The Passover of gladness, The Passover of God! From death to life eternal, From earth unto the sky, Our Christ hath brought us over, With hymns of victory. Our hearts be pure from evil, That we may see aright The Lord in rays eternal Of resurrection light! 12 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. } • 1 And, listening to His accents, May hear, so calm and plain, His own (6 All hail!" and, hearing, May raise the victor strain. Now let the heavens be joyful! Let earth her song begin! Let the round world keep triumph, And all that is therein! In grateful exultation Their notes let all things blend; For Christ the Lord hath risen, Our joy that hath no end! Stephen of Sabas. VERY little is known of the life of Stephen, called the Sabaite, be- cause he passed the greater part of his life in the Monastery of St. Sabas, which was situated between Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. He was taken to this monastery when he was only ten years old by his uncle, John of Damascus, who was a monk there. Stephen remained for fifty-nine years in that retreat. He died about the year 794. The best poems that he has written are those upon the 66 Martyrs of the Monastery of St. Sabas," and on "The Circumcis- ion." He is commemorated in the Greek Church on the 13th of July. ART THOU WEARY? ART thou weary? art thou languid? Art thou sore distrest? "Come to me," saith One, "and coming, Be at rest!" (6 Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my guide? "In His feet and hands are wound-prints, And His side!" Is there diadem, as Monarch, That His brow adorns? Yea, a crown, in very surety, But of thorns !? If I find Him, if I follow, What His guerdon here? "Many a sorrow, many a labour, Many a tear." S Born 725. Died 794. If I still hold closely to Him, What hath He at last? 1 THEODULPH OF ORLEANS. P 13 "Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan past!" If I ask Him to receive me, Will He say me nay? "Not till earth, and not till heaven Pass away!" Theodulph of Orleans. Died 821. LITTLE is known of the life of St. Theodulph. He is said to have beeû born in Italy, and to have been Abbot in a Benedictine monastery at Florence. He was afterwards made Bishop of Orleans in France, where he died in the year 821. His hymns were highly esteemed in the age in which he lived, and one of them (here given) is still sung by Roman Catholics at their processions on Palm Sunday. It has been said that Theodulph wrote it while he was imprisoned, and that as he was singing it at his prison window, the Emperor Louis passing by heard it, inquired about the singer and gave him his liberty. ALL GLORY, LAUD, AND HONOUR. ÁLL glory, laud, and honour, To Thee, Redeemer, King! To whom the lips of children Made sweet hosannas ring. Thou art the King of Israel, Thou David's royal Son, Who in the Lord's name comest, The King and Blessèd One. The company of angels Are praising Thee on high, And mortal men, and all things Created make reply. The people of the Hebrews, With palms before Thee went; Our praise, and prayers, and anthems Before Thee we present. To Thee before thy passion, They sang their hymns of praise; To Thee, now high exalted, Our melody we raise. Thou didst accept their praises; Accept the prayers we bring, Who in all good delightest, Thou good and gracious King. : 14 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. → Theodore of the Studium. THE date of the birth of Theodore of the Studium (so called be- cause he was a monk in the Convent of the Studium) is not known. He lived during the time of the Emperor Constantine and Leo V., surnamed the Arinenian. Both these Emperors protected and aided the party called Iconoclasts or Image Breakers. Theodóre was Hegumen of the Convent of the Studium at Constantinople, and he opposed the Emperor in the Iconoclast controversy. He was im- prisoned, then exiled, and died in banishment, 11th November, 826. THAT FEARFUL DAY. THAT fearful day, that day of speechless dread, When Thou shalt come to judge the quick and dead- I shudder to foresee, O God! what then shall be. When Thou shalt come, angelic legions round, With thousand thousands, and with trumpet sound, Christ, grant me in the air With saints to meet Thee there! Died 826 Weep, O my soul! ere that great hour and day, When God shall shine in manifest array, Thy sin, that thou mayst be In that strict judgment free! The terror!-hell-fire fierce and unsufficed, The bitter worm, the gnashing teeth! O Christ! Forgive, remit, protect, And set me with the elect, That I may hear the blessed voice that calls The righteous to the joy of heavenly halls, And, King of Heaven! may reach The realm that passeth speech! Enter Thou not in judgment with each deed, Nor each intent and thought in strictness read. Forgive, and save me, then, O Thou that lovest men! Thee, One in Three blest Persons! Lord o'er all! Essence of essence! Power of power! we call. Save us, O Father, Son, And Spirit, ever One! F THEOCTISTUS OF THE STUDIUM. 15 ¦ Joseph of the Studium. About 830. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM was born in Sicily, but afterwards removed to Thessalonica about the year 830, where he became archbishop. He went to Constantinople, and then to Rome; and in one of his voyages was taken prisoner by pirates, and made a slave at Crete. After his liberation from captivity he returned to Rome, and devoted himself to the composition of hymns, of which a large number are still preserved. AND WILT THOU PARDON, LORD? AND wilt thou pardon, Lord? A sinner such as I, Although Thy book his crimes record Of such a crimson dye? 1 So deep are they engraved, So terrible their fear, The righteous scarcely shall be saved, And where shall I appear? My soul, make all things known To Him who all things sees, That so the Lamb may yet atone For thine iniquities. O Thou Physician blest! Make clean my guilty soul, And me, by many a sin oppressed, Restore, and keep me whole! I know not how to praise Thy mercy and Thy love; But deign Thy servant to upraise, And I shall learn above. Theoctistus of the Studium. Died 800. THEOCTISTUS OF THE STUDIUM (so called because he was a monk of the Convent of the Studium in Constantinople) is chiefly known as the writer of a Greek hymn entitled "Suppliant Canon to Jesus. " Theoc- tistus died about the year 890. SUPPLIANT CANON TO JESUS. JESU, Name all names above, Jesu, best and dearest, Jesu, Fount of perfect love, Holiest, tenderest, nearest! Jesu, source of grace completest, 16 } GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. $ { Jesu purest, Jesu sweetest, Jesu, Well of power divine, Make me, keep me, seal me Thine: Jesu, open me the gate Which the sinner entered, Who in his last dying state Wholly on Thee ventured. Thou whose wounds are ever pleading, And Thy passion interceding, From my misery let me rise To a home in Paradise! Thou didst call the prodigal; Thou didst pardon Mary; Thou whose words can never fall, Love can never vary. Lord, amidst my lost condition, Give-for Thou canst give-contrition! Thou canst pardon all mine ill; If Thou wilt, O say, "I will!" Woe that I have turned aside After fleshly pleasure! Woe that I have never tried För the heavenly treasure! Treasure, safe in homes supernal; Incorruptible, eternal! Treasure no less price hath won, Than the passion of the Son! Jesu, crowned with thorns for me, Scourged for my transgression! Witnessing, through agony, That Thy good confession; Jesu, clad in purple raiment, For my evils making payment, Let not all Thy woe and pain, Let not Calvary be in vain? When I reach Death's bitter sea, And its waves roll higher, Help the more forsaking me, As the storm draws nigher: · Jesu, leave me not to languish! Helpless, hopeless, full of anguish! Tell me, "Verily, I say, Thou shalt be with Me to-day." 1 PETER DAMIANI. 17 1 Peter Damiani. PETER DAMIANI was born at Ravenna, in Italy, about the year 988. He was the child of poor parents, but had considerable talent. He was educated for the priesthood, and made such rapid progress that in 1058 he was appointed Cardinal and Bishop of Ostia. He wrote several hymns, the lives of saints, sermons, &c. He died at Faenza in the year 1072. FOR THE FOUNT OF LIFE ETERNAL. FOR the Fount of life eternal Is my thirsting spirit fain, And my prisoned soul would gladly Burst her fleshly bars in twain, While the exile strives and struggles Till she win her home again. Who can tell the perfect gladness Of the peace within the skies, Where, of living pearls upbuilded, Mansions for the blesséd rise, Where the golden halls and couches Shine and glow with radiant dyes? Twelve dear gems of countless value Form the walls' foundation-stone; Polished gold, like beaming crystal, Paves the glorious streets alone; No pollution, no defilement, Rain nor melting snow are known. Winter's snowing, summer's glowing, Never more their harms can bring: Everlasting roses blooming, Make an everlasting spring; Lily blanching, crocus blushing, Ånd the balsam perfuming. Born 988. Died 1072. There no waxing moon nor waning Sun, nor stars in courses bright; For the Lamb to that glad city Is the everlasting Light; There the daylight shines for ever, And unknown are time and night. 18 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And the saints now crowned in triumph, Like the sun, in radiance glow, Greet each other in that gladness Which the saints alone can know; Whilst secure they count their battles With their subjugated foe. To their first estate return they, Freed from every mortal sore; And the truth for ever present, Ever lovely, they adore; Drawing from that living fountain Living sweetness evermore. Bernard of Clairvaux. THE great St. Bernard, who is known as "Bernard of Clairvaux,' was born at Fontaine, in Burgundy, about the year 1091. He was educated at the University of Paris, became a monk at the age of twenty-two, and soon afterwards was appointed abbot of a mon- astery at Clairvaux, Champagne. He was an eloquent preacher, and soon became famous. He preached the doctrines taught by St. Augustine, and was self-denying and zealous for what he be- lieved to be truth. Bernard wrote many sacred poems, besides treatises on ecclesiastical subjects. He died about the year 1153. JESU! THE VERY THOUGHT OF THEE. JESU! the very thought of Thee With sweetness fills my breast; But sweeter far Thy face to see, And in Thy presence rest. Born 1091. Died 1153. Nor voice can sing, nor heart can frame, Nor can the memory find A sweeter sound than Thy blest name, O Saviour of mankind! 1 O Hope of every contrite heart! O Joy of all the meek! To those who fall, how kind Thou art, How good to those who seek. But what to those who find? Ah! this, Nor tongue, nor pen can show The love of Jesus, what it is None but His loved ones know. BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX. Jesu! our only joy be Thou, As Thou our prize shalt be; Jesu! be Thou our glory now, And through eternity. HAIL, THOU HEAD! HAIL, thou Head! so bruised and wounded, With the crown of thorns surrounded; Smitten with the mocking reed, Wounds which may not cease to bleed, Trickling faint and slow. Hail! from whose most blessed brow None can wipe the blood-drops now; All the flower of life has fled, Mortal paleness there instead; Thou! before whose presence dread, Angels trembling bow. All Thy vigour and Thy life Fading in this bitter strife; Death his stamp on Thee has set, Hollow and emaciate, Faint and drooping there. Thou, this agony and scorn Hast for me a sinner borne; Me, unworthy, all for me, With those signs of love on Thee, Glorious face, appear. Yet in this Thine agony, Faithful Shepherd, think of me; From whose lips of love divine, Sweetest draughts of life are mine, Purest honey flows. All unworthy of Thy thought; Guilty, yet reject me not; Unto me Thy head incline, Let that dying head of Thine In mine arms repose. Let me true communion know With Thee in Thy sacred woe; Counting all beside but dross, Dying with Thee on Thy cross 'Neath it will I die. 1 19 } $ GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 20 ! Thanks to Thee with every breath, Jesus, for Thy bitter death; Grant Thy guilty one this prayer, When my dying hour is near, Gracious God be nigh. When my dying hour must be, Be not absent then from me; In that dreadful hour I pray, Jesus, come without delay, See and set me free. When Thou biddest me depart, Whom I cleave to with my heart, Lover of my soul be near, With thy saving cross appear, Show Thyself to me. O JESU! KING MOST WONDERFUL. O JESU! King most wonderful, Thou Conqueror renowned, Thou sweetness most ineffable, In whom all joys are found. When once Thou visitest the heart, Then truth begins to shine, Then earthly vanities depart, Then kindles love divine. O Jesu! Light of all below, Thou fount of life and fire, Surpassing all the joys we know, All that we can desire. May every heart confess Thy name, And ever Thee adore; And seeking Thee itself inflame To seek Thee more and more. Thee may our tongues for ever bless, Thee may we love alone, And ever in our lives express The image of Thine own. 1 1 GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 21 John Tauler. JOHN TAULER was born in Germany about the year 1294, and became a Dominican monk. His prose works in German are well known, and have been translated into various languages. His " History and Life" were published by S. Winkworth in 1857. He died at Stras- burg, 16th June, 1361. THERE COMES A GALLEY SAILING. THERE comes a galley sailing With amplest cargo stored; It bears God's Son most loving, The Lord's Eternal Word. That galley, calmly floating, Bears freight of priceless cost; Love is the sail that wafts it, Its mast the Holy Ghost. The earth now holds the anchor, The ship to land hath won; God's Word our flesh hath taken, To mankind comes the Son. In Bethlehem an Infant, Born in a manger-stall, He gives Himself to save us; Then praise Him, one and all. And whoso seeks that Infant In loving clasp to hold, Must first with Him bear anguish And sorrows manifold. And then, with Jesus dying, Again with Jesus rise, Ah heir of life eternal, Where Jesus gives the prize, Born 1294. Died 1361. . Geoffrey Chaucer. GEOFFREY CHAUCER was born in London in 1328. He is supposed to have been educated partly at Oxford and partly at Cambridge. At the latter place, when only eighteen years of age, he wrote his first poem. His proficiency as a scholar was wonderful. He mar- ried a sister of the wife of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, the steady friend of Wickliffe. Chaucer's prosperity continued during part of the reign of Richard II.; but he then fell into disgrace, prob- ably as a friend of John of Gaunt and of Wickliffe, and was obliged to leave the kingdom. On his return he was arrested, and im- Born 1328. Died 1400. 22 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. prisoned for some time, but was restored to freedom and prosperity when the Duke of Lancaster returned from Spain in 1389. When Henry IV. ascended the throne, Chaucer (who was the husband of the king's aunt) received a pension, but he did not live long to enjoy it. He died in London on the 25th of October, 1400, and was in- terred in Westminster Abbey. NABUCHODONOSOR. THE mighty trone, the precious tresor, The glorious sceptre, and real majestee, That hadde the King Nabuchodonosor, With tonge unnethes may described be: He twies wan Jerusalem the citee, The vessell of the temple he with him ladde; At Babiloine was his soveraine see, In which his glorie and his delit he hadde. This proude king let make a statue of gold Sixty cubites long and seven in brede, To which image both yonge and old Commanded he to loute and have in drede, Or in a fourneis ful of flames rede He shuld be brent that wolde not obeye; But never wold assenten to that dede, Daniel, ne his yonge felawes tweye. This king of kinges proud was and elat; He wend that God that sit in majestee Ne might him nat bereve of his estat: But sodenly he lost his dignitee, And like a best him semed for to be, And ete heye as an oxe, and lay therout: In rain with wilde bestes walked he Til certain time was ycome about. And like an egle's fethers wex his heres, His neyles like a briddes clawes were, Til God relesed him at certain yeres, And gaf him wit, and than with many a tere He thanked God, and ever his lif in fere Was he to dou amis, or more trespace: And til that time he laid was on his bere He knew that God was ful of might and grace. not easily twice won carried delight bow, fear nor, fellows elated thought not ate grew, hairs nails gave do bier BIANCO DA SIENA. 23 Bianco Da Siena. BIANCO DA SIENA was born at Anciolina, in the Val d'Arno, in Italy. In 1367 he became a member of a religious society which was engaged in works of benevolence. He lived for some time in Venice, and is supposed to have died in 1434. The following piece was translated by Dr. Littledale. A PRAYER TO THE LORD JESUS CHRIST. O JESUS CHRIST, the loving! My darkened heart illume With Thine own radiant glory, Which shineth through the gloom. Shine on, till every shadow For ever flees away, O burning Flame of Mercy! O Everlasting Day! O Source of quenchless fervour! Set Thou my heart aflame, That it may glow with longing For Thy most blessèd name, Till every earthly foulness Be purged and disappear, Removed for ever from me By Thee, O Bridegroom dear! To Thee, O truest Bridegroom! My soul in thought I raise; To Thee, my heart's beloved, I sing my hymn of praise. Oh, let my inmost being Be ever merged in Thine; Make Thou my heart Thy dwelling, O Jesus Christ divine! That every thought of evil Thy presence forth may chase, And only Thou, my Saviour, Fill that abiding-place. So let it find, dear Master, In Thee alone its rest; So let it seek Thee, Jesus, And, gaining Thee, be blest. Died 1434. & 24 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. John Lydgate. JOHN LYDGATE, an ancient English poet, one of the successors of Chaucer, was a monk of the Benedictine abbey of Bury St. Edmund In Suffolk. He was educated at Oxford, and afterwards travelled In France and Italy. He was an extremely prolific writer. Ritson, In his "Bibliographica Poetica," has given a list of no fewer than two hundred and fifty-one pieces written by Lydgate. His most es- teemed poems are the "Fall of Princes," "The Siege of Troy," &c., &c. Warton, in his "History of English Poetry," praises Lydgate for improving the phraseology of the English language, and for writing in a style approaching nearer to that of the present day than that of preceding English poets. Lydgate is supposed to have died about 1460. S Born 1375. Died 1460: AN APPEAL TO GOD FOR MAN'S SALVATION. OUR worthy lordshippes, and our maners olde, O mighty God! how longe voyde shall they be? Thyn heyres eke, how longe shall deth withholde? Syth Thou arte lyfe, why hath deth soveraynte If Thou be Kynge, to Thyn honour Thou se; So bynde the Fende, and take man by conquest Unto Thy blysse, and set Thy reygne in rest. Foure thousande yere is suffy saunt For to punysshe olde Adam for a taste; And, welawaye! hell is exuberant With his ofspringes, and our realme stondeth waste. Now rewe on man, Thou, that all mercy haste, For now is tyme of mercy and of peas; And tyme come that all vengeaunce sholde seas. Martin Luther. MARTIN LUTHER was born at Eisleben, Lower Saxony, 10th Novem- ber, 1483. His father, a miner, intended him to be a lawyer, and he was educated at the University of Erfurt. A fellow-student was killed by lightning. Luther was so shocked that he became an Augustine monk in 1505. He began his public opposition to the Church of Rome on 31st October, 1517, and, aided by some of the princes of Germany, triumphantly accomplished the Reformation, though the success of the Protestant cause was not gained without great bodily and mental labour by Luther and danger to him. He composed several hymns, published a translation of the Bible in German, and many other works. He died 18th February, 1546. The first of the following pieces was translated by Rev. Dr. W. L. Alex- ander, the last by R. Massie, Born 1183. Died 1546. MARTIN LUTHER. 25 ! B LUTHER'S HYMN. A FORTRESS firm is God our Lord, A sure defence and weapon; Prompt help in need He doth afford, Let happen what may happen. Our ancient wicked foe, Full of wrath doth go, With much craft and might In horrid armour dight; On earth is not his fellow. Of our own might we nothing can; We lie forlorn, dejected; There fights for us the rightful Man, By God himself elected. Dost thou inquire His name? Jesus Christ? The same! Lord of Hosts is He, Besides Him none can be: 'Tis He the field that keepeth. And were this world of devils full, For our destruction eager, That should not our firm faith annul; We would abide their leaguer. The Prince of this lost world, From his empire hurl'd, Though with rage he roar, Is judged and can no more; A word shall overthrow him. Hold fast that word which must remain, Let no dark doubt invade us; He will be with us on the plain, With gifts and grace to aid us. Let life and honour fall, Let them take our all, Still our course we'll keep, No prize from us they'll reap; For us the kingdom waiteth. EASTER DAY. CHRIST, the Lord, in death-bonds lay, Made a prisoner for our sin; Thence uprising the third day, Endless life for us did win. 26 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 Therefore will we joyful bring Endless praises to our King; Ever hallelujah! sing. When no one could Death subdue, When among the sons of earth All were powerless to do, All were guilty from their birth: Then did Death lift up his head, Walked the earth with mighty tread, And all men in bondage led. But the Lord, the Son of God, Now has come to our relief, He hath borne away the load Of our sin, and fear, and grief. Death no more can hold us bound- Death is but an empty sound, Nothing of his sting is found. O how wonderful to see Death and Life in conflict meet! Life hath won the victory, Trodden Death beneath his feet. Even as the Scripture shows, He hath conquered all our foes— Death was slain, but Jesus rose! See the very Paschal Lamb, Who God's anger turned aside,- He for love hath borne the shame, He upon the cross hath died. Let His blood be sprinkled o'er All the sideposts of the door— Death can strike at us no more. So we keep the feast to-day With heart-joy and full delight; Here His beams of mercy play, Christ hath risen upon our night. He His grace doth sweetly send, While our hearts before Him bend- The long sin-night is at an end. Now, as Israelites, we eat Paschal bread with love and joy, Staff in hand, and shoes on feet, All old leaven would destroy. i ! MARTIN LUTHER. 27 Christ will be that bread indeed, He our famished souls will feed- Faith can sing in every need, Hallelujah! FROM DEPTHS OF WOE. (Hymn sung at Luther's funeral.) FROM depths of woe I raise to Thee The voice of lamentation; Lord, turn a gracious ear to me, And hear my supplication: If Thou should'st be extreme to mark Each secret sin and misdeed dark, Oh! who could stand before Thee? To wash away the crimson stain, Grace, grace alone availeth; Our works, alas! are all in vain, In much the best life faileth: ■ No man can glory in Thy sight, All must alike confess Thy might, And live alone by mercy. Therefore my trust is in the Lord, And not in mine own merit; On Him my soul shall rest, His word Upholds my fainting spirit; His promised mercy is my fort, My comfort, and my sweet support, I wait for it with patience. What though I wait the livelong night, And till the dawn appeareth; My heart still trusteth in His might, It doubteth not, nor feareth: So let the Israelite in heart, Born of the Spirit, do his part, And wait till God appeareth. Although our sin is great indeed, God's mercies far exceed it: His hand can give the help we need, However much we need it: He is the Shepherd of the sheep, Who Israël doth guard and keep, And shall from sin redeem him. } 28 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. f Born Myles Coverdale, Bishop of Exeter. { Bied 1568. MYLES COVERDALE, born in Yorkshire in 1487, was educated by the Augustine friars at Cambridge, and was ordained a priest, but after- wards became a Protestant.__ In 1535 he published his translation of the Bible dedicated to King Henry VIII., and thus had the honour of producing the first English Bible allowed by royal authority. He also assisted in preparing Cranmer's Bible for the press. About 1539 he published "Ghostly Psalmes and Spirituall Songes," the first at- tempt made in the English language to publish Protestant sacred poetry. In 1552 he was appointed Bishop of Exeter. During the reign of Queen Mary he was put into prison. On his release he went abroad. He returned to England during the reign of Queen Eliza- beth, was rector of St. Magnus, London, and died in 1568. PSALM CXXX. OUT of the deep cry I to Thee, O Lord! Lord, hear my calling; O let thine ears enclined be To the voice of my complaining. If thou, Lord, wilt deal with strictness, To mark all that is done amiss, Lord, who may abide that reckoning? But there is mercy ever with Thee, That thou therefore may be feared; I will abide the Lord patiently, My soul looketh for Him untired, And in His word is all my trust; So is my hope and comfort most His promise shall be fulfilled. As the watchmen in the morning, Stood looking long desirously; That they might see the fair day spring; So waiteth my soul for the Lord daily; Therefore let Israel wait still, Until it be the Lord's will To loose them from adversity. For with the Lord there is mercy, And great plenteous redemption; Although we sin oft wickedly, Yet hath He for us a sure pardon. He shall redeem poor Israel, And him shall He deliver full well From all the sins that he hath done. 0 • HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. PRAISE TO GOD. A JOYFUL thing to man it is The Lord to celebrate; Archbishop Parker. MATTHEW PARKER was born at Norwich in the year 1504, and was educated in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, of which he became a fellow. He adopted the views of the Reformers, and was appointed chaplain to Anne Boleyn, dean of the College of Stoke-Clare, and afterwards chaplain to Henry VIII. He was deprived of his prefer ments by Queen Mary, and during her reign he lived in retirement. On the accession of Queen Elizabeth, he was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury. He superintended a translation of the Scriptures called "The Bishop's Bible," and he published editions of several early English historians, a book on the Antiquity of the English Church, a version of the Psalms, and other works. He died 17th May, 1575. To Thy good name, O God, so high, Due lauds to modulate. To preach and show Thy gentleness At early morning light; Thy truth of word to testify All whole by length of night. Upon the psalm, the decachord, Upon the pleasant lute, On sounding, good, sweet instruments, With shawms, with harp and flute. For Thou hast joy'd my fearful heart, O Lord, Thy works to see, And I with praise will full rejoice, The handy-works of Thee. 29 Born 1504. Died 1565. Born Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. {Bied 1547. "" HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY, a brave soldier, and one of the best English poets of his age, was born in 1518. He was the son of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, who fought bravely at Flodden. The Earl of Surrey served under his father both in Scotland and in France. He fell a victim to the caprice of Henry VIII., who pre- tended to suspect him of treason. He was beheaded on Tower Hill, 21st January, 1547. He wrote Songs and Sonnets," &c., which were much liked by his contemporaries. He is the first English writer of blank verse. 30 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. > TRUST IN GOD. THOUGH, Lord, to Israel Thy graces plenteous be— I mean to such, with pure intent, As fix their trust in Thee- Yet whiles the faith did faint That should have been my guide: Like them that walk in slippery paths, My feet began to slide. Whiles I did grudge at those That glory in their gold, Whose loathsome pride rejoiceth wealth In quiet as they wold To see by course of years What nature doth appear, The palaces of princely form Succeed from heir to heir. Oh, how their ground is false, And all their building vain; And they shall fall, their power shall fail That did their pride maintain. As charged hearts with care, That dream some pleasant turn, After their sleep find their abuse, And to their plaint return; So shall their glory fade; Thy sword of vengeance shall Unto their drunken eyes in blood Disclose their errors all. In other succour, then, O Lord! why should I trust, But only Thine, whom I have found In Thy behight so just? And such, for dread or gain, As shall Thy name refuse, Shall perish with their golden gods That did their hearts seduce; Where I, that in Thy word Have set my trust and joy, The high reward that 'longs thereto, Shall quietly enjoy. GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 31 & And my unworthy lips, Inspired with Thy grace, Shall thus forespeak Thy secret works In sight of Adam's race. GOOD MORROW. You that have spent the silent night In sleep and quiet rest, And joy to see the cheerful light That riseth in the east, George Gascoigne. GEORGE GASCOIGNE, an English poet, was born at Walthamstow, Essex, in 1537. His education was conducted at the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, and for a time the legal profession seemed to be his aim; but, taking a dislike to that. he laid down the pen and took up the sword. He obtained from the Prince of Orange a commission as captain in the army then defending the cause of Protestantism in Holland. Soon after his marriage he returned to England, where he resumed his legal pursuits, which, however, did not interfere with his attendance at the court of Queen Elizabeth; and it was at this period he wrote his principal dramatic works. In 1575 the first volume of his works was published, and a collected edition of his works in 1587. He died at his native place, Waltham- stow, in the year 1577. Now clear your voice, now cheer your hear Come help me now to sing; Each willing wight, come, bear a part To praise the heavenly King. And you whom care in prison keeps, Or sickness doth suppress, Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, Or dolours do distress: Yet bear a part in doleful wise, Yea, think it good accord, And acceptable sacrifice, Each sprite to praise the Lord. Born 1537. Died 1577. The dreadful night with darksomnesse Had overspread the light, And sluggish sleep with drowsinesse Had overprest our might: A glass wherein you may behold Each storm that stops our breath, Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death. 32 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 4 Yet as this deadly night did last But for a little space, And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth show his pleasant face: So must we hope to see God's face At last in heaven on high, When we have changed this mortal place For immortality. And of such happes and heavenly joys As then we hope to hold, All earthly sights and worldly toys Are tokens to behold: The day is like the day of doom, The sun the Son of Man, The skies the heavens, the earth the tomb, Wherein we rest till than. The rainbow bending in the sky, Bedecked with sundry hues, Is like the seat of God on high, And seems to tell these news: That as thereby He promisèd To drown the world no more, So by the blood which Christ hath shed He will our health restore. The misty clouds that fall sometime, And overcast the skies, Are like the troubles of our time, Which do but dim our eyes: But as such dews are dried up quite When Phoebus shows his face, So are such fancies put to flight Where God doth guide by grace. Edmund Spenser. Edmund SpenSER, born in London in 1553, was educated at Pem- broke College, Cambridge, and was introduced by Sir Philip Sidney to Queen Elizabeth, who appointed him poet-laureate. His "Shep- herd's Calandar," 1579, obtained great popularity. He was secre- tary to Lord Grey de Wilton, Governor of Ireland, had a grant of 3000 acres of forfeited land, with the Castle of Kilcolman in Ireland, where he wrote the first part of the "Fairie Queen." published in 1590, for which the queen granted him an annuity of £50 (equal to £200 now). The second part was published in 1591. Spenser died 16th January, 1599, and was buried near Chaucer in Westminster Abbey. Born 1553. Diea 1599. DR. PHILIP NICOLAI. 33 VOUCHSAFE, then, O Thou most Almighty Spright! From whom all gifts of wit and knowledge flow, To shed into my breast some sparkling light Of Thine eternall truth, that I may show Some little beames to mortall eyes below Of that immortall beautie there with Thee, Which in my weake, distraughted mind I see; That with the glorie of so goodly sight The hearts of men, which fondly here admire Faire seeming shewes, and feed on vain delight, Transported with celestiall desire Of those faire formes, may lift themselves up hyer, And learn to love, with zealous humble dewty, The eternall Fountaine of that heavenly beauty. Dr. Philip Nicolai. DR. PHILIP NICOLAI was born at Mengeringhausen, in the Principal- ity of Waldeck, in the year 1556. His father was a Lutheran minister, and Philip was ordained as his assistant in 1576. After various changes of residence, he became the minister of St. Cathe rine's Church, Hamburg, where he died in the year 1608. THE MORNING STAR. How bright appears the Morning Star, With mercy beaming from afar! The host of heaven rejoices! O Righteous Branch! O Jesse's Rod! Thou Son of man, and Son of God! We too will lift our voices. Jesu! Jesu! Holy, holy! yet most lowly! Draw thou near us; Great Immanuel! stoop and hear us. Though circled by the hosts on high, He deigned to cast a pitying eye Upon His helpless creature: The whole creation's Head and Lord, By highest seraphim adored, Assumed our very nature. Jesu! grant us, Through thy merit, to inherit Thy salvation; Hear, O hear! our supplication. B* '? Born 1556. { Died 1608. 1 34 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ; Then will we to the world make known The love Thou hast to outcasts shown, In calling them before Thee; And seek each day to be more meet To join the throng who at Thy feet Unceasingly adore Thee. Living, dying, From Thy praises, mighty Jesus! Shrink we never; Sing we forth Thy name for ever. Rejoice, ye heavens! thou earth, reply! With praise, ye sinners, fill the sky, For this His incarnation! Incarnate God! put forth Thy power, Ride on, ride on, great Conqueror, Till all know Thy salvation. Amen! amen! Hallelujah! hallelujah! Praise be given Evermore by earth and heaven. Robert Southwell. ROBERT SOUTHWELL, a descendant of an English Jesuit family, was born in 1560. He was educated at Douai, and after being for a time prefect of the Jesuits' College at Rome, he returned as a missionary to England. His object (as he afterwards owned) was to gain con- verts to the Catholic religion. In 1592 he was apprehended, and sent to prison on a charge of conspiracy. Three years after he was tried, found guilty, and hanged at Tyburn. He was the author of various works, both in prose and verse. SHUN DELAYS. Born 1560. Died 1595, SHUN delays, they breed remorse; Take thy time, while time is lent thee; Creeping snails have weakest force, Fly their fault, lest thou repent thee. Good is best when soonest wrought; Lingering labours come to nought. Hoist up sail whilst gale doth last, Tide and wind stay no man's pleasure; Seek not time when time is past, Sober speed is wisdom's leisure. After-wits are dearly bought; Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought. ¦ SIMON WASTELL. 35 } Time wears all his locks before, Take thou hold upon his forehead; When he flies, he turns no more, And behind his scalp is naked. Works adjourned have many stays; Long demurs breed new delays. Seek thy salve while sore is green, Festered wounds ask deeper lancing; After-cures are seldom seen, Often sought, scarce ever chancing. Time and place give best advice; Out of season, out of place. Simon Mastell. SIMON WASTELL was born about the year 1562, in the county of West- moreland. He was educated at Oxford University, and was after- wards the principal or master of the free school in the town of Northampton. In 1623 he published in London a volume entitled, "A True Christian's Daily Delight, in English Verse." His "Micro- biblion; or, The Bible's Epitome, in Verse," was founded on the pre- ceding work, and was published in 1629. MAN'S MORTALITY. LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower of May, Or like the morning to the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonah 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, and 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. Į Born 1562. 36 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. i b. } E'en such is man; who lives by breath, Is 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. King James the First. JAMES CHARLES STUART was born in Edinburgh Castle, 19th June, 1566. His mother, Mary Queen of Scots, having been forced to resign the crown after the murder of his father, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, James became a king at an early age. When eighteen years old he published "The Essay of a Prentise in the Divine Art of Poesie," which was followed by a number of poetical, theological, and other works. In 1589 he married the Princess Anna, daughter of the King of Denmark, whose marriage portion was the Orkney and Shetland Islands. In 1603 he became King of Great Britain and Ireland. Some of the principal events in his reign were the gunpowder plot, to blow up the Houses of Parlia- ment, the authorised translation of the Holy Bible into English, and the marriage of Frederick Elector Palatine to James's daughter Elizabeth, through whom the present monarchs possess the crown. James died 27th March, 1625. PSALM XXIX. YE princes' sonnes, yield to the Lorde, Yield Him all force and gloire, And yield to Him the honoure deu Unto His name thairfoire. Inclyne and bou youreselfis adoune; Adore Jehoua great, Quho sittis most gloriously upon His throne and holy seat. The uoyce of God on nattiris ringis, And makis a wondrousse sound; Strong gloriouse God doth thunder, his uoyce On nattiris that abound: The uoyce of God cummis semely furth, His uoyce cummis furth with 'micht; Jehoua's uoyce the cedres brekis, Euen Leban's cedres wicht, And makis thaime as a calf to skipp; Hudge Leban, Sirion eik, Lyke to the faime of vnicornis, Will leap quhen he doth speik. Born 1566. Died 1625. / SIR. JOHN DAVIES. 37. His uoyce makis wildernesses murne, And quenchis flammes of fyre; Euen the desertis of Kades large May not abyde His yre. Jehoua's uoice makis hyndis to calue, And tirris the forrestis grene; Bot in His temple all His gloire He showis and makis be sene. Jehoua satt in the deluge, And sittis a King for aye; He also to His people giues The force thay have allwaye. The same Jehoua great doth blesse His people well belouid. With great tranquillitie and peace, Pray it be not remouid. Born 1570. Died 1626. Sir John Davies. JOHN DAVIES, born at Tisbury, Wiltshire, in 1570, was educated at Queen's College, Oxford. He became a barrister, and published a celebrated poem, "Nosce Teipsum" (Know Thyself), that obtained for him the favour of King James I., who called him "Nosce Teipsum," knighted him, and appointed him Attorney-General for Ireland. Davies died suddenly, 7th December, 1626, just before he was to be sworn in as Lord Chief-Justice. OH! WHAT IS MAN? OH! what is man, great Maker of mankind! That Thou to him so great respect dost bear, That Thou adorn'st him with so bright a mind, Mak'st 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 man, since God a man became : The angels do admire this mystery, And are astonish'd when they view the same. of Vá 38 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. of [ 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 aye; And though it hath beginning, sees no end. Rev. John Donne. THE REV. JOHN DONNE, an English poet, was born in London in 1573. His parents were Roman Catholics, but he, at an early age, em. braced the Protestant faith, and soon afterwards went abroad. His first appointment was as secretary to Lord Chancellor Ellesmere, whose niece he married. In 1614 he was induced by King James I. to study for the Church. He became an eminent preacher, and was made Doctor of Divinity by the University of Cambridge. A few years afterwards he was appointed Dean of St. Paul's Cathedral. His great work, the "Pseudo-Martyr," was published in 1610. He was also the author of various essays and sermons. He died in the year 1631. A LITANY. THE FATHER. FATHER of Heaven, and Him by whom It and us for it, and all else for us, Thou mad'st, and governest ever, come And recreate me now grown ruinous. My heart is by dejection clay, And by self-murder red. From this red earth, O Father, purge away All vicious tincture, that new fashioned I may rise up from death, before I'm dead. Born 1573. Died 1631. THE SON. O Son of God! who seeing two things, Sin and Death, crept in which were never made, By bearing one, try'dst with what stings The other could thine heritage invade; O be Thou nailed unto my heart, And crucified again. Part not from it, though it from Thee would part, But let it be, by applying so Thy pain, Drowned in Thy blood, and in Thy passion slain. THE HOLY GHOST. O Holy Ghost! whose temple I Am, but of mud walls and condensed dust, And being sacrilegiously Half wasted with youth's fire of pride and lust, f f = BEN JONSON. Must with new storms be weather beat, Double in my heart the flame, Which let devout sad tears attend; and let (Though the glass lanthorn flesh do suffer maim) Fire, sacrifice, priest, altar be the same. THE TRINITY. O blessed, glorious Trinity! Bones to philosophy, but milk to faith, Which, as wise serpents diversely Most slipperiness, yet most entanglings hath, As you distinguished, indistinct By power, love, knowledge be, Give me a such self-different instinct; Of these let all me elemented be, Of power to love, to know, you unnumbered Three. 39 Ben Jonson. BEN JONSON, an English poet, was born, in 1574, at Westminster. His father was a minister, but died before the birth of his son; and the stepfather insisted that Ben should follow his trade, that of a bricklayer. This was so much against the inclinations of the boy, that he enlisted as a soldier, and served with distinction in the army at Flanders. Soon afterwards he returned to England, and went first to Cambridge and then to London, where he turned his atten- tion to the stage, and wrote several dramas. In 1617 he resumed his literary pursuits, and so successfully, that the degree of M.A. was conferred on him, and two years later he was made poet- laureate. He died at the age of 63, on the 16th of August, 1637. TO HEAVEN. GOOD and great God! can I not think of Thee, But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease Born 1574. Died 1637. That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? O be Thou witness, that the reins dost know, And hearts of all, if I be sad for show; And judge me after, if I dare pretend To ought but grace, or aim at other end. As Thou art all, so be Thou all to me; First, midst, and last, converted One and Three, My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state, My Judge, my Witness, and my Advocate. Where have I been this while exil'd from Thee? And whither rapt, now Thou but stoop'st to me? 3 40 ATE GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Dwell, dwell, here still: O Being everywhere! How can I doubt to find Thee ever here? I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, Conceived in sin, and unto labour born, Standing with fear, and must with horror fall ; And destined unto judgment after all. I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh to inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of Thee. George Sandys. GEORGE SANDYS, the second son of an Archbishop of York, was born at Bishopsthorpe, Yorkshire, in 1577. He received his education from eleven years of age at St. Mary Hall, and at Corpus Christi College, Oxford. He travelled in various countries, and, in 1615, published a work of his travels in Turkey, Egypt, the Holy Land, Italy, &c. He went next to Virginia, in America, where he was treasurer for the colony. After his return to England, he was one of the gentlemen of King Charles the First's privy chamber, but he afterwards resided at Bexley Abbey, in Kent, where he died in March, 1643. Sandys' poetry consists chiefly of metrical versions of parts of the Holy Scrip.ures. PRAYER IN ADVERSITY. THE Lord in thy adversity Regard thy cry; Great Jacob's God with safety arm And shield from harm; Help from His sanctuary send, And out of Sion thee defend. : Thy odours, which pure flames consume, Be His perfume; May He accept thy sacrifice, Fir'd from the skies; For ever thy endeavours bless, And crown thy counsels with success. We will of Thy deliverance sing, Triumphant King; Born 1577. Died 1643. Our ensigns in that pray'd-for day With joy display, : WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 41 : Even in the name of God. O, still May He thy just desires fulfil! Now know I His Anointed He Will hear and free; With saving hand and mighty power, From His high tower. Trust in horse, in chariots those, Our trust we in our God repose. ' Their wounded limbs with anguish bend To death descend; But we in fervour of the fight Have stood upright. O save us, Lord! Thy suppliants hear; And in our aid, great King, appear. : William Drummond. WILLIAM DRUMMOND, a distinguished poet, was born at Hawthorn- den in the year 1585, and was educated principally in Edinburgh. Although destined for the legal profession, he, on the death of his father, retired to the family seat at Hawthornden, and devoted him- self to literary pursuits. He wrote several poems, a volume of which was published in 1616. After spending several years on the Continent on account of his health, he returned to Hawthornden, where he wrote various pieces, sacred and secular. Among the former, his best known pièce is “Flowers of Zion." He died in the year 1649. S Born 1585. Died 1649. JOHN THE BAPTIST. THE last and greatest herald of heaven's King, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild; Among that savage brood the woods forth bring Which he than man more harmless found and mild. His food was locusts, and what there doth spring With honey that from virgin hives distilled. Parch'd body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear long since from earth exiled. There burst he forth: "All ye whose hopes rely On God, with me amidst these deserts mourn; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn." Who listen'd to his voice, obey'd his cry? Only the echoes, which he made relent, Rung from their flinty caves, "Repent! repent!" ! 42 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Francis Beaumont. FRANCIS BEAUMONT was born in Leicestershire in 1586. His grand- father was a master of the Rolls, and his father was one of the judges of the Court of Common Pleas. Francis became a member of the Inner Temple, but devoted little time to the study of law. He be- came acquainted with John Fletcher, a celebrated dramatist and poet, with whom he formed a most intimate friendship; and from that time he devoted himself entirely to literature. He died in Lon don in 1616. Born 1586, Died 1616. MAN CREATED IN THE IMAGE OF GOD. O MAN! thou image of thy Maker's good! What canst thou fear when breathed into thy blood His Spirit is that built thee? What dull sense Makes thee suspect in need that Providence, Who made the morning, and who placed the light, Guide to thy labours; who call'd up the night, And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers; Who gave thee knowledge; who so trusteth thee To let thee grow so near Himself, the Tree? Must He, then, be distrusted? shall his frame Discourse with Him, why thus and thus I am? He made the angels thine, thy fellows all; Nay, even thy servants when devotions call. Oh, canst thou be so stupid, then, so dim, To seek a saving influence, and lose Him? Can stars protect Thee? or can poverty, Which is the light to heaven, put out His eye? He is my star; in Him all truth I find, All influence, all fate; and when my mind Is furnish'd with His fulness, my poor story Should outlive all their age and all their glory. Born 1588. Died 1667. George Wither. GEORGE WITHER was born on the 11th of June, 1588, at Bentworth, Hampshire. After having attended the Colemere Grammar School, he was sent to Magdalen College, Oxford. Family misfortunes in- terrupted his studies, and he eventually went to London, where he was successful as a poet and writer, especially in his work, "Abuses Stript and Whipt," which caused him to be imprisoned. He in- herited some landed property, which he sold when the civil war began, and raised a troop of horse to fight against the King. Wither, after a series of adventures, was, in the reign of Charles II., imprisoned for some time for a libel on the House of Commons. He died 2nd May, 1667. ¡ GILES FLETCHER. 43 SEASONABLE WEATHER. LORD, should the sun, the clouds, the wind, The air, and seasons be To us so froward and unkind As we are false to Thee, All fruits would quite away be burn'd, Or lie in water drown'd, Or blasted be, or overturn'd, Or chill'd upon the ground. But, from our duty though we swerve, Thou still dost mercy show, And deign Thy creatures to preserve, That men might thankful grow; Yea, though from day to day we sin, And Thy displeasure gain, No sooner we to cry begin But pity we obtain. The weather now Thou changed hast That put us late to fear, And when our hopes were almost past Then comfort did appear. The Heaven the earth's complaint hath heard, They reconciled be, And Thou such weather hast prepared As we desired of Thee. For which, with lifted hands and eyes, To Thee we do repay The due and willing sacrifice Of giving thanks to-day; Because such offerings we should not To render Thee be slow, Nor let that mercy be forgot Which Thou art pleased to show. Giles Fletcher. GILES FLETCHER was born in 1588. His father was ambassador to Russia in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Giles was educated at Cambridge, became a clergyman, and obtained the living of Alder- ton, in Suffolk. He was the author of a poem entitled. "" Christ's Victory and Triumph in Heaven and Earth, over and after Death." He died at Alderton in 1623. Born 1588. Died 1623. 1 44 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. AGAINST A RICH MAN DESPISING POVERTY. IF well thou view'st us with no squinted eye, No partial judgment, thou wilt quickly rate Thy wealth no richer than thy poverty, My want no poorer than thy rich estate: Our ends and births alike; in this, as I, Poor thou wert born, and poor again shalt die. My little fills my little-wishing mind; Thou, having more than much, yet seekest more. Who seeks, still wishes what he seeks to find; Who wishes, wants; and whoso wants is poor. Then this must follow of necessity— Poor are thy riches, rich my poverty. * * * * Whatever man possesses, God has lent, And to His audit liable is ever; * To reckon how, and where, and when he spent, Then thus thou bragg'st thou art a great receiver. Little my debt, when little is my store; The more thou hast, thy debt still grows the more. But, seeing God Himself descended down To enrich the poor by His rich poverty,— His meat, His house, His grave were not His own, Yet all is His from all eternity, Let me be like my Head, whom I adore; Be thou great, wealthy-I still base and poor. Born 1591. Died 1669: Bishop Henry King. HENRY KING, eldest son of Bishop King, was born at Wornall, Buckinghamshire, in 1591. He graduated at Christ Church, Oxford, was ordained a clergyman, and, after successive preferments, was appointed Chaplain to King James I., Dean of Rochester in 1638, and Bishop of Chichester in 1641. Bishop King's religious poetry is far superior to that of the generality of the poets of the period in the structure of his verses, and has none of the conceits that disfigure other productions of the time. He died in 1669. A PENITENTIAL HYMN. HEARKEN, O God! unto a wretch's cries, Who low dejected at Thy footstool lies; Let not the clamour of my heinous sin Drown my requests, which strive to enter in ROBERT HERRICK. 45 · At those bright gates, which always open stand To such as beg permission at Thy hand. For well I know, if Thou in rigour deal, I can nor pardon ask, nor yet appeal; To my hoarse voice heaven will no audience grant, But, deaf as brass, and hard as adamant, Beat back my words; therefore I bring to Thee A gracious Advocate to plead for me. What though my leprous soul no Jordan can Recure, nor floods of the laved ocean Make clean? Yet, from my Saviour's bleeding side Two large and medicinal rivers glide— Lord! wash me where those streams of life abound, And new Bethesdas flow from every wound! Robert Herrick. ROBERT HERRICK, the son of a goldsmith, was born in Cheapside, London, in 1591. He received his education at Westminster School and at Cambridge University. Having become a clergyman, he was presented by King Charles to the vicarage of Dean-Prior, Devon- shire, where he remained until he was forced to leave it, after the defeat of the Royalists by the Parliamentarians. He went to reside in Westminster, where he remained in poverty until after the restoration, when he returned to his vicarage, where he died in 1674. A PRAYER. For those my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times; For every sentence, clause, and word, That's not inlaid with Thee, my Lord, Forgive me, God, and blot each line Out of my book that is not Thine. But if, 'mongst all, Thou find'st here one Worthy Thy benediction; That one of all the rest shall be The glory of my work and me. Born 1591. Died 1674. TO HIS SAVIOUR. NIGHT hath no wings to him that cannot sleep; And Time seems then not for to fly, but creep; Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she Had broke her wheel, or cracked her axle-tree. Just so it is with me, who, list'ning, pray ¦ 46 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The winds to blow the tedious night away, That I might see the cheerful peeping day. Sick is my heart, O Saviour! do Thou please To make my bed soft in my sicknesses; Lighten my candle, so that I beneath Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death; Let me Thy voice betimes i' th' morning hear; Call, and I'll come; say Thou the when and where; Draw me but first, and after Thee I'll run, And make no one stop till my race be done. Francis Quarles. FRANCIS QUARLES was born near Romford, Essex, in 1592, and edu- cated at Cambridge. He was appointed cup-bearer to Elizabeth Queen of Bohemia, and afterwards went to Ireland as secretary to Archbishop Usher. During the rebellion in 1641 he was driven from that country, and being true to the Royalist cause he suffered ac- cordingly. He lost all his property, even his books and manuscripts. It is said that grief at the loss of the latter tended to hasten his death. The most celebrated of his works in prose and verse is his "Emblems." His other works are "Argalus and Parthenia," " En- chiridion of Meditations," "Divine Fancies," and the "Shepherd's Oracles.' "" BREVITY OF LIFE. BEHOLD! How short a span Was long enough of old To measure out the life of man! Born 1592. Died 1344. In those well-tempered days his time was then Survey'd, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten.: ALAS! And what is that? They come, and slide, and pass, Before my pen can tell thee what. The posts of time are swift, which, having run Their sev'n short stages o'er, their short-liv'd task is done.. OUR DAYS Begun, we lend To sleep, to antic plays And toys, until the first stage end: Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give To unrecover'd loss-we we rather breathe than live. ▼ پل GEORGE HERBERT. 47 HOW VAIN, How wretched is Poor man that doth remain A slave to such a state as this! His days are short, at longest; few, at most; They are but bad, at best; yet lavished out or lost. THEY BE The secret springs, That make our minutes flee On wheels more swift than eagles' wings. Our life's a clock, and every gasp of breath Baeathes forth a warning grief, till time shall strike a death. HOW SOON · Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon! And this, how soon to grey-hair'd night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast. THEY END When scarce begun, And ere we apprehend That we begin to live, our life is done. Man count thy days; and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last. George Herbert. GEORGE HERBERT, the fifth brother of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, was born at Montgomery Castle, Montgomeryshire, 3rd April, 1593. He was educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cam- bridge, where, in 1615, he became a fellow, and, in 1619, public ora- tor of the university. He made the acquaintance of Lord Bacon, who introduced him to King James I., whosc death put an end to Herbert's prospects of court preferment. He entered the ministry of the Church of England, and was prebendary of Leighton Broms- wold in 1626; he' married in 1630, and was appointed rector of Bem- erton, Wiltshire, where he died, February, 1632. + Born 1593. Died 1632. THE BIBLE. THE Bible! that's the Book, the Book indeed, The Book of books, On which who looks, 48 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. As he should do, aright, shall never need Wish for a better light To guide him in the night. Or, when he hungry is, for better food To feed upon, Than this alone, If he bring stomach and digestion good; And if he be amiss, This the best physic is. It is the looking-glass of souls, wherein All men may see Whether they be Still, as by nature they are, deform'd with sin; Or in a better case, As new adorn'd with grace. 'Tis the great magazine of spiritual arms, Wherein doth lie The artillery Of heaven, ready charged against all harms, That might come by the blows Of our infernal foes. God's cabinet of reveal'd counsel 'tis, Where weal and woe Are order'd so, That every man may know which shall be his; Unless, his own mistake, False application make. It is the index to Eternity: He cannot miss Of endless bliss That takes this chart to steer his voyage by, Nor can he be mistook That speaketh by this Book. A Book to which no book can be compared For excellence; Pre-eminence Is proper to it, and cannot be shared. Divinity alone Belongs to it, or none. | } + 1 GEORGE HERBERT. 49 It is the Book of God. What if I should Say, God of books? Let him that looks Angry at this expression, as too bold, His thoughts in silence smother, Till he find such another. THE TEMPER. How should I praise Thee, Lord! how should my rymes Gladly engrave Thy love on steel, If what my soul doth feel sometimes, My soul might ever feel. Although there were some fourtie heavens or more, Sometimes I peere above them all; Sometimes I hardly reach a score; Sometimes to hell I fall. O rack me not to such a vast extent; Those distances belong to Thee; The world's too little for Thy tent, A grave too big for me. Wilt Thou meet arms with man, that Thou dost stretch A crumme of dust from heaven to hell? Will great God measure such a wretch? Shall He thy stature spell? O let me, when Thy roof my soul hath hid, O let me roost and nestle there; Then of a sinner Thou art rid, And I of hope and fear. Yet take Thy way-for sure Thy way is best— Stretch or contract me, Thy poore debtor; This is but tuning of my breast, To make the musick better. Whether I flie with angels, fall with dust, Thy hands made both, and I am there: Thy power and love, my love and trust, Make one place everywhere. C 50 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ABIDE WITH PRAYER. Or what an easy, quick access, My blessed Lord, art Thou! how suddenly May our requests thine ear invade! To show that state dislikes not easiness, If I but lift mine eyes, my suit is made: Thou canst no more not hear, than Thou canst die. Of what supreme Almighty power Is Thy great arm, which spans the east and west, And tacks the centre to the sphere! By it do all things live their measur'd hour: We cannot ask the thing which is not there, Blaming the shallowness of our request. Of what immeasurable love Art Thou possess'd, who, when Thou couldst not die, Wert fain to take our flesh and curse, And for our sakes in person sin reprove! That by destroying that which tied Thy purse, Thou might'st make way for liberality. Since then these three wait on Thy throne, Easc, Power, and Love; I value prayer so, That were I to leave all but one, Wealth, fame, endowments, virtues, all should go; I and dear prayer would together dwell, And quickly gain for each inch lost an ell. Born 1605. Died 1687. Edmund Maller. EDMUND WALLER, born at Coleshill, Hertfordshire, on the 3rd of March, 1605, was left a fortune of £3500 a-year, when very young, by the death of his father. He was educated at Eton and at King's College, Cambridge. He began his political career as a Member of Parliament. He was related to Hampden and Cromwell, and took an active part in the Parliamentary proceedings in these troublous times. He was at last implicated in a Royalist plot, was im- prisoned, fined £10,000, and had to leave England. In 1645 he pub- lished a volume of poems. In 1653 Cromwell permitted "Cousin Waller, as he styled him, to return to England. Waller, when above eighty years of age, consecrated," as he said, "his poetry to devotion," and wrote a volume of religious poetry. He died 21st October, 1687. 11 64 3 WILLIAM HABINGTON. 51 f DIVINE LOVE. COULD we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree, as angels do above. Where love presides, not vice alone does find No entrance there, but virtues stay behind: Both faith and hope, and all the meaner train Of moral virtues, at the door remain. Love only enters as a native there; For, born in heaven, is does but sojourn here. He that alone would wise and mighty be, Commands that others love as well as He. Love as He loved! How can we soar so high? He can add wings when He commands to fly. Nor should we be with this command dismay'd; He that examples gives will give His aid; For He took flesh, that, where His precepts fail, His practice, as a pattern, may prevail. His love, at once, and dread instruct our thought: As man He suffered, and as God he taught. Will for the deed He takes; we may with ease Obedient be, for if we love, we please. Weak though we are, to love is no hard task, And love for love is all that Heaven does ask. Love! that would all men just and temperate make, Kind to themselves and others for His sake. 'Tis with our minds as with a fertile ground, Wanting this love, they must with weeds abound (Unruly passions), whose effects are worse Than thorns and thistles, springing from the curse. William Habington. WILLIAM HABINGTON was born at Henlip, Worcestershire, in 1605. He was educated at St. Omer's and Paris. He published a volume of poems under the title of "Castara." He was also the author of a tragedy entitled, "The Queen of Arragon," "A History of Ed- ward IV.," and "Observations upon History." He married the daughter of Lord Powis. He died in the year 1645. NUMBERING OUR DAYS. TELL me, O great all-knowing God! What period Hast Thou unto my days assign'd? Like some old leafless tree, shall I Born 1605, Died 1645. 52 : GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Wither away, or violently Fall by the axe, or lightning, or the wind? Here where I first drew vital breath, Shall I meet death? And find in the same vault a room Where my forefathers' ashes sleep? Or shall I die where none shall weep My timeless fate, and my cold earth entomb? Shall I 'gainst the swift Parthians fight, And in their flight Receive my death? Or shall I see That envied peace, in which we are Triumphant, yet disturb'd by war, And perish by the invading enemy? Astrologers, who calculate Uncertain fate, Affirm my scheme doth not presage Any abridgement of my days; And the physician gravely says, I may enjoy a reverent length of age. But they are jugglers, and by sleight Of art the sight Of faith delude; and in their school They only practise how to make A mystery of each mistake, And teach strange words credulity to fool. For Thou, who first didst motion give, Whereby things live, And time hath being, to conceal Future events, didst think it fit To check the ambition of our wit, And keep in awe the curious search of zeal. Therefore, so I prepar'd still be, My God, for Thee, O' th' sudden on my spirits may Some killing apoplexy seize, Or let me by a dull disease, Or weakened by a feeble age, decay. And so I in Thy favour die, No memory For me a well-wrought tomb prepare; For if my soul be 'mong the blest, Though my poor ashes want a chest, I shall forgive the trespass of my heir. JOHN MILTON. 53 1 " Born 1608. Died 1674. John Milton. "" JOHN MILTON was born in Bread Street, London, 9th December, 1608. His father was a scrivener. He was of a good Oxfordshire family, but had been disinherited for becoming a Protestant. Mil. ton was educated at St. Paul's School, London, and at Christ's Col lege, Cambridge. He travelled in Italy, where he met Galileo the astronomer. Milton had hitherto only written some poetry- "L'Allegro, "Comus," "Il Penseroso, and "Lycidas"-but, during the contest between Charles I. and the Parliament, he pub- lished a number of political works in favour of the Puritan party. He was appointed Latin Secretary to the Council of State during the Commonwealth and Cromwell's Protectorate. His endeavours in favour of the persecuted Vaudois, and his poetry on them, reflect honour on him. For some time he had been gradually becoming blind. At the Restoration he was specially excepted from the Act of Indemnity, but subsequently received a pardon, and retired to the village of Chalfont, in Buckinghamshire, where he composed "Para- dise Lost," which was first published in 1667. On showing the MS. of this great work to Thomas Ellwood the quaker, Ellwood said, "Thou hast said much of Paradise Lost, but what hast thou to say of Paradise Found?" At his next interview with Ellwood. Milton showed him "Paradise Regained," remarking, this is owing to you. Milton was married three times. He died 8th November, 1674, at his house in Bunhill Row, London, and lies interred in the parish church of St. Giles, Cripplegate. THE CREATION FINISHED. HERE finished He, and all that He had made Viewed, and behold all is entirely good; So even and morn accomplished the sixth day: Yet not till the Creator, from His work Desisting, though unwearied, up returned, Up to the heaven of heavens, His high abode; Thence to behold this new created world, Th' addition of His empire, how it showed In prospect from His throne, how good, how fair, Answering His great idea. Up He rode, Followed with acclamation, and the sound Symphoneous of ten thousand harps, that tuned Angelic harmonies: the earth, the air Resounded (thou rememb'rest, for thou heard'st), The heavens and all the constellations rang, The planets in their stations listening stood, While the bright pomp ascended jubilant. Open, ye everlasting gates, they sang; Open, ye heavens, your everlasting doors; let in The great Creator from His work returned Magnificent, His six days' work, a world. 54 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ¦ ADAM'S FIRST AWAKENING TO LIFE. As new waked from soundest sleep, Soft on the flow'ry herb I found me laid In balmy sweat, which with his beams the sun Soon dry'd, and on the reeking moisture fed. Strait toward heav'n my wond'ring eyes I turn'd, And gazed a while the ample sky, till raised By quick instinctive motion, up I sprung, As thitherward endeavouring, and upright Stood on my feet: about me round I saw Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains, And liquid lapse of murm'ring streams; by these Creatures that lived and moved, and walk'd or flew; Birds on the branches warbling; all things smiled; With fragrance and with joy my heart o'erflowed. Myself I then perused, and limb by limb Survey'd, and sometimes went, and sometimes ran With supple joints, as lively vigour led; But who I was, or where, or from what cause, Knew not; to speak I try'd, and forthwith spake; My tongue obey'd, and readily could name Whate'er I saw. Thou Sun, said I, fair light, And thou enlightened Earth, so fresh and gay, Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and plains, And ye that live and move, fair creatures! tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus, how here? Not of myself; by some great Maker then, In goodness and in pow'r pre-eminent; Tell me, how may I know Him, how adore, From whom I have that thus I move and live, And feel that I am happier than I know. While thus I call'd, and stray'd, I knew not whither, From where I first drew air, and first beheld This happy light; when answer none return'd, On a green shady bank, profuse of flowers, Pensive I sat me down. TEMPTATION OF ADAM BY EVE. THIS tree is not, as we are told, a tree Of danger tasted, nor to evil unknown Opening the way, but of divine effect To open eyes, and make them gods who taste; And hath been tasted such: the serpent wise, JOHN MILTON. 55 1 Or not restrain'd as we, or not obeying, Hath eaten of the fruit, and is become, Not dead, as we are threaten'd, but thenceforth Indued with human voice and human sense, Reasoning to admiration: and with me Persuasively hath so prevail'd, that I Have also tasted, and have also found Th' effects to correspond; opener mine eyes, Dim erst, dilated spirits, ampler heart, And growing up to Godhead; which for thee Chiefly I sought, without thee can despise. For bliss, as thou hast part, to me is bliss; Tedious, unshared with thee, and odious soon. Thou therefore also taste, that equal lot May join us, equal joy, as equal Îove. THE ANGEL INSTRUCTING ADAM. 'So shall the world go on, To good malignant, to bad men benign; Under her own weight groaning, till the day Appear of respiration to the just, And vengeance to the wicked, at return Of Him so lately promis'd to thy aid, The woman's seed; obscurely then foretold, Now amplier known thy Saviour and thy Lord, Last, in the clouds, from heav'n to be reveal'd In glory of the Father, to dissolve Satan with his perverted world; then raise From the conflagrant mass, purg'd and refin'd, New heav'ns, new earth, ages of endless date, Founded in righteousness, and peace, and love, To bring forth fruits, joy and eternal bliss." He ended; and thus Adam last reply'd: "How soon hath thy prediction, Seer bless'd, Measur'd this transient world, the race of time, Till time stand fix'd! Beyond is all abyss, Eternity, whose end no eye can reach. Greatly instructed I shall hence depart, Greatly in peace of thought, and have my fill Of knowledge, what this vessel can contain- Beyond which was my folly to aspire. Henceforth I learn that to obey is best, 56 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And love with fear the only God, to walk As in His presence, ever to observe His providence, and on Him sole depend, Merciful over all His works, with good Still overcoming evil; and by small Accomplishing great things, by things deem'd weak Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise By simply meek; that suff'ring for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And, to the faithful, death the gate of life; Taught this by His example, whom I now Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest." To whom thus also the Angel last reply'd: "This having learn'd, thou hast attain'd the sum Of wisdom; hope no higher, though all the stars Thou knew'st by name, and all th' ethereal powers, All secrets of the deep, all nature's works, Or works of God in heav'n, air, earth, or sea, And all the riches of this world enjoy'dst, And all the rule, one empire; only add Deeds to thy knowledge answerable; add faith, Add virtue, patience, temperance; add love, By name to come call'd charity, the soul Of all the rest: then wilt thou not be loath To leave this Paradise, but shalt possess A paradise within thee, happier far. Let us descend now therefore from this top Of speculation: for the hour precise Exacts our parting hence.' * * * * In either hand the hast'ning angel caught Our ling'ring parents, and to th' eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast To the subjected plain; then disappear'd. They, looking back, all th' eastern side beheld Of Paradise, so late their happy seat, Wav'd over by that flaming brand; the gate With dreadful faces throng'd, and fiery arms; Some natural tears they dropt, but wip'd them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They, hand in hand, with wand'ring steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way. f JOHN MILTON. 57 THE BIRTH OF THE MESSIAH. AT His birth a star, Unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come; And guides the Eastern sages, who inquire His place, to offer incense, myrrh, and gold His place of birth a solemn angel tells To simple shepherds, keeping watch by night; They gladly thither haste, and by a quire Of squadroned angels hear His carol sung. A virgin is His mother, but His sire The Power of the Most High; He shall ascend The throne hereditary, and bound His reign With earth's wide bounds, His glory with the heavens. ANGELS' SONG OF VICTORY. ANGELIC choirs Sung heavenly anthems of His victory Over temptation and the tempter proud: "True image of the Father; whether throned In the bosom of bliss, and light of light Conceiving, or, remote from heaven, enshrined In fleshly tabernacle, and human form, Wandering the wilderness; whatever place, Habit, or state, or motion, still expressing The Son of God, with Godlike force endued Against the attempter of Thy Father's throne, And thief of Paradise! Him long of old Thou didst debel, and down from heaven cast With all his army; now Thou hast avenged Supplanted Adam, and, by vanquishing Temptation, hast regained lost Paradise, And frustrated the conquest fraudulent. He never more henceforth will dare set foot In Paradise to tempt; his snares are broke: For though that seat of earthly bliss be failed, A fairer Paradise is founded now For Adam and his chosen sons, whom Thou, A Saviour, art come down to reinstall, Where they shall dwell secure, when time shall be, Of tempter and temptation without fear. But thou, infernal serpent! shalt not long Rule; in the cloud, like an autumnal star Or lightning, thou shalt fall from heaven, trod down C* Ф 58 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ep Under His feet; for proof, ere this thou feelest Thy wound (yet not thy last and deadliest wound), By this repulse received, and holdest in hell No triumph: in all her gates Abaddon rues Thy bold attempt. Hereafter learn with awe To dread the Son of God: He, all unarmed, Shall chase thee, with the terror of His voice, From thy demoniac holds, possession foul, Thee and thy legions: yelling, they shall fly, And beg to hide them in a herd of swine, Lest He command them down into the deep, Bound, and to torment sent before their time. Hail, Son of the Most High, heir of both worlds, Queller of Satan! on Thy glorious work Now enter; and begin to save mankind.” · Thus they the Son of God, our Saviour meek, Sung victor, and, from heavenly feast refreshed, Brought on His way with joy; He, unobserved, Home to his mother's house private returned, Lady Elizabeth Care or Carey. THIS lady is supposed to have been the wife of Sir Henry Carew or Carey, and she is the writer of an almost forgotten tragedy, Marian the Queen of Jewry," 1612. Though the tragedy is forgotten, the chorus, "Revenge of Injuries," in Act the Fourth, it has been re- marked by a writer, contains sentiments of Christian duty which ought never to be forgotten. FORGIVENESS. THE fairest action in our human life Is scorning to revenge an injury; For who forgives without a further strife His adversary's heart to him doth tie. And 'tis a firmer conquest, truly said, To win the heart, than overthrow the head. If we a worthy enemy do find, To yield to worth, it must be nobly done; But if of baser metal be his mind, 6. In base revenge there is no honour won. Who would a worthy courage overthrow, And who would wrestle with a worthless foe? We say our hearts are great and cannot yield; Because they cannot yield it proves them poor. Great hearts are task'd beyond their power, but seld The weakest lion will the loudest roar. A BISHOP JEREMY TAYLOR. Truth's school for certain doth this same allow, High-heartedness doth sometimes teach to bow. A noble heart doth teach a virtuous scorn, To scorn to owe a duty over-long, To scorn to be for benefits forborne, To scorn to lie, to scorn to do a wrong; To scorn to bear an injury in mind, To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to bind. But if for wrongs we needs revenge must have, Then be our vengeance of the noblest kind; Do we his body from our fury save, And let our hate prevail against our mind: What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance be Than make his foe more worthy far than he? 59 Bishop Jeremy Taylor. JEREMY TAYLOR, the son of a barber, was born at Cambridge in August, 1613. The family had fallen into poverty, and was descend- ed from Dr. Rowland Taylor. Jeremy was educated as a poor scholar at Caius College, and having become a clergyman, his talents gained for him the rectory of Uppingham, in Rutlandshire. During the Civil War he was chaplain to King Charles I. After the defeat of the king he was imprisoned sereral times. For some time he kept a school in Wales. He then went to London, and after- wards to Ireland, receiving a yearly allowance from the celebrated John Evelyn. After the Restoration he was appointed to the Bish- opric of Down, Connor, and Dromore. He died in August, 1667. Taylor's works are generally considered to be among the best in old English literature. THE COMING OF CHRIST. ; Born 1613. Died 1667. LORD! come away! Why dost Thou stay? Thy road is ready, and Thy paths, made straight, With longing expectation wait The consecration of Thy beauteous feet. Ride on triumphantly! Behold, we lay Our lusts and proud wills in Thy way- Hosanna! and Thy glorious footsteps greet! Welcome, oh, welcome! to our hearts! Lord, here Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear As that in Sion, and as full of sin. How long shall thieves and robbers dwell therein? Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor! Destroy their strength, that they may never more Profane that holy place Which Thou hast chosen there to set Thy face; 60 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And then, if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of Thy Deity, The stones from out the temple wall Shall cry aloud, and call- Hosanna! and Thy glorious footsteps greet! Richard Crashaw. RICHARD CRASHAW, born in London about 1615, was the son of the Rev. William Crashaw, a preacher in the Temple Church. Crashaw was educated at the Charterhouse School and at Cambridge Uni- versity. In 1634 he published a volume of Latin poems, in which is the celebrated passage on Christ's turning water into wine- "" "The modest water saw its God, and blushed. He became a popular clergyman at Oxford, and was expelled by the Parliamentarians in 1644. He went to France, and fell into great poverty. He published in 1646 a volume of English poems. He made the first translation of the "Dies Ira" into English, which is here given. He died in 1650. THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. O THAT fire! before whose face Heav'n and earth shall find no place. O those eyes! whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night. O that trump! whose blast shall run An even round with the circling sun, And urge the murmuring graves to bring Pale mankind forth to meet his King. Horror of nature, hell and death! When a deep groan from beneath Shall cry, We come, we come! and all The caves of night answer one call. O that Book! whose leaves so bright Will set the world in severe light. O the Judge! whose hand, whose eye None can endure, yet none can fly. Born 1615. Died 1650. Ah, then, poor soul! what wilt thou say, And to what patron choose to pray, When stars themselves shall stagger, and The most firm foot no more than stand? But Thou giv'st leave, dread Lord! that we Take shelter from Thyself in Thee; And with the wings of Thine own dove Fly to Thy sceptre of soft love. { 1 RICHARD BAXTER. 61 + Shall all that labour, all that cost Of love, and ev'n that loss, be lost? And this lov'd soul judged worth no less Than all that way and weariness? "" Just mercy, then, thy reck'ning be With my price, and not with me; 'Twas paid at first with too much pain To be paid twice, or once in vain. Mercy, my Judge, mercy! I cry, With blushing cheek and bleeding eye; The conscious colours of my sin Are red without, and pale within. If sin can sigh, Love can forgive; Oh, say the word, my soul shall live. My Hope, my Fear, my Judge, my Friend, Take charge of me, and of my end. Richard Baxter. RICHARD BAXTER was born at Rowton, Shropshire, in 1615. He was a Nonconformist, and in 1640 became minister of the parish of Kid- derminster, and was most popular. During the Civil Wars, his sympathies being on the Parliamentary side, he became chaplain to a regiment, and it was during that time he wrote his "Saints' Rest. In 1657 he was obliged to leave the army on account of his health, and returned to Kidderminster; but very soon after he had to quit his living, owing to the passing of the Act of Uniformity. In 1672 he again went to London, and occupied himself with writing and preaching; but his Nonconformist principles frequently sub- jected him to persecution. Two years after he was apprehended on a charge of sedition, and sent to prison till he paid a heavy fine. He died in London in 1691. His most popular works are "The Saints' Everlasting Rest," and "A Call to the Unconverted." THE VAIN SHOW. MAN walks in a vain show; They know, yet will not know, Sit still when they should go, But run for shadows; While they might taste and know The living streams that flow, And crop the flowers that grow In Christ's sweet meadows. Life's better slept away Than as they use it; In sin and drunken play Vain men abuse it. Born 1615. Died 1691. 62 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. • I They dig for hell beneath, They labour hard for death, Run themselves out of breath To overtake it. Hell is not had for naught; Damnation's dearly bought, And with great labour sought- They'll not forsake it. Their souls are Satan's fee, He'll not abate it; Grace is refused, that's free- Mad sinners hate it. Is this the world men choose, For which they heaven refuse, And Christ and grace abuse, And not receive it? Shall I not guilty be Of this in some degree, If hence God would me free; And I'd not leave it? My soul, from Sodom fly, Lest wrath there find thee; Thy refuge-rest is nigh, Look not behind thee. SUBMISSION TO THE WILL OF GOD. My Lord hath taught me how to want A place wherein to put my head; While He is mine I'll be content To beg, or lack my daily bread. Heaven is my roof,, earth is my floor- Thy love can keep me dry and warm; Christ and Thy bounty are my store, Thy angels guard me from all harm. Must I forsake the soil and air Where first I drew my vital breath? That way may be as near and fair; Thence I may come to Thee by death. All countries are my Father's lands; Thy sun, Thy love, doth shine on all; We may in all lift up pure hands, And with acceptance on Thee call. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 63 → What if in prison I must dwell- May I not there converse with Thee? Save me from sin, Thy wrath, and hell; Call me Thy child, and I am free. No walls or bars can keep Thee out; None can confine a holy soul; The streets of heaven it walks about; None can its liberty control. Abraham Cowley. ABRAHAM COWLEY, a grocer's son, was born, after the death of his father, in the parish of St. Dunstan, London, in 1618. His mother was left in poverty, but she managed to get her son to be a king's scholar at Westminster School. The reading of Spenser's "Faery Queen" made him, he said, a poet; and, when thirteen years of age, his "Poetical Blossoms" were published. He was elected a scholar of Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1636. During the Civil War he joined the Royalist party, went with Queen Henrietta to Paris, conducted correspondence, and travelled on various political missions. In 1656, when in London, he published a volume of poems. He died 28th July, 1667. Born 1618. Died 1667. DESTRUCTION OF THE FIRST-BORN. Or God's dreadful anger these Were but the first light skirmishes; The shock and bloody battle now begins, The plenteous harvest of full-ripen'd sins It was the time when the still moon Was mounted softly to her noon, And dewy sleep, which from night's secret springs arose, Gently as Nile the land o'erflows, When lo! from the high countries of refined day, The golden heaven without allay— Whose dross, in the creation purged away, Made up the sun's adulterate ray- Michael, the warlike prince, does downwards fly, Swift as the journeys of the sight, Swift as the rays of light, And with his winged will cuts through the yielding sky. He pass'd through many a star, and, as he past, Shone (like a star in them) more brightly there Than they did in their sphere. On a tall pyramid's pointed head he stopp'd at last, And a mild look of sacred pity cast 64 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Down on the sinful land where he was sent, T'inflict the tardy punishment. "Ah! yet," said he, "yet, stubborn king! repent, Whilst thus unarm'd I stand, Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live: Who would, alas, believe That it for man," said he, "So hard to be forgiven should be, And yet for God so easy to forgive?" He spoke, and downwards flew, And o'er his shining form a well-cut cloud he threw, Made of the blackest fleece of night, And close-wrought to keep in the powerful light, Yet wrought so fine it hindered not his flight. But through the key-holes and the chinks of doors, And through the narrow'st walks of crooked pores, He past more swift and free Than in wide air the wanton swallows flee. He took a pointed pestilence in his hand; The spirits of thousand mortal poisons made The strongly-temper'd blade, The sharpest sword that e'er was laid Up in the magazines of God to scourge a wicked land. Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, And as he march'd the sacred first-born strook Of every womb; none did he spare, None, from the meanest beast to Cenchre's purple heir. The swift approach of endless night Breaks ope the wounded sleepers' rolling eyes; They awake the rest with dying cries, And darkness doubles the affright; The mixed sounds of scattered deaths they hear, And lose their parted souls 'twixt grief and fear. Louder than all, the shrieking women's voice Pierces this chaos of confused noise; As brighter lightning cuts away Clear and distinguish'd through the day. With less complaints the Zoan temples sound, When the adored heifer's drown'd, And no true-mark'd successor to be found. Whilst health, and strength, and gladness doth possess The festal Hebrew cottages; The blest Destroyer comes not there To interrupt the sacred cheer That new begins their well-reformed year: ANDREW MARVELL. 65 觜 ​} Upon their doors he read and understood God's protection, writ in blood; Well was he skill'd i' th' character Divine; And, though he pass'd by it in haste, He bow'd and worshipp'd, as he past, The mighty mystery through its humble sign. From the "Plagues of Egypt.” Andrew Marbell. ANDREW MARVELL, whose father was a clergyman and master of a grammar school, was born at Hull, in Yorkshire, 15th November, 1620. Owing to his father having been drowned, a rich person who took an interest in Marvell enabled him to finish his education at Trinity College, Cambridge, and to travel abroad, where he was for a time secretary to the British Ambassador at Constantinople. He was afterwards tutor in the house of Lord Fairfax, assistant Latin secretary to Milton during Cromwell's time, and Member of Parlia- ment for Hull in the reign of Charles II. Being poor, he was, on account of his integrity, paid by the electors for his services. He made himself so hateful to the party in power, by his speeches and writings opposing the measures of the Government and all abuses and political corruptions, that he was obliged at last to hide himself. He died 18th August, 1678, and it was suspected that he had been poisoned. A DROP OF DEW. SEE how the orient dew Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where t'was born, Round in itself encloses; And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies! But, gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light, Like its own tear, Born 1620. Died 1678. Because so long divided from the sphere. Restless it rolls and insecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, C 63 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away; So the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day: Dark beneath, but bright above; Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go; How girt and ready to ascend: Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congeal'd and chill; Congeal'd on earth; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of th' almighty sun. { Born 1621. Died 1695. Henry Vaughan. HENRY VAUGHAN was born, in 1621, at Newton, in Wales. He was edu- cated at first by a country clergyman, and afterwards at Oxford. He chose the medical profession, received the degree of M.D., and practised for some time at Brecon. He wrote several prose devo- tional works, and a small volume of verses. He died 23rd April, 1695. NEVER SLEEP THE SUN UP. WHEN first thy eyes unveil, give thy soul leave To do the like; our bodies but forerun The spirit's duty; true hearts spread and heave Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun. Give Him thy first thoughts, then; so shalt thou keep Him company all day, and in Him sleep. A Yet never sleep the sun up; prayer should Dawn with the day; there are set awful hours "Twixt heaven and us; the manna was not good After sun-rising; for day sullies flowers. Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. Walk with thy fellow-creatures; note the hush And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring Or leaf but bath its morning hymn; each bush And oak doth know I AM. Canst thou not sing? JOHN FLAVEL. 67 - 66 - O leave thy cares and follies! go this way, And thou art sure to prosper all the day. Serve God before all the world; let Him not go Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto Him, and remember who Prevailed by wrestling ere the sun did shine. Pour oil upon the stones, weep for thy sin, Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. Mornings are mysteries; the first world's youth, Man's resurrection, and the future's bud Shroud in their births the crown of life, light, truth; Is styled their star; the stone and hidden food. Three blessings wait upon them, one of which Should move-they make us holy, happy, rich. When the world's up, and every swarm abroad, Keep well thy temper; mix not with each day; Despatch necessities: life has a load Which must be carried on, and safely may. Yet keep these cares without thee; let the heart Be God's alone, and choose the better part. John Flavel. JOHN FLAVEL was born in Worcestershire. He was educated at Oxford, and officiated as a clergyman, first at Deptford, in Kent, and then, in 1656, at Dartmouth, in Devonshire, where for some time he was so very unpopular that, fearing for his personal safety, he quitted the place, but returned to it in 1685. He died suddenly at Exeter in 1691. He is the author of "Navigation Spiritualised," Husbandry Spiritualised," "The Token for Mourners," &c. Died 1691. HAPPINESS FOR ALL. О¤, what a dull, desponding heart is mine, That takes no more delight in things divine, When all the creatures, both in heaven and earth, Enjoy their pleasures, and are big with mirth! Angels and saints, that stand before the throne, Are ever held in ecstasies unknown. Made perfect after death, each blessed spirit The purest, highest bliss doth there inherit; The saints on earth, in their unperfect state, By faith those peerless raptures antedate. To carnal men, who savour not such pleasure, Yet bounteous nature doth unlock her treasure i 68 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Of sensitive delights; yea, strange to tell, Bold sinners rant it all the way to hell; Like fish that play in Jordan's silver stream, They bathe in sensual lusts, and never dream Of that Dead Sea to which the stream doth tend, And to their pleasure puts a fatal end. John Dryden. JOHN DRYDEN, a grandson of Sir Erasmus Dryden of Canon's Ashby, was born at Aldwinkle, in Northamptonshire, in August, 1631. He was educated at Westminster School, and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He became secretary to his uncle, Sir Gilbert Pickering, one of Cromwell's Council. Dryden lamented in a poem the death of Cromwell; but in 1660 he published "Astræa Redux" and other lines, in which he praises tho Restoration and King Charles II. In 1663 he was appointed poet-laureate and historio- grapher-royal, at a salary of £200 a year. He produced a great number of works in several departments of literature. His re- ligious poetry is generally of more permanent value than his other writings. Harassed by literary toil, distress, and difficulties, he died on the 1st of May, 1701, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. A LAYMAN'S FAITH. THE Deist thinks he stands on firmer ground; Cries, Eureka—the mighty secret's found: God is that spring of good; supreme, and best; We, made to serve, and in that service blest: If so, some rules of worship must be given, Distributed alike to all by Heaven; Else God were partial, and to some denied The means His justice should for all provide. This general worship is to praise and pray: One part to borrow blessings, one to pay: And when frail nature slides into offence, The sacrifice for crimes is penitence. Yet since the effects of Providence, we find, Are variously dispensed to human kind; That vice triumphs, and virtue suffers here, A brand that sovereign justice cannot bear; Our reason prompts us to a future state: The last appeal from fortune and from fate: Where God's all-righteous ways will be declared; The bad meet punishment, the good reward. Thus man by his own strength to heaven would soar: And would not be obliged to God for more. Vain, wretched creature, how art thou misled To think thy wit these God-like notions bred! -- Born 1631. Died 1701. 1 JOHN DRYDEN. 69 These truths are not the product of thy mind, But dropt from heaven, and of a nobler kind. Revealed Religion first informed thy sight, And Reason saw not, till Faith sprung the light. Hence all thy natural worship takes the source; 'Tis revelation what thou think'st discourse: Else how com'st thou to see these truths so clear, Which so obscure to heathens did appear! Not Plato these, nor Aristotle found: Nor he whose wisdom oracles renown'd. Hast thou a wit so deep, or so sublime, Or canst thou lower dive, or higher climb? Canst thou by reason more of Godhead know Than Plutarch, Seneca, or Cicero? Those giant wits, in happier ages born (When arms and arts did Greece and Rome adorn), Knew no such system: no such piles could raise Of natural worship, built on prayer and praise To one sole God. Nor did remorse to expiate sin prescribe: But slew their fellow-creatures for a bribe: The guiltless victim groaned for their offence; And cruelty and blood was penitence. If sheep and oxen could atone for men, Ah! at how cheap a rate the rich might sin; And great oppressors might heaver's wrath beguile, By offering his own creatures for a spoil! Dar'st thou, poor worm, offend Infinity? And must the terms of peace be given by thee? Then thou art Justice in the last appeal; Thy easy God instructs thee to rebel: And, like a king remote and weak, must take What satisfaction thou art pleased to make. But if there be a power too just and strong To wink at crimes, and bear unpunished wrong; Look humbly upward, see His will disclose The forfeit first, and then the fine impose: A mulct thy poverty could never pay, Had not Eternal Wisdom found the way: And with celestial wealth supplied thy store. His justice makes the fine, His mercy quits the score. See God descending in thy human frame; The offended suffering in the offender's name; All thy misdeeds to Him imputed see, And all His righteousness devolved on thee. For granting we have sinn'd, and that the offence 70 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Of man is made against Omnipotence, Some price that bears proportion must be paid, And infinite with infinite be weighed. See then the Deist lost: remorse for vice Not paid, or paid inadequate in price: What farther means can reason now direct, Or what relief from human wit expect?" That shows us sick; and sadly are we sure Still to be sick, till Heaven reveal the cure; If then Heaven's will must needs be understood (Which must, if we want cure, and heaven be good), Let all records of will revealed be shown; With Scripture all in equal balance thrown, And our one sacred book will be that one. Anne Collins. ANNE COLLINS is the writer of what is now a very rare volume, en- titled, "Divine Sougs and Meditations," published in London in 1653. Another edition was issued in 1658. Author 1653. HAPPINESS NOT TO BE FOUND IN THE CREATURE. SUCH is the force of each created thing, That in no solid happiness can bring, Which to our minds may give contentment sound; For, like as Noah's dove no succour found, Till she returned to him that sent her out, Just so the soul in vain may seek about For rest or satisfaction anywhere, Save in His presence who hath sent her here; Yea, though all earthly glories should unite Their pomp and splendour to give such delight, Yet could they no more sound contentment bring Than star-light can make grass or flowers spring. Born Right Rev. Thomas Sprat, {Bied 1713. BISHOP OF ROCHESTER. THOMAS SPRAT, the son of a clergyman, was born in Devonshire in 1636. Educated at Wadham College, Oxford, he was ordained a clergyman, became chaplain, first to the Duke of Buckingham, and then to King Charles II. He was one of the members of the Royal Society. In 1667 was published his "History of the Royal Society." He was appointed Prebendary of Westminster in 1668, Dean of Westminster, 1683, and Bishop of Rochester in 1684. RIGHT REV. THOMAS SPRAT. He voted as an ecclesiastical commissioner for the acquittal of the Bishop of London, and would not prosecute any of the clergy for disobeying the tyrannical orders of King James II. Sprat's principal poem is "The Plague of Athens." He was a friend of the poet Cowley, whose memoir he wrote. He died 13th May 1713. THE JUDGMENTS OF GOD. HOLD! heavens, hold! why should your sacred fire, Which doth to all things life inspire, By whose kind beams you bring Forth yearly every thing, Which doth th' original seed Of all things in the womb of earth that breed, With vital heat and quickening seed; Why should you now that heat employ The earth, the air, the fields, the cities to annoy? That which before reviv'd, why should it now destroy? 71 Those Afric deserts straight were double deserts grown, The ravenous beasts were left alone, The ravenous beasts then first began To pity their old enemy-man, And blamed the plague for what they would themselves have done. Nor staid the cruel evil there, Nor could be long confined unto one air; Plagues presently forsake The wilderness which they themselves do make. Away the deadly breaths their journey take, Driven by a mighty wind, They a new booty and fresh forage find: The loaded wind went swiftly on, And, as it passed, was heard to sigh and groan. On Êgypt next it seiz’d, Nor could, but by a general ruin, be appeas'd; Egypt, in rage, back on the south did look, And wonder'd thence should come th' unhappy stroke, From whence before her fruitfulness she took. Egypt did now curse and revile "Those very lands from whence she has her Nile; Egypt now fear'd another Hebrew God, Another angel's hand, a second Aaron's rod. Then on it goes, and through the sacred land Its angry forces did command; But God did place an angel there Its violence to withstand, And turned unto another road the putrid air. ■ 72 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. To thee it came, and there did all discover; Though that by seas might think itself secure. Nor staid, as the great conqueror did, Till it had fill'd and stopp'd the tide, Which did it from the shore divide, But pass'd the waters, and did all possess, And quickly all was wilderness. Thence it did Persia over-run, And all that sacrifice unto the sun: In every limb a dreadful pain they felt, Tortur'd with secret coals they melt; The Persians call'd their sun in vain, Their god increas'd the pain. They look'd up to their god no more, But curse the beams they worshipped before, And hate the very fire which once they did adore. Thomas Ken, F BISHOP OF BATH AND WELLS. THOMAS KEN was born at Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, 1637. He was, on account of the death of his parents, brought up by his half-sister, the wife of the celebrated Isaak Walton. Ken was educated at Winchester School and Oxford. He became, in 1667, rector of Brighstone, Isle of Wight; and, after having received other preferments, he was, in 1685, appointed Bishop of Bath and Wells. King Charles II. used to say, "I must go and hear Ken, he will tell me of my faults." Ken was one of the seven bishops im- prisoned and brought to trial for resisting the tyranny of King James II. He was acquitted, but resigned his bishopric after the accession of William and Mary, as he was a nonjuror in favour of the regular succession of the Stuarts. The Morning and Evening Hymns are his best-known productions. "Had he endowed three hospitals, he might have been less a benefactor to posterity," says an author. During his last illness, writing and singing hymns were his chief solace. He died in 1711. A MORNING HYMN. AWAKE, my soul, and with the sun, Thy daily stage of duty run; Shake off dull sloth, and early rise To pay thy morning sacrifice. Redeem thy misspent time that's past, Live this day as if 'twere thy last; T'improve thy talent take due care; 'Gainst the great day thyself prepare. Born 1637. Died 1711. Let all thy converse be sincere, Thy conscience as the noon-day clear; R 1 1. ļ E 1 THOMAS KEN. 73 D Think how all-seeing God thy ways, And all thy secret thoughts surveys. Influenc'd by the Light Divine, Let thy own light in good works shine: Reflect all heaven's propitious ways In ardent love and cheerful praise. Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart, And with the angels bear thy part, Who all night long unwearied sing, Glory 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 flie, But God shall that defect supply, And my soul, wing'd with warm desire, Shall all day long to heav'n aspire. · Glory to Thee who safe hast kept, And hast refresht me, whilst I slept. Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, I may of endless light partake. I would not wake, nor rise again, Ev'n heav'n itself I would disdain, Wert not Thou there to be enjoy'd, And I in hymns to be imploy'd. Heav'n 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 without Thee. Lord, I my vows to Thee renew, Scatter my sins as morning dew, Guard my first springs of thought and will, And with Thy self my spirit fill. Direct, control, suggest this day All I design, or do, or say; That all my powers, with all their might, For Thy sole glory may unite. 74 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 GREAT GOD! FOR AID. GREAT God! for aid and for defence Which angels in our need dispense, For blessings never known, Innumerable grown, Our hymn we to Thy altar bring; Oh had we angels' tongues, Thy praise to sing. Bless'd Jesus! 'tis Thy will that we In duty should like angels be; They always Thee behold, They ne'er in hymn grow cold, They all Thy attributes admire, Their love towards an infinity aspire. They live in an immense delight, At Thy command take speedy flight: Oh may we grace derive From Thee, my God, to strive, That we sincere, like angels, may Contemplate, hymn, admire, love, joy, obey. CHARACTER OF A TRUE PASTOR. GIVE me the Priest, who at judicious age, And duly call'd, in priesthood shall engage; With dispositions, natural and acquir'd, With strong propensions for the function fir'd; Whom God by opportunity invites, To consecrate himself to sacred rites; Who still keeps Jesus in his heart and head, And strives in steps of our Arch-Priest to tread; Who can himself and all the world deny, Lives pilgrim here, but denizen on high; Whose business is, like Jesus, to save souls, And with all ghostly miseries condoles. Give me the Priest these graces shall possess, Of an ambassador the just address: Á father's tenderness, a shepherd's care, A leader's courage, which the cross can bear; A ruler's awe, a watchman's wakeful eye, A pilot's skill the helm in storms to ply; A fisher's patience, and a labourer's toil, A guide's dexterity to disembroil; A prophet's inspiration from above, A teacher's knowledge, and a Saviour's love. THOMAS HEYWOOD. 757 ! Give me the Priest, a light upon a hill, Whose rays his whole circumference can fill; In God's own Word and sacred learning vers'd, Deep in the study of the heart immers'd; Who in sick souls can the disease descry, And wisely fit restoratives apply; To beatific pastures leads his sheep, Watchful from hellish wolves his fold to keep; Who seeks not a convenience, but a cure, Would rather souls than his own gain ensure. Instructive in his visits and converse, Strives everywhere salvation to disperse; Of a mild, humble, and obliging heart, Who with his all will to the needy part; Distrustful of himself, in God confides, Daily himself among his flock divides; Of virtue uniform, and cheerful air, Fix'd meditation, and incessant prayer, Affections mortified, well guided zeal, Of saving truth the relish wont to feel; Whose province Heaven all his endeavours shares, Who mixes with no secular affairs, Oft on his pastoral accounts reflects, By holiness, not riches, gains respects; Who is all that he would have others be, From wilful sin, though not from frailty, free. Thomas Heywood. Author 1648. THOMAS HEYWOOD, who lived during the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., was a writer whose productions were chiefly dramatic. He wrote also "Life of Queen Elizabeth," "Lives of the Nine Worthies," &c. His claim to be a writer of sacred poetry rests upon his poem "The Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels," in which religious thoughts, ideas, and descriptions are given in lan- guage and in a quaint form, full of rough energy and vigour peculiar to the poetry of the period. The date of his death, as also that of his birth, are unknown. Heywood's poems, under the title of "Hesperides," were published in a volume in 1648. SEARCHING AFTER GOD. I SOUGHT Thee round about, O Thou, my God, In thine abode. I said unto the earth, "Speak! art Thou He?" She answer'd me, "I am not." I enquired of creatures all, In general, 76 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Contain'd therein; they with one voice proclaim, That none amongst them all had such a name. I asked the seas, and all the depths below, My God to know. I asked the reptiles, and whatever is In the abyss, Even from the shrimp to the leviathan Enquiry ran, But in those depths which no line can sound, The God I sought for was not to be found. I asked the air if that were he? but, lo, It told me, No. I from the towering eagle to the wren Demanded then, If any feather'd fowl 'mongst them were such? But they all, much Offended with my question, in full quire Answer'd, "To find thy God thou must look higher." 1 I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and stars; but they Said, We obey The God thou seek'st." I asked, what eye or ear Could see or heare "" What in the world I might descry or know, Above, below: With an unanimous voice, all these things said, "We are not God, but we by Him were made." I asked the world's great universal mass, If that God was: Which, with a mighty and strong voice, replied, As stupefied, "I am not He, O man! for know that I By Him on high Was fashion'd first of nothing, thus instated, And sway'd by Him by whom I was created." A scrutiny within myself, I then Even thus began: "O man! what art thou?" What more could I say, Than dust and clay? Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, That cannot last; Enthron'd to-day, to-morrow in an urn; Form'd from that earth to which I must return. 1 MADAME GUYON. 77 1 asked myself, what this great God might be That fashion'd me? I answered: The all-potent, solely immense, Surpassing sense; Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal, Lord over all; The only terrible, strong, just, and true, Who hath no end, and no beginning knew. He is the well of life, for He does give To all that live Both breath and being; He is the Creator Both of the water, Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist He has the list; Of all the heavenly host, or what earth claims, He keeps the scroll, and calls them by their names. And now, my God, by Thine illumining grace, Thy glorious face (So far forth as it may discover'd be), Methinks I see; And though invisible and infinite To human sight, Thou, in Thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest; In which to our weak senses Thou comest nearest. Oh make us apt to seek, and quick to find, Thou God most kind; Give us love, hope, and faith in Thee to trust, Thou God most just; Remit all our offences, we entreat, Most good, most great; Grant that our willing, though unworthy, guest, May, through Thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. Madame Guyon. JEANNE MARIE DE LA MOTHE was born at Montargis, in France, in 1648. Before she was sixteen years of age she was married to a wealthy man, M. Guyon. The marriage was an unhappy one, owing to various causes, and Madame Guyon sought consolation in religion. She wrote and published prose and poetry to explain her religious views, called "Quietism." She writes, "God's love was to destroy all that was left of self in me. I had no sight but of Jesus. All else was excluded." She died in forced retirement about 1717. 5 Born 1648. Died 1717. 78 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Фо THE SOUL THAT LOVES GOD FINDS HIM EVERYWHERE. O THOυ, by long experience tried, Near whom no grief can long abide; My Lord! how full of sweet content I pass my years of banishment! All scenes alike engaging prove To souls impressed with sacred love! Where'er they dwell, they dwell in Thee: In heaven, in earth, or on the sea. To me remains nor place nor time, My country is in every clime; I can be calm and free from care On any shore, since God is there. While place we seek, or place we shun, The soul finds happiness in none; But with a God to guide our way, 'Tis equal joy to go or stay. Could I be cast where Thou art not, That were indeed a dreadful lot; But regions none remote I call, Secure of finding God in all. # My country, Lord, art Thou alone; Nor other can I claim or own; The point where all my wishes meet- My law, my love, life's only sweet! I hold by nothing here below Appoint my journey and I go, Though pierced by scorn, oppress'd by pride, I feel Thee good-feel nought beside. No frowns of men can hurtful prove To souls on fire with heavenly love; Though men and devils both condemn, No gloomy days arise from them. Ah, then! to His embrace repair; My soul, thou art no stranger there; There love divine shall be thy guard, And peace and safety thy reward. SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE. A PRISONER'S SONG. A LITTLE bird I am, Shut from the fields of air; And in my cage I sit and sing To Him who placed me there; Well pleased a prisoner to be, Because, my God, it pleases Thee. Nought have I else to do; I sing the whole day long; And He whom well I love to please Doth listen to my song; He caught and bound my wandering wing, But still He bends to hear me sing. Thou hast an ear to hear, A heart to love and bless; And though my notes were e'er so rude, Thou wouldst not hear the less; Because Thou knowest, as they fall, That love, sweet love, inspires them all. My cage confines me round, Abroad I cannot fly; But though my wing is closely bound, My heart's at liberty. My prison walls cannot control The flight, the freedom of the soul. Oh! it is good to soar These bolts and bars above, To Him whose purpose I adore, Whose providence I love; And in Thy mighty will to find The joy, the freedom of the mind. 79 Born 1654. Sir Richard Blackmore. {Bied 1739: SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE was born in Wiltshire about the rear 1654. He went to London, and soon attained eminence as a medical man. He was appointed physician to King William III., who conferred on him the honour of knighthood. He wrote several poems, the chief of which are-"The Creation," "The Redeemer," and "A Version of the Psalms.” Addison thought highly of the poem entitled “The Creation," Blackmore died in 1739. : 80 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ** HAIL! KING SUPREME. HAIL, King Supreme! of power immense abyss; Father of Light! Exhaustless Source of bliss! Thou Uncreated, Self-existent Cause, Controll'd by no superior being's laws; Ere infant light essayed to dart the ray, Smiled heavenly sweet, and tried to kindle day; Ere the wide fields of ether were displayed, Or silver stars cerulean spheres inlaid; Ere yet the eldest child of Time was born, Or verdant pride young Nature did adorn, Thou art; and didst eternity employ In unmolested peace, in plenitude of joy. ! In its ideal frame the world design'd From ages past lay finish'd in Thy mind. Conform to this divine-imagined plan, With perfect art the amazing work began. Thy glance surveyed the solitary plains, Where shapeless shade inert and silent reigns; Then, in the dark and undistinguish'd space, Unfruitful, unenclosed, and wild of face, Thy compass for the world mark'd out the destined Then didst Thou through the fields of barren night Go forth, collected in creating might, [place. Where Thou almighty vigour didst exert, Which emicant did this and that way dart Through the black bosom of the empty space; The gulfs confess the Omnipotent embrace, And, pregnant grown with elemental seed, Unfinish'd orbs, and worlds in embryo breed. From the crude mass, Omniscient Architect, Thou for each part materials didst select, And with a master-hand Thy world erect. Labour'd by Thee, the globes, vast lucid buoys, By Thee uplifted float in liquid skies; By Thy cementing word their parts coherc, And roll by Thy impulsive nod in air. Thou in the vacant didst the earth suspend, Advance the mountains, and the vales extend; People the plains with flocks, with beasts the wood, And store with scaly colonies the flood. Next man arose at Thy creating word, Of Thy terrestrial realms vicegerent lord, His soul more artful labour, more refined, And emulous of bright seraphic mind, S A MATTHEW PRIOR. 81 Ennobled by Thy image spotless shone, Praised Thee her Author, and adored Thy throne; Able to know, admire, enjoy her God, She did her high felicity applaud. 1662. Reb. Samuel Wesley, Senior. {Bied 1735. SAMUEL WESLEY was born at Preston, near Weymouth, Dorsetshire. He quitted the Dissenters on account of beholding a calf's-head club celebration by them of the execution of King Charles I. He entered Exeter College, Oxford, as a poor scholar, with £200 in his possession, and, though disowned by his relations, managed to complete his education and become a clergyman of the Church of England. He was a curate in London, a chaplain on board a ship of war, and, after his marriage to Susan Annesley, a cousin of the Earl of Anglesey, he was presented by Queen Mary with the living of Epworth, in Lincolnshire. Some of his parishioners set fire to the parsonage because he had reproved them for their sinful lives. Samuel Wesley was the author of several prose and poetical works. He was the father of the Wesleys, the founders of Methodism. He died 30th April, 1735. THE SAVIOUR. BEHOLD the Saviour of mankind Nailed to the shameful tree; How vast the love that Him inclined To bleed and die for me. Hark! how He groans, while nature shakes, And earth's strong pillars bend! The temple's veil asunder breaks, The solid marbles rend. 'Tis finished! now the ransom's paid, "Receive my soul!" He cries; See how He bows His sacred head! He bows His head and dies! But soon He'll break death's iron chain, And in full glory shine. O Lamb of God! was ever pain- Was ever love like Thine? Matthew Prior. MATTHEW PRIOR, born either at Wimborne, Dorsetshire, or in London, July, 1664, was, after the death of his father, sent by his uncle to Westminster School. When employed by his uncle in the Rummer Tavern, Charing Cross, London, he attracted the notice of the Earl of Dorset, by whom he was enabled to finish his education at St. John's College, Cambridge, where he obtained a fellowship. By the D* Born 1664. Died 1721. 82 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. influence of the Earl of Dorset, Prior obtained several Government appointments, but after the accession of King George I., he was im- prisoned for two years for his share in the treaty of peace at Utrecht. His poem of "Alma on the Progress of the Soul," ridicules the ideas of the period about the place of the soul. "Solomon" is a poem founded on Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. A complete edition of his poems produced 4000 guineas, to which the Earl of Oxford added another 4000. Prior died at Wimpole, in Cambridgeshire, 18th Sep- tember, 1721. CHARITY. DID Sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue Than ever man pronounced, or angels sung; Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define; And had I power to give that knowledge birth In all the speeches of the babbling earth; Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire; Or had I faith like that which Israel saw When Moses gave them miracles and law: Yet, gracious Charity! indulgent guest, Were not thy power exerted in my breast, Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer; That scorn of life would be but wild despair; A tymbal's sound was better than my voice; My faith were form, my eloquence were noise. Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, Softens the high, and rears the abject mind, Knows with just reins and gentle hand to guide Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride. Not soon provoked, she easily forgives; And much she suffers, as she much believes. Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives; She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives; Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven. Each other gift, which God on man bestows, Its proper bound and due restriction.knows; To one fixt purpose dedicates its power; And finishing its act, exists no more. Thus, in obedience to what Heaven decrees, Knowledge shall fail and prophecy shall cease; But lasting Charity's more ample sway, Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live, And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive. JOHN JOSEPH WINKLER. 83 As, through the artist's intervening glass, Our eye observes the distant planets pass, A little we discover, but allow That more remains unseen than art can show: So, whilst our mind its knowledge would improve (Its feeble eye intent on things above), High as we may, we lift our reason up, By Faith directed and confirm'd by Hope, Yet we are able only to survey Dawning of beams, and promises of day. Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight; Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd; The sun shall soon be face to face beheld In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throne. Then constant Faith and holy Hope shali die, One lost in certainty, and one in joy; Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity, Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, Thy office and thy nature still the same, Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame, Shalt still survive- Shalt stand before the host of heaven confest, For ever blessing, and for ever blest. John Joseph Winkler. JOHN JOSEPH WINKLER was born at Luckau, in Saxony, 23rd Decem- Ler, 1670. He was a pastor in Magdeburg, and afterwards became a chaplain in the army. At a later period he returned to Magde- burg, and became one of the ministers of the Cathedral there, and a member of the Consistory. He died at Magdeburg 11th August, 1722. The following hymn, written by him, was translated by John Wesley, probably at the time when Wesley was in Georgia, and when he was persecuted for his religious opinions. THE FEAR OF MAN. SHALL I, for fear of feeble man, The Spirit's course in me restrain? Or, undismayed in deed and word, Be a true witness for my Lord? Awed by a mortal's frown, shall I Conceal the Word of God most high? How then before Thee shall I dare To stand, or how Thine anger bear? Born 1670. Died 1722. 84 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Shall I, to soothe the unholy throng, Soften Thy truths, and smooth my tongue, To gain earth's gilded toys, or flee The cross endured, my God, by Thee? Yea, let men rage, since Thou wilt spread Thy shadowing wings around my head; Since in all pain Thy tender love Will still my sure refreshment prove. Saviour of men, Thy searching eye Doth all mine inmost thoughts descry! Doth aught on earth my wishes raise, Or the world's pleasures, or its praise? The love of Christ doth me constrain To seek the wandering souls of men; With cries, entreaties, tears, to save, To snatch them from a yawning grave. My life, my blood, I here present, If for Thy truth they may be spent; Fulfil Thy sovereign counsel, Lord! Thy will be done, Thy name adored! Give me Thy strength, O God of power! Then let winds blow, or thunders roar, Thy faithful witness will I be; 'Tis fixed: I can do all through Thee. Joachim Lange. DR. JOACHIM LANGE was born at Gardelegen, in Saxony, 26th Octo- ber, 1670. He was educated partly at Leipsic, and became a preacher at Berlin. He was afterwards appointed professor of the- ology at Halle. He died 7th May, 1744. The following piece was translated by Rev. John Wesley:- Born 1670. Died 1744. AN OFFERING. O GOD! what offering shall I give To Thee, the Lord of earth and skies? My spirit, soul, and flesh receive, A holy, living sacrifice: Small as it is, 'tis all my store; More should'st Thou have if I had more. JOSEPH ADDISON. 85 Now then, O God! Thou hast my soul; No longer mine, but Thine, I am: Guard Thou Thine own, possess it whole; Cheer it with hope, with love inflame. Thou hast my spirit: there display Thy glory to the perfect day. Thou hast my flesh, Thy hallowed shrine, Devoted solely to Thy will: Here let Thy light for ever shine; This house still let Thy presence fill! O Source of Life! live, dwell, and move In me, till all my life be love! Oh never, in these veils of shame, Sad fruits of sin, my glorying be! Clothe with salvation, through Thy name, My soul, and let me put on Thee! Be living faith my costly dress, And my best robe Thy righteousness. Send down Thy likeness from above, And let this my adoring be; Clothe me with wisdom, patience, love, With lowliness and purity— Than gold and pearls more precious far, And brighter than the morning star. Lord, arm me with Thy Spirit's might, Since I am called by Thy great name; In Thee let all my thoughts unite; Of all my works be Thou the aim: Thy love attend me all my days, And my sole business be Thy praise. Joseph Addison. JOSEPH ADDISON, son of the Dean of Lichfield, was born at Milston, •Wiltshire, 1st May, 1672. He was sent to the Charter House School, London, and then to Oxford University, to receive his education. For writing a poem on King William III's Campaign, he obtained a pension of £300. He travelled in Italy, and after his return to Eng- land, he was successively appointed to several Government situa- tions, and engaged extensively in literary undertakings, of which the "Spectator" is now the best known. In 1716 he married the Dowager Countess of Warwick. He retired from office with a pen- sion of £1500 a year, and died 17th June, 1719. His sacred poetry is very small in quantity, but he has written some verses that are im- mortal. Born 1672. Died 1719. 86 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ODE. How are Thy servants blest, O Lord; How sure is their defence; Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence. In foreign realms and lands remote, Supported by Thy care, Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, And breathed in tainted air. Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil, Made every region please: The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd, And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas. Think, O my soul! devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise. Confusion dwelt on every face, And fear in every heart, When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, O'ercame the pilot's art. Yet then, from all my griefs, O Lord! Thy mercy set me free; Whilst in the confidence of prayer, My soul took hold on Thee. For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave; I knew Thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save. The storm was laid, the winds retir'd, Obedient to Thy will; The sea that roar'd at Thy command, At Thy command was still. In midst of dangers, fears, and death, Thy goodness I'll adore; I'll praise Thee for Thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. My life, if Thou preserv'st my life, Thy sacrifice shall be; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to Thee. " i 1 ; ISAAC WATTS. Isaac Watts. ISAAC WATTS, eldest son of a schoolmaster, was born at Southamp- ton, 17th July, 1674. He was educated at the Southampton Gram- mar-School, and at Rowe's Academy, Stoke-Newington. He was for When his some time a tutor in the family of Sir John Hartopp. great piety and talents as a hymn writer were better known, he be- came the minister of an Independent congregation in Mark Lane, London. His health failed, and he went for change of air for one week to the house of Sir Thomas Abney. His visit lasted for thirty- six years, until his death on the 25th November, 1748. Dr. Watts has made his name famous wherever the English tongue is spoken, by his celebrated hymns and moral songs. He also published various other works. CREATING WISDOM. ETERNAL Wisdom! Thee we praise, To Thee our songs we bring; While with Thy name rocks, hills, and seas, And heaven's high arches ring. Thy hand, how wide it spread 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, And day obeys the sun; The stormy winds stand ready there Thine orders to obey; Born 1674. Died 1748. With sounding wings they sweep the air, To make Thy chariot way. On the thin air, without a prop, Hang fruitful showers around; At Thy command they sink, and drop, Their fatness on the ground. 87 Thy glories blaze all nature round, And strike the gazing sight, Through skies, and seas, and solid ground, With terror and delight. Infinite strength, and equal skill, Shine through the worlds abroad; Our souls with vast amazement fill, And speak the builder-God. But the sweet beauties of Thy grace Our softer passions move; Pity divine in Jesus' face We see, adore, and love. 88 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. LOOKING UPWARD. THE heavens invite mine eye, The stars salute me round; Father, I blush, I mourn to lie Thus grovelling on the ground. My warmer spirits move, And make attempts to fly; I wish aloud for wings of love To raise me swift and high, Beyond those crystal vaults, And all their sparkling balls; They're but the porches to Thy courts, And paintings on Thy walls. I bid my friends a short adieu, Impatient to be there. · Vain world, farewell to you; Heaven is my native air; I feel my powers released From their old fleshy clod; Fair guardian, bear me up in haste, And set me near my God. GOD'S WORSHIP. WELCOME, Sweet day of rest! That saw the Lord arise; Welcome to this reviving breast, And these rejoicing eyes! ✓ Welcome, ye saints of God! To feast on Jesus' love; Ye happy souls redeem'd by blood, Welcome this grace to prove! The King Himself comes near, And feasts his saints to-day: Here we may sit, and see him here, And love, and praise, and pray. One day amidst the place Where my dear Lord is seen, Is sweeter than ten thousand days Of vanity and sin. ♪ f REV. THOMAS PARNELL. 89 · My willing soul would stay In such a frame as this, And sweetly sing herself away To everlasting bliss. PRAISE FOR REDEMPTION. PLUNG'D in a gulph of dark despair, We wretched sinners lay, Without one cheerful beam of hope, Or spark of glimmering day. With pitying eyes the Prince of Grace Beheld our helpless grief; He saw, and, O amazing love! He came to our relief. Down from the shining seat above With joyful haste He fled; Enter'd the grave in mortal flesh, And dwelt among the dead. 1 Oh! for this love let rocks and hills Their lasting silence break; And, all harmonious, human tongues Their Saviour's praises speak. Angels, assist our mighty joys, Strike all your harps of gold; But when you raise your highest notes, His love can ne'er be told. Born 1679. Died 1717. Reb. Thomas Parnell. THOMAS PARNELL, the son of an English gentleman of Congleton, Cheshire, was born in Dublin in 1679. He was chiefly educated at Trinity College, Dublin, was ordained a minister of the Episcopal Church of Ireland, obtained several preferments-the Archdeacon- ry of Clogher in 1705, a prebendary in 1713, and the vicarage of Finglass in 1716. In 1705 he married Mrs. Anne Minchin. Her death, and that of one of his sons, affected Parnell's health and spirits so much that the close of his life was saddened, and he died in 1717, aged 38. "The Hermit, a poem written by him to vindicate God's dealings with man, is thought to be one of the most beautiful poems in the English language. He also wrote various other pieces of poetry. 90 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + GOD PRAISED BY THE CREATION. THE sun that walks his airy way To light the world, and give the day; The moon that shines with borrow'd light; The stars that gild the gloomy night; The seas that roll unnumber'd waves; The wood that spreads its shady leaves; The field whose ears conceal the grain, The yellow treasure of the plain, All of these, and all I see, Should be sung, and sung by me; They speak their Maker as they can, But want, and ask the tongue of man. Go search among your idle dreams, Your busy or your vain extremes, And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this. M A NIGHT-PIECE. How deep yon azure dyes the sky, Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie! While through their ranks in silver pride, The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire; The left presents a place of graves, Whose. wall the silent water laves; That steeple guides thy doubtful sight Among the livid gleams of night. There pass with melancholy state By all the solemn heaps of fate, And think, as softly-sad you tread Above the venerable dead, Time was, like thee, they life possest, And time shall be, that thou shalt rest. Those with bending osier bound, That, nameless, heave the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose Where toil and poverty repose. { REV. THOMAS PARNELL. 91 The flat, smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, (Which, ere our set of friends decay Their frequent steps may wear away); A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown. The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptur'd stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones- These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great, Who, while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give. Ha! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, The bursting earth unveils the shades! All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, They rise in visionary crowds, And all with sober accent cry, Think, mortal, what it is to die. Now from yon black and funeral yew That bathes the charnel-house with dew, Methinks I hear a voice begin; (Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, Ye tolling clocks, no time resound O'er the long lake and midnight ground!) It sends a peal of hollow groans, Thus speaking from among the bones: When men my scythe and darts supply, How great a king of fears am I! They view me like the last of things; They make, and then they draw, my strings. Fools! if you less provok'd your fears, No more my spectre form appears. Death's but a path that must be trod, If man would ever pass to God: A port of calms, a state to ease From the rough rage of swelling seas. Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead! Nor can the parted body know, Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe; 92 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. = As men who long in prison dwell, With lamps that glimmer round the cell, Whene'er their suffering years are run, Spring forth to greet the glittering sun: Such joy, though far transcending sense, Have pious souls at parting hence. On earth, and in the body plac'd, A few and evil years they waste; But when their chains are cast aside, See the glad scene unfolding wide, Clap the glad wing, and tower away, And mingle with the blaze of day. Born 1680. Died 1782. Simon Browne. SIMON BROWNE was a native of Shepton Mallet, Somersetshire. He was born in 1680. In 1716 he became the minister of a congrega- tion of Dissenters in Old Jewry, London. He was very popular, and was eagerly listened to by crowded congregations until 1723, when, from grief at the loss of his wife and only son, he became deranged on a particular subject relating to his own state, though mentally undisturbed on other matters. He gave up his clerical charge, but continued to write till his death, which occurred in 1732. He published, in 1706, "A Caveat against Evil Company," a short treatise; "The True Character of the Real Christian," 1709; Hymns and Spiritual Songs, 1720; Sermons, 1722; and several con- troversial works. He was a man of very considerable learning, of distinguished virtue, of the most fervent piety, and was animated by an ardent zeal for the interests of rational and practical religion. THE GLORY OF GOD. ETERNAL God, of beings First, Of all created good the Spring, For Thee I long, for Thee I thirst, My Love, my Saviour, and my King! Thine is a never-failing store; If God be mine, I ask no more. The fairest world of light on high Reflection makes but faint of Thine; The glorious tenants of the sky In God's own beams transported shine: But shouldst Thou wrap Thy face in shade Soon all their life and lustre fade. Thy presence makes celestial day, And fills each raptur'd soul with bliss; Night would prevail were God away, And spirits pine in paradise! ļ DR. EDWARD YOUNG. 98 In vain would all the angels try To fill Thy room, Thy lack supply. And, sure, from Heav'n we turn our eyes In vain to seek for bliss below; The Tree of Life can't root nor rise, Nor in this blasted region grow: The wealth of this poor barren clod Can ne'er make up the want of God. But, Lord! in Thee the thirsty soul Will meet with full, with rich supplies! Thy smiles will all her fears control, Thy beauties feast her ravish'd eyes: To failing flesh and fainting hearts Thy favour life and strength imparts! Dr. Edward Young. EDWARD YOUNG, son of the Dean of Salisbury, was born at Upham, near Winchester, in 1684. He went to Winchester School, and, in 1708, was nominated to a law fellowship in All Souls' College. He became tutor to Lord Burleigh, and published a series of poetical works. The Duke of Grafton gave Young £2000, saying, “It was the best bargain he had ever made in his life." Young became a clergyman, was appointed a royal chaplain, and rector of Welwyn, Hertfordshire. He married a widow, Lady Elizabeth Lee, daughter of the Earl of Lichfield. The deaths of Young's stepdaughter and his wife suggested the idea of his immortal poem, Thoughts." Young died 12th April, 1765. Night THE GLORIES OF THE FIRMAMENT. ONE Sun by day, by night ten thousand shine, And light us deep into the Deity: How boundless in magnificence and might! Oh what a confluence of ethereal fires S Born 1684. Died 1765. From urns unnumbered, down the steep of heaven! My heart at once it humbles and exalts, Lays it in dust, and calls it to the skies. Bright legions swarm unseen, and sing, unheard By mortal ear, the glorious Architect, In this, His universal Temple, hung With lustres, with innumerable lights- That shed religion on the soul, at once The Temple and the Preacher! Who sees Him not, Nature's Controller, Author, Guide, and End? Who turns his eye on Nature's midnight face TAN 66 94 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. But must enquire, What hand behind the scene, What arm almighty put these wheeling globes In motion, and wound up the vast machine? Who rounded in his palm these spacious orbs? Who bowled them flaming through the dark profound, Numerous as glittering gems of morning dew, Or sparks from populous cities in a blaze, And set the bosom of old Night on fire? RETIREMENT. BLEST be that hand divine which gently laid My heart at rest, beneath this humble shed. The world's a stately bark, on dangerous seas, With pleasure seen, but boarded at our peril: Here, on a single plank, thrown safe ashore, I hear the tumult of the distant throng, As that of seas remote, or dying storms: And meditate on scenes more silent still; Pursue my theme, and fight the fear of death. Here, like a shepherd gazing from his hut, Touching his reed, or leaning on his staff, Eager ambition's fiery chase I see; I see the circling hunt of noisy men Burst law's enclosure, leap the mounds of right, Pursuing and pursued, each other's prey- As wolves, for rapine; as the fox, for wiles- Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all. APOLOGY FOR RELIGION. ON piety, humanity is built; And, on humanity, much happiness; And yet still more on piety itself. A soul in commerce with her God, is heaven, Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life; The whirls of passions, and the strokes of heart. A deity believed, is joy begun; A deity adored, is joy advanced; A deity beloved, is joy matured. Each branch of piety delight inspires; Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides; ; DR. EDWARD YOUNG. 95 1 Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still; Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream Of glory on the consecrated hour Of man, in audience with the Deity. Who worships the great God, that instant joins The first in heaven, and sets his foot on hell. Lorenzo! when wast thou at church before? Thou think'st the service long: but is it just? Though just, unwelcome: thou hadst rather tread Unhallow'd ground; the muse to win thine ear, Must take an air less solemn. She complies. Good conscience! at the sound the world retires; Verse disaffects it, and Lorenzo smiles; Yet has she her seraglio full of charms; And such as age shall heighten, not impair. Art thou dejected? Is thy mind o'ercast? Amid her fair ones, thou the fairest choose, To chase thy gloom.-"Go, fix some weighty truth; Chain down some passion; do, some gen'rous good; Teach ignorance to see, or grief to smile; Correct thy friend; befriend thy greatest foe; Or with warm heart, and confidence divine, Spring up and lay strong hold on Him who made thee." Thy gloom is scatter'd, sprightly spirits flow; Though wither'd is thy vine, and harp unstrung. Dost call the bowl, the viol, and the dance, Loud mirth, mad laughter? Wretched comforters! Physicians! more than half of thy disease. Laughter, though never censured yet as sin (Pardon a thought that only seems severe), Is half-immoral: is it much indulged? By venting spleen, or dissipating thought, It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool; And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves. 'Tis pride, or emptiness, applies the straw, That tickles little minds to mirth effuse; Of grief approaching, the portentous sign! The house of laughter makes a house of woe. A man triumphant is a monstrous sight; A man dejected is a sight as mean. What cause for triumph, where such ills abound? What for dejection, where presides a power, Who called us into being to be blest? So grieve, as conscious, grief may rise to joy; So joy, as conscious, joy to grief may fall. + • 96 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + Most true, a wise man never will be sad; But neither will sonorous, bubbling mirth, A shallow stream of happiness betray: Too happy to be sportive, he's serene. Yet wouldst thou laugh (but at thy own expense), This counsel strange should I presume to give— (C 'Retire, and read thy Bible, to be gay." There truths abound of sovereign aid to peace; Ah! do not prize them less, because inspired, As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do. DEATH AND IMMORTALITY. FAITH builds a bridge across the gulf of Death, To break the shock blind Nature cannot shun, And lands Thought smoothly on the farther shore. Death's terror is the mountain Faith removes, That mountain-barrier between man and peace. 'Tis Faith disarms Destruction, and absolves From every clam'rous charge the guiltless tomb). * * #3 * The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileged beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven. Fly, ye profane! if not, draw near with awe, Receive the blessing, and adore the chance That threw in this Bethesda your disease: If unrestored by this, despair your cure; For here resistless demonstration dwells. A death-bed's a detector of the heart; Here tired Dissimulation drops her mask, Through life's grimace that mistress of the scene; Here real and apparent are the same. * * * * What gleams of joy! what more than human peace! Where the frail mortal? the poor abject worm? No, not in death the mortal to be found. His conduct is a legacy for all, Richer than Mammon's for his single heir. His comforters he comforts; great in ruin, With unreluctant grandeur gives, not yields, His soul sublime, and closes with his fate. How our hearts burnt within us at the scene, Whence this brave bound o'er limits fix'd to man. His God sustains him in his final hour! * ། 97 REV. JOHN MASON. His final hour brings glory to his God! Man's glory Heav'n vouchsafes to call her own. We gaze, we weep! mix'd tears of grief and joy! Amazement strikes! devotion bursts to flame! Christians adore! and infidels believe. Rev. John Mason. THE REV. JOHN MASON, the rector of Water Stratford, Buckingham- shire, is a sacred poet of whose life little is known, beyond that he was beloved and respected for his piety and virtue; also, that he laboured long and well to bring souls to Christ. Mason's “Spiritual Songs," 1683, and "Penitential Cries to Almighty God written by the Rev. Thomas Shepperd, of London), are interesting, (partly showing the progress of hymnology in Britain. It is stated that Dr. Watts, Pope, and the Wesleys borrowed ideas from Mason's poetry. Mason died in 1694. Methought I stood upon the shore, And nothing could I see But the vast ocean with mine eyes— A vast eternity! THE DREAM. METHOUGHT Death laid his hands on me, And did his prisoner bind; And by the sound methought I heard His Master's feet behind. Lord, I returned at Thy command, What wilt Thou have me do? Oh, let me wholly live to Thee, To whom my life I owe. Fain would I dedicate to Thee Died 1594. "" Methought I heard the midnight cry, Behold, the Bridegroom comes! Methought I was called to the bar Where souls receive their dooms. The world was at an end to me, As if it all did burn; But lo! there came a voice from heaven, Which ordered my return. The remnant of my days: Lord, with my life renew my heart, That both Thy name may praise. E 98 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Balph Erskine. RALPH ERSKINE was born in England, and was the son of a Scotch clergyman. He was descended from the Erskines, Earls of Mar. Ralph was educated at Edinburgh University, and was ordained a minister at Dunfermline, Fifeshire. He was a pious man, and a successful writer of sacred poetry; and his "Gospel Sonnets," &c., have passed through numerous editions. He published various other works, of which "Faith no Fancy "silenced all his opponents against religion. He was one of the leaders in the secession from the Established Church of Scotland in 1740. He died 6th November, 1752. HEAVENLY LOVE. Он, send me down a draught of love, Or take me hence to drink above! Here, Marah's water fills my cup; But there, all griefs are swallowed up. Love here is scarce a faint desire; But there, the spark's a flaming fire: Joys here are drops that passing flee, But there, an overflowing sea. My faith, that sees so darkly here, Will there resign to vision clear; My hope, that's here a weary groan, Will to fruition yield the throne. Here, fetters hamper freedom's wing; But there, the captive is a king: And grace is like a buried seed; But sinners there are saints indeed. My portion here's a crumb at best; But there, the Lamb's eternal feast; My praise is now a smothered fire; But then, I'll sing and never tire. Born 1685. Died 1752. Now, dusky shadows cloud my day; But then, the shades will flee away: My Lord will break the dimming glass, And show His glory face to face. My numerous foes now beat me down; But then, I'll wear the victor's crown; Yet all the revenues I'll bring To Zion's everlasting King! JOHN GAY. 99 Born 1688. Died 1732. John Gay. JOHN GAY was born at Barnstaple, Devonshire, in 1688. He was ed- ucated at a grammar school, and apprenticed to a silk-mercer in London. He got rid of his apprenticeship, and began a literary career, which was a very successful one. He was secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth, and then to Lord Clarendon. He obtained considerable sums of money for his writings, but lost by speculating in the South Sea Company. One of his best-known works is his Fables. He died 11th December, 1732, and was buried in Westmin- ster Abbey. A CONTEMPLATION. WHETHER amid the gloom of night I stray, Or my glad eyes enjoy revolving day, Still Nature's various face informs my sense Of an all-wise, all-powerful Providence. When the gay sun first breaks the shades of night, And strikes the distant eastern hills with light, Colour returns, the plains their livery wear, And a bright verdure clothes the smiling year; The blooming flowers with opening beauties glow, And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show; The barren cliffs with chalky fronts arise, And a pure azure arches o'er the skies. But when the gloomy reign of night returns, Stripped of her fading pride, all Nature mourns. The trees no more their wonted verdure boast, But weep in dewy tears their beauty lost; No distant landscapes draw our curious eyes— Wrapt in night's robe the whole creation lies. Yet still ev'n now, while darkness clothes the land, We view the traces of th' Almighty Hand. Millions of stars in heaven's wide vault appear, And with new glories hangs the boundless sphere; The silver moon her western couch forsakes, And o'er the skies her nightly circle makes; Her solid globe beats back the sunny rays, And to the world her borrowed light repays. Whether those stars, that twinkling lustre send, Are suns, and rolling worlds those suns attend, Man may conjecture, and new schemes declare; Yet all his systems but conjecture are. But this we know, that heaven's eternal King, Who bade this universe from nothing spring, Can at His word bid numerous worlds appear, And rising worlds th' all-powerful word shall hear. 100 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. When to the western main the sun descends, To other lands a rising day he lends; The spreading dawn another shepherd spies, The wakeful flocks from their warm folds arise; Refreshed, the peasant seeks his early toil, And bids the plough correct the fallow soil. While we in sleep's embraces waste the night, The climes opposed enjoy meridian light. And when those lands the busy sun forsakes, With us again the rosy morning breaks; In lazy sleep the night rolls swift away, And neither clime laments his absent ray. When the pure soul is from the body flown, No more shall night's alternate reign be known; The sun no more shall rolling light bestow, But from th' Almighty streams of glory flow. Oh, may some nobler thought my soul employ Than empty, transient, sublunary joy! The stars shall drop, the sun shall lose his flame, But Thou, O God! for ever shine the same. Alexander Pope. ALEXANDER POPE was born on the 21st May, 1688, in Plough Court, Lombard Street, London. His father, a Roman Catholic, was a linen-draper. Pope's education was, he says, "extremely loose and disconcerted." His father retired from business, to Binfield, in Windsor Forest. Pope resided with his parents, and in time pub- lished a succession of poems on various subjects, which placed him among the first rank of poets. His translations of Homer gained him about £8000. His most religious poem is "The Messiah." When his means increased he removed to Twickenham, where he died on the 30th of May, 1744. { Born 1698. Died 1744. 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. 1 ALEXANDER POPE. 101 The ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic dove. 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 frauds shall fail, Returning Justice lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-rob'd Innocence from heav'n 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 increase 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, risc! 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: 'Tis He the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 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 last, 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. ! 102 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. a No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd over, 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 Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; And starts amidst the thirsty wilds to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear, On rifted rocks, the dragons' 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; The leafless shrubs the flow'ry palm succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead, And boys in flowery band the tiger lead. The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's 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 the 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, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze ; JOHN ANDREW ROTHE. 103 Į 1 } O'erflow thy courts: the Light Himself shall shine Revealed-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 fixed His word, His saving power remains; Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns! John Andrew Bothe. JOHN ANDREW ROTHE was born, in 1688, at Lissa, in Silesia, where his father was a minister. He was educated at Leipsic, and was ordained a minister at Berthelsdorf in 1722. After being for some time connected with the Moravians, he resigned his charge and became Lutheran pastor in a village in Silesia. He died there in 1758. MERCY, FREE, BOUNDLESS MERCY. Now I have found the ground wherein Sure my soul's anchor may remain; The wounds of Jesus for my sin, Before the world's foundation slain; Whose mercy shall unshaken stay, When heaven and earth are fled away. Father, thine everlasting grace Our scanty thought surpasses far: Thy heart still melts with tenderness, Thine arms of love still open are, Returning sinners to receive, That mercy they may taste, and live. O love! thou bottomless abyss! My sins are swallowed up in thee; Covered is my unrighteousness, No spot of guilt remains in me; While Jesus' blood, through earth and skies, Mercy, free, boundless mercy, cries. By faith I plunge me in this sea; Here is my hope, my joy, my rest; Hither, when hell assails, I flee, And look unto my Saviour's breast; Away, sad doubt and anxious fear! Mercy is all that's written here. • Born 1688. Died 1758. Though waves and storms go o'er my head, Though strength, and health, and friends be gone, 1 104 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. E Though joys be withered all, and dead, And every comfort be withdrawn; On this my stedfast soul relies— Father, Thy mercy never dies. Fixed on this ground will I remain, Though my heart fail, and flesh decay; This anchor shall my soul sustain When earth's foundations melt away; Mercy's full power I then shall prove, Loved with an everlasting love. Robert Seagrave. ROBERT SEAGRAVE was born at Twyford, in Leicestershire, in 1693. In 1718 he graduated at Clare Hall College, Cambridge. He was a Sunday Evening Lecturer at Lorimer's Hall, London, in 1739. He afterwards became a preacher at the Tabernacle and joined the Calvinistic Methodists. His conduct in this respect occasioned some publications, &c., such as "The Clergy and the Thirty-nine Articles, 1738. Bishop Gibson's "Pastoral Letter," 1739. "Remarks on Mr. Seagrave's Conduct and Writings," 1739. Mr. Seagrave published, in 1742-48, "Hymns for Public Worship, Original and Select." Fifty of his hymns were reprinted in 1860, in a volume edited by Daniel Sedgwick. "The Prince of Liberty" was Mr. Seagrave's last work, which appeared in 1755. RISE, MY SOUL. RISE, my soul, and stretch thy wings, Thy better portion trace; Rise from transitory things Towards heaven, thy native place, Sun, and moon, and stars decay; Time shall soon this earth remove; Rise, my soul, and haste away To seats prepared above. Rivers to the ocean run, Nor stay in all their course, Fire ascending seeks the sun; Both speed them to their source; So my soul, derived from God, Pants to view His glorious face, Forward tends to His abode, To rest in His embrace. Fly me, riches; fly me, cares, Whilst I that coast explore; Born 1693. : 2 MATTHEW GREEN. 105 Flattering world, with all thy snares, Solicit me no more! Pilgrims fix not here their home; Strangers tarry but a night; When the last dear morn is come, They'll rise to joyful light. Cease, ye pilgrims, cease to mourn; Press onward to the prize; Soon our Saviour will return Triumphant in the skies. Yet a season, and you know Happy entrance will be given; All our sorrows left below, And earth exchanged for heaven. RESIGNATION. Ir is the Lord—enthron'd in light, Whose claims are all divine! Who has an undisputed right To govern me and mine. Matthew Green. MATTHEW GREEN was born in London in the year 1696, of parents be- longing to a dissenting denomination. He, however, threw off what he thought to be too much strictness and restraint; from one ex- treme he went to another, and became too worldly-minded. He ob- tained a situation in the Custom-House in London, but probably the unsettled condition of his mind concerning the state of his soul pro- duced depression of spirits, which led him to write a poem on the subject. "The Spleen" is his principal poem, "in which," remarks Mr. Melmoth, the celebrated translator of Pliny's and Cicero's epis- tles, "there are more original thoughts thrown together than I have ever read in the same compass of lines." Green died at his lodg- ings in Gracechurch Street, London, in 1737. It is the Lord-should I distrust, Or contradict His will, Who cannot do but what is just, And must be righteous still! It is the Lord-who gives me all- My wealth, my friends, my ease; And of his bounties may recall Whatever part He please. It is the Lord-who can sustain Beneath the heaviest load; E* Born 1696. Died 1737. 106 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. From whom assistance I obtain To tread the thorny road. It is the Lord-whose matchless skill Can from afflictions raise Blessings, eternity to fill With evergrowing praise. It is the Lord-my covenant God, Thrice blessed be His name, Whose gracious promise, seal'd with blood, Must ever be the same. His covenant shall my soul defend Should nature's self expire, And the great Judge of all descend In awful flames of fire. Can I, with hopes so firmly built, Be sullen or repine? No, gracious God, take what Thou wilt, To thee I all resign. Gerhard Tersteegen. GERHARD TERSTEEGEN, a native of Moers, in Germany, was born on the 27th of November, 1697. His father died, and Tersteegen's mother gave him a good education, comprising Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. He became so famous, that crowds came to hear him preach; and the hymns and religious works he published induced so many strangers to visit him, that his dwelling was called "The Pilgrim's Cottage.' He refused many offers of money, until his failing health and pious labours obliged him to accept help. He died, a triumphant follower of Jesus, on the 3rd of April, 1769. • THE LOVE OF GOD. THOU hidden love of God, whose height, Whose depths unfathomed, no man knows, I see from far Thy beauteous light; Inly I sigh for Thy repose; My heart is pained; nor can it be At rest till it find rest in Thee. Thy secret voice invites me still The sweetness of Thy yoke to prove: And fain I would; but though my will Born 1697. Died 1769, Seem fixed, yet wide my passions rove; Yet hindrances strow all the way; I aim at Thee, yet from Thee stray. ROBERT BLAIR. 107 'Tis mercy all, that Thou hast brought My mind to seek, her peace in Thee; Yet, while I seek, but find Thee not, No peace my wandering soul shall see. Oh, when shall all my wanderings end, And all my steps to Thee-ward tend? Is there a thing beneath the sun That strives with Thee my heart to share? Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone, The Lord of every motion there. Then shall my heart from earth be free, When it hath found repose in Thee. O Love! thy sov'reign aid impart, To save me from low-thoughted care; Chase this self-will through all my heart, Through all its latent mazes there; Make me Thy duteous child, that I, Ceaseless, may Abba, Father, cry. Robert Blair. ROBERT BLAIR was born in Edinburgh in 1699. His father was a minister of the Church of Scotland, and chaplain to the King. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh, and afterwards on the Continent. He became a clergyman, and was ordained on the 5th of January, 1731, at Athelstaneford, East Lothian, of which he continued minister until his death. He is known to fame as being the author of a poem entitled "The Grave." Although it is well written, in a striking and vigorous manner, he had considerable dif- ficulty in finding a publisher for it, as he says that, in his days, poems on sacred subjects were little appreciated. Mr. Blair was the friend of Dr. Watts and Dr. Doddridge, and was much beloved by his parishioners. He died of fever on the 4th of February, 1746. Born 1699. Died 1746. DEATH OF THE GOOD MAN. SURE the last end Of the good man is peace! How calm his exit! Night dews fall not more gently to the ground, Nor weary worn-out winds expire so soft. Behold him in the evening-tide of life— A life well spent-whose early care it was His riper years should not upbraid his green: By unperceived degrees he wears away; Yet, like the sun, seems larger at his setting. High in his faith and hopes, look how he reaches 108 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. After the prize in view! and, like a bird That's hamper'd, struggles hard to get away; While the glad gates of sight are wide expanded To let new glories in, the first fair fruits Of the last-coming harvest. Then, Oh then! Each earth-born joys grows vile, or disappears, Shrunk to a thing of nought. Oh, how he longs To have his passport sign'd, and be dismiss'd! 'Tis done, and now he's happy! The glad soul Has not a wish uncrown'd! E'en the lag flesh Rests too in hope of meeting once again Its better half, never to sunder more. Nor shall it hope in vain: the time draws on When not a single spot of burial earth, Whether on land or in the spacious sea, But must give back its long-committed dust Inviolate. Count Zinzendorf. NICHOLAS LUDWIG, Count von Zinzendorf, was born at Dresden, Saxony, 26th May, 1700. He was educated at Halle and at the Uni versity of Wittenberg. He was from an early age a follower of Jesus. He was the founder of Herrnhut, a refuge for persecuted Moravian Protestants. He was for this and his religion banished from Saxony. He expended large sums of money in missionary and other gospel work, and passed several years of his life in America. He published a number of religious works in prose and verse. Rev. John Wesley translated some of the hymns of Zinzen- dorf, of which this is one. Zinzendorf was allowed to return to Saxony, and died 9th May, 1760. Born 1700. Died 1760. JESUS OUR RIGHTEOUSNESS. JESUS, Thy blood and righteousness My beauty are, my glorious dress; 'Midst flaming worlds, in these arrayed, With joy shall I lift up my head. When from the dust of earth I rise To claim my mansion in the skies, E'en then shall this be all my plea, "Jesus hath lived and died for me. "" Bold shall I stand in that great day, For who aught to my charge shall lay! Fully absolved through Thee I am, From sin and fear, from guilt and shame. 1 1 JAMES THOMSON. 109 The holy, meek, unspotted Lamb, Who from the Father's bosom came, Who died for me, e'en me to atone, Now for my Lord and God I own. ".. Thus Abraham, the friend of God, Thus all the armies bought with blood, Saviour of sinners Thee proclaim— Sinners, of whom the chief I am. Lord, I believe Thy precious blood Which at the mercy-seat of God For ever doth for sinners plead, For me, e'en for my soul was shed. Lord, I believe were sinners more Than sands upon the ocean shore, Thou hast for all a ransom paid, For all a full atonement made. This spotless robe the same appears When ruined nature sinks in years; No age can change its glorious hue, The grace of Christ is ever new. Oh, let the dead now hear Thy voice; Now bid Thy banished ones rejoice, Their beauty this, their glorious dress, Jesus, The Lord of Righteousness. James Thomson. JAMES THOMSON was born, 7th September, 1700, at Ednam, Rox- burghshire. His father was the parish minister, and Thomson was educated to be a clergyman, but whilst he was studying at Edin- burgh University his father died, and not long afterwards, he was so discouraged by a reproof from a professor about his poetical style of writing prose on sacred subjects, that he went to London, where he suffered from poverty, until the success of his poem "Winter," published in 1726, led to fame and better circumstances. He published "Summer" in 1727, "Spring" was published in 1728, and Autumn" in 1730. Thomson went with Lord Chancellor Tal- bot's son on a tour over Europe. He wrote several works, and ob- tained successively two official situations, the latter yielding £300 a year. He died 27th August, 1748. Born 1700. 1 Died 1748. THE SUN. THE very dead creation, from thy touch, Assumes a mimic life. By thee refin'd, In brighter mazes the relucent stream Plays o'er the mead. The precipice abrupt, Projecting horror on the blacken'd flood, 110 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Softens at thy return. The desert joys, Wildly, through all his melancholy bounds. Rude ruins glitter; and the briny deep, Seen from some pointed promontory's top, Far to the blue horizon's utmost verge, Restless, reflects a floating gleam. But this, And all the much-transported muse can sing, Are to thy beauty, dignity, and use, Unequal far; great delegated source Of light, and life, and grace, and joy below! How shall I then attempt to sing of Him! Who, Light Himself, in uncreated light Invested deep, dwells awfully retir'd From mortal eye, or angel's purer ken; Whose single smile has, from the first of time, Fill'd, overflowing, all those lamps of heaven, That beam for ever through the boundless sky: But, should He hide His face, the astonish'd sun, And all th' extinguished stars, would, loosening, reel • Wide from their spheres, and chaos come again. And yet was every faltering tongue of man, Almighty Father! silent in Thy praise; Thy works themselves would raise a general voïce, Ev'n in the depth of solitary woods By human foot untrod; proclaim Thy power, And to the quire celestial Thee resound, Th' Eternal Cause, Support, and End of all! Born Rev. Philip Doddridge, D.D. {Bied 1751. PHILIP DODDRIDGE was descended from a judge, Sir John Doddridge, the son of an oilman. He was born in Loudon in 1702. His mother was a daughter of the Rev. John Bauman, a Protestant refugee from Bohemia. Doddridge's grandfather, a clergyman, had left the Church of England, on account of the Act of Uniformity, in the reign of King Charles II. Doddridge was a Nonconformist, and became an eminent minister of an Independent place of wor- ship at Northampton, where he also conducted an academy, prin- cipally for training Dissenters for the ministry. Of his valuable works-"The Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul," Life of Colonel Gardiner," and his hymns, are probably the best known. He died at Lisbon, 26th October, 1751. "The ETERNAL GOD, OUR HUMBLED SOULS. ETERNAL God, our humbled souls Low in Thy presence bow; With all Thy magazines of wrath, How terrible art Thou! REV. JOHN WESLEY. 111 # Fann'd by Thy breath, huge sheets of flame Do like a deluge pour; And all our confidence of wealth Lies moulder'd in an hour. Led on by Thee in horrid pomp, Destruction rears its head; And blacken'd walls, and smoking heaps Through all our streets are spread. Deep in our dust we lay us down, And mourn Thy righteous ire; Yet bless that hand of guardian love Which snatch'd us from the fire. Oh, that the hateful dregs of sin, Like dross, were perish'd there; That in fair lines our purer souls Might Thy bright image bear. So might we view with dauntless eyes That last tremendous day, When earth, and seas, and stars, and skies, In flames shall melt away. Born 1703. Died 1791. Rev. John Wesley. REV. JOHN WESLEY was the second son of the Rev. Samuel Wesley, rector of Epworth, Lincolnshire. He was born 17th June, 1703. His mother was a very superior woman. He and his brothers, Samuel and Charles, are examples of the wonderful influence exercised by the education of a good mother. An interesting account of her is given under the title of "The Mother of the Wesleys," by the Rev. John Kirk. John Wesley was educated at the Charter House, Lon- don, and afterwards at Oxford. In company with his brother Charles, he went, in 1735, as a missionary to Georgia, whence he re- turned in 1738. A great impression was made on his mind by meet- ing some of the Moravian Brethren, and also by reading Luther's "Preface to the Epistle to the Romans." In conjunction with' Whitefield and others, he formed the first Methodist Society, and devoted his life to organising the great denomination that bears his name, and to preaching in many parts of the country, chiefly in London and Bristol. He wrote numerous prose works, which were published after his death in thirty-two volumes. He also wrote a few hymns. He was well acquainted with the German language, and translated many beautiful German hymns. He died in London, 2nd March, 1791. THE CHRISTIAN'S PILGRIMAGE. How happy is the pilgrim's lot! How free from every anxious thought- From worldly hope and fear! 112 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 Confined to neither court nor cell, His soul disdains on earth to dwell, He only sojourns here. This happiness in part is mine; Already saved from low design, From every creature-love: Bless'd with the scorn of finite good, My soul is lighten'd of its load, And seeks the things above. The things eternal I pursue; A happiness beyond the view Of those that basely pant For things by nature felt and seen; Their honours, wealth, and pleasures mean, I neither have nor want. I have no babes to hold me here; But children more securely dear For mine I humbly claim: Better than daughters, or than sons, Temples divine, of living stones, Inscribed with Jesus' name. No foot of land do I possess; No cottage in this wilderness: A poor way-faring man, I lodge awhile in tents below, Or gladly wander to and fro, Till I my Canaan gain. Nothing on earth I call my own; A stranger to the world, unknown, I all their goods despise: I trample on their whole delight, And seek a city out of sight, A city in the skies. There is my house and portion fair; My treasure and my heart are there, And my abiding home; For me my elder brethren stay, And angels beckon me away, And Jesus bids me come! } 1 REV. JOHN WESLEY. 113 THE GOSPEL INVITATION. Ho! every one that thirsts draw nigh ('Tis God invites the fallen race); Mercy and free salvation buy; Buy wine, and milk, and gospel grace. Come to the living waters, come! Sinners, obey your Maker's call: Return, ye weary wanderers home, And find My grace is free to all. See from the Rock a fountain rise! For you in healing streams it rolls; Money ye need not bring, nor price, Ye labouring, burden'd, sin-sick souls. Nothing ye in exchange shall give, Leave all you have and are behind; Frankly the gift of God receive; Pardon and peace in Jesus find. Why seek ye that which is not bread, Nor can your hungry souls sustain? On ashes, husks, and air ye feed; Ye spend your little all in vain. In search of empty joys below, Ye toil with unavailing strife: Whither, ah! whither would ye go? I have the words of endless life. Hearken to Me with earnest care, And freely eat substantial food; The sweetness of My mercy share, And taste that I alone am good. I bid you all My goodness prove, My promises for all are free: Come taste the manna of My love, And let your souls delight in Me. Your willing ear and heart incline, My words believingly receive; Quickened, your souls by faith divine An everlasting life shall live. 114 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Rev. Charles Wesley. REV. CHARLES WESLEY was born 18th December, 1708. He was the third son of the Rev. Samuel Wesley, rector of Berkhampstead. He was five years younger than his brother John, who was the founder of the Methodist Society. He was educated at Westmin- ster School, and afterwards at Oxford. In 1735 he accompanied his brother John, as a missionary, to Georgia, in North America. In 1736 he returned to England. In 1738 he was much impressed by reading "Luther's Commentary to the Epistle to the Galatians," and also by the teaching of Peter Böhler, a Moravian minister, who visited him during an illness. He united with his brother John in preaching the gospel in many parts of England. In 1749 he married Miss Sarah Gwynne, and after this he preached chiefly in Bristol and London. He died in London 29th March, 1788. He had much more poetical talent than John Wesley, and he wrote and pub- lished numerous volumes of hymns and sacred poems. ARISE, MY SOUL, ARISE! ARISE, my soul, arise! Shake off thy guilty fears; The bleeding Sacrifice In my behalf appears; Before the throne my Surety stands, My name is written on His hands. He ever lives above For me to intercede; His all-redeeming love, His precious blood, to plead; His blood atoned for all our race, And sprinkles now the throne of grace. Five bleeding wounds he bears, Received on Calvary; They pour effectual prayers, They strongly plead for me: Forgive him, O forgive, they cry, Nor let that ransomed sinner die. The Father hears Him pray, His dear anointed One; He cannot turn away The presence of his Son: His Spirit answers to the blood, And tells me I am born of God. My God is reconciled; His pardoning voice I hear; Born 1708. Died 1788. I REV. CHARLES WESLEY. 115 He owns me for His child; I can no longer fear; With confidence I now draw nigh, And Father, Abba Father, cry. DEPTH OF MERCY. DEPTH of mercy! can there be Mercy still reserved for me? Can my God His wrath forbear? Me, the chief of sinners, spare? I have long withstood His grace, Long provoked Him to His face; Would not hearken to His calls, Grieved Him by a thousand falls. Kindled His relentings are, Me He now delights to spare; Cries, "How shall I give thee up?" Lets the lifted thunder drop. There for me the Saviour stands, Shows His wounds, and spreads His hands! God is love! I know, I feel; Jesus weeps and loves me still. Jesus, answer from above, Is not all Thy nature love! Wilt Thou not the wrong forget? Suffer me to kiss Thy feet? Now incline me to repent! Let me now my fall lament! Now my soul's revolt deplore! Weep, believe, and sin no more. LIFE BEYOND THE GRAVE. REJOICE for a brother deceased, Our loss is his infinite gain; A soul out of prison released, And free from its bodily chain; With songs let us follow his flight, And mount with his spirit above, Escaped to the mansions of light, And lodged in the Eden of love. 116 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Our brother the haven hath gained, Out-flying the tempest and wind; His rest he hath sooner obtained, And left his companions behind. Still toss'd on a sea of distress, Hard toiling to make the blest shore, Where all is assurance and peace, And sorrow and sin are no more. THE PILLARS OF THE EARTH ARE THINE. THE pillars of the earth are Thine, And Thou hast set the world thereon: They at Thy threat'ning look incline, The centre trembles at Thy frown, The everlasting mountains bow, And God is in the earthquake now. Now, Lord, to shake a guilty land, Thou dost in indignation rise; We see, we see Thy lifted hand! Made bare a nation to chastise, Whom neither plagues nor mercies move To fear Thy wrath or court Thy love. Therefore the earth beneath us reels, And staggers like our drunken men; The earth the mournful cause reveals, And groans our burden to sustain; Ordain'd our evils to deplore, And fall with us to rise no more. JACOB WRESTLING WITH THE ANGEL. COME, O Thou traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see; My company before is gone, And I am left alone with Thee: With Thee all night I mean to stay And wrestle till the break of day. I need not tell Thee who I am, My misery and sin declare; Thyself hast called me by my name, Look on Thy hands and read it there: But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou? Tell me Thy name and tell me now. 1 I REV. CHARLES WESLEY. 117 In vain Thou strugglest to go free, I never will unloose my hold. Art Thou the man that died for me? The secret of Thy love unfold: Wrestling I will not let Thee go, Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal Thy new, unutterable name? Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell! To know it now resolved I am: Wrestling I will not let Thee go, Till I Thy name, Thy nature know. What though my shrinking flesh complain, And murmur to contend so long! I rise superior to my pain- "When I am weak, then am I strong;" And when my all of strength shall fail, I shall with the God-man prevail. Yield to me now, for I am weak, But confident in self-despair; Speak to my heart, in blessings speak, Be conquered by my instant prayer; Speak, or I never hence will move, And tell me if Thy name be Love. 'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou died'st for me, I hear Thy whisper in my heart; The morning breaks, the shadows flee- Pure, universal Love Thou art: To me let Thy comyassion move— Thy nature and Thy name is Love. My prayer hath power with God! the grace Unspeakable I now receive; Through faith I see Thee face to face- I see Thee face to face and live: In vain I have not wept and strove- Thy nature and Thy name is Love. K I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art— Jesus, the feeble Sinner's friend; Nor wilt Thou with the night depart, But stay and love me to the end: Thy mercies never shall remove- Thy nature and Thy name is Love. 1 118. GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Dr. Samuel Johnson. SAMUEL JOHNSON was born in the year 1709. His father, who was a bookseller at Lichfield, died in 1731, leaving his son in poor circum- stances. After many struggles, Johnson completed his education, and devoted himself to literary pursuits, and his writings display considerable talent, and are much admired by many. In 1775 he had the degree of LL.D. conferred on him by the University of Oxford. He wrote several poems, but his principal work, by which he is best known, is his "Dictionary of the English Language." He also wrote "The Lives of the English Poets," &c., &c. He died in London in 1784. FOR DIVINE ILLUMINATION. O THOU! whose power o'er moving worlds presides, Whose voice created, and whose wisdom guides, On darkling man in pure effulgence shine, And cheer the clouded mind with light divine! 'Tis Thine also to calm the pious breast, With silent confidence and holy rest; Born 1709. Died 1784. From Thee, great God! we spring-to Thee we tend, Path, motive, guide, original, and end! Bishop Lowth. ROBERT LOWTH was born at Buriton, in Hampshire, in 1710. He was the son of William Lowth, Rector of Buriton and Prebend of Win- chester. Robert Lowth was educated at Winchester School, and then went to Oxford. He was for some time travelling tutor to the sons of the Duke of Devonshire, and was afterwards appointed Rector of Ovington and Archdeacon of Winchester. He published "Lectures on the Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews." &c. He was ap- pointed Bishop of London in 1777. He died at the age of 77, in the year 1787. Born 1710. Died 1787. THE GENEALOGY OF CHRIST, AS IT IS REPRESENTED ON THE EAST WINDOW OF WINCHESTER COLLEGE CHAPEL. THE glories of the illustrious line At their first dawn with ripened splendours shine; In David all express'd: the good, the great, The king, the hero, and the man complete. Serene he sits, and sweeps the golden lyre, And blends the prophet's with the poet's fire. On either side the monarch's offspring shine, And some adorn, and some disgrace their line. } ! 1 1 BISHOP LOWTH. 119 Here Ammon glories; proud incestuous lord! This hand sustains the robe, and that the sword; Frowning and fierce, with haughty stride he tow'rs, And on his horrid brow defiance low'rs. There Absalom the ravish'd sceptre sways, And his stol'n honour all his shame displays: The base usurper youth! who joins in one The rebel subject and th' ungrateful son. Amid the royal race see Nathan stand: Fervent he seems to speak, and lift his hand; His looks th' emotion of his soul disclose, And eloquence from ev'ry gesture flows. Such, and so stern, he came, ordain'd to bring Th' ungrateful mandate to the guilty king: When, at his dreadful voice, a sudden smart Shot thro' the trembling monarch's conscious heart, From his own lips condemn'd; severe decree! Had his God prov'd so stern a Judge as he. But man with frailty is allied by birth; Consummate purity ne'er dwelt on earth: Thro' all the soul, tho' virtue holds the rein, Beats at the heart, and springs in every vein, Yet ever from the clearest source have ran Some gross alloy, some tincture of the man. But who is he-deep musing-in his mind, He seems to weigh in reason's scales mankind; Fix'd contemplation holds his steady eyes- I know the sage, the wisest of the wise. Blest with all man could wish, or prince obtain, Yet his great heart pronounc'd those blessings vain. And lo! bright glittering in his sacred hands In miniature the glorious temple stands. Effulgent frame! stupendous to behold! Gold the strong valves, the roof of burnish'd gold. The wand'ring ark, in that bright dome enshrin'd, Spreads the strong light, eternal, unconfin'd! Above th' unutterable glory plays, • Presence divine! and the full-streaming rays Pour thro' reluctant clouds intolerable blaze! * * * * * And now at length the fated term of years The world's desire have brought, and lo! the God appears! The heavenly Babe the virgin mother bears, And her fond looks confess the parent's cares; The pleasing burden on her breast she lays, Hangs o'er His charms, and with a smile surveys: 120 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The Infant smiles, to her fond bosom prest, And wantons, sportive, on the mother's breast, A radiant glory speaks Him all divine, And in the Child the beams of Godhead shine. But now, alas! far other views disclose The blackest comprehensive scene of woes. See where man's voluntary sacrifice Bows His meek head, and God eternal dies. Fixt to the cross, His healing arms are bound, While copious mercy streams from every wound. Mark the blood-drops that life exhausting roll, And the strong pang that rends the stubborn soul! As all death's tortures, with severe delay, Exult and riot in the noblest prey: And canst thou, stupid man, those sorrows see, Nor share the anguish which He bears for thee? Thy sin, for which His sacred flesh is torn, Points ev'ry nail, and sharpens every thorn; Canst thou? while nature smarts in every wound, And each pang cleaves the sympathetic ground! Lo! the black sun, his chariot backward driv'n, Blots out the day, and perishes from heaven; Earth, trembling from her entrails, bears a part, And the rent rock upbraids man's stubborn heart. The yawning grave reveals his gloomy reign, And the cold, clay-clad dead start into life again. And thou, O tomb! once more shall wide display Thy satiate jaws, and give up all thy prey; Thou, groaning earth, shalt heave, absorpt in flame, As the last pangs convulse thy lab'ring frame; When the same God unshrouded thou shalt see, Wrapt in full blaze of pow'r and majesty, Ride on the clouds; whilst, as His chariot flies, The bright effusion streams through all the skies! Then shall the proud dissolving mountains glow, And yielding rocks in fiery rivers flow: The molten deluge round the globe shall roar, And all man's arts and labour be no more. Then shall the splendours of th' enliven'd glass Sink undistinguish'd in the burning mass. And O! till earth, and seas, and heav'n decay, Ne'er may that fair creation fade away! May winds and storms those beauteous colours spare, Still may they bloom, as permanent as fair! All the vain rage of wasting time repel, And His tribunal see, whose cross they paint so well! い ​-3 1 JOHN GAMBOLD. 121 1 John Gambold. JOHN GAMBOLD was born in Wales in the year 1711. He was educated at Oxford, but afterwards joined the Moravians. He was the author of various hymns, poems, and prose works. He was one of the translators of a History of Greenland," published in 1767. He died in the year 1771. "" THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY. O TELL me no more Of this world's vain store: The time for these trifles with me now is o'er; A country I've found, Where true joys abound: To dwell I'm determined on that happy ground. The souls that believe, In paradise live; And me in that number will Jesus receive. Born 1711. Died 1771. My soul, don't delay, He calls thee away, Rise, follow thy Saviour, and bless the glad day. No mortal doth know What He can bestow, What light, strength, and comfort do after Him go. So onward I move, And, but Christ above, None guesses how wondrous the journey will prove. I still (which is best) Shall in His dear breast, As at the beginning, find pardon and rest. And when I'm to die, Receive me, I'll cry, For Jesus has loved me, I cannot tell why. Great spoils I shall win From death, hell, and sin; 'Midst outward afflictions, shall feel Christ within. Perhaps for His name, Poor dust as I am, Some works I shall finish with glad loving aim. But this I do find, We two are so joined, He'll not live in glory and leave me behind. F 1 & 122 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Lo! this is the race I'm running through grace, Henceforth till admitted to see my Lord's face. And now I'm in care My neighbours may share Those blessings: to seek them will none of you dare? In bondage, oh why, And death will you lie, When one here assures you free grace is so nigh? Joseph Hart. JOSEPH HART was born about the year 1712. Although the son of pious parents, he was an irreligious man, till he was awakened by a sermon which he heard in a Moravian chapel. He repented of his former sins, and became a preacher of the truth in 1760. He was the author of a volume of hymns, and died on the 24th May, 1768. PRAYER. PRAYER was appointed to convey The blessings God designs to give; Long as they live should Christians pray, For only while they pray they live. The Christian's heart his prayer indites, He speaks as prompted from within; The Spirit his petition writes, And Christ receives and gives it in. And wilt thou in dead silence lie, When Christ stands waiting for thy prayer? My soul, thou hast a Friend on high- Arise, and try thy interest there. If pains afflict, or wrongs oppress, If cares distract, or fears dismay, If guilt deject, if sin distress, The remedy's before thee-pray. Born 1712. { Died 1768. A 'Tis prayer supports the soul that's weak, Though thought be broken, language lame; Pray if thou canst or canst not speak; But pray with faith in Jesus' name. Depend on Him, thou canst not fail; Make all thy wants and wishes known; Fear not, His merits must prevail; Ask what thou wilt, it shall be done. JOHN HAWKESWORTH, LL.D. 123 John Hawkesworth, LL.D. {Bied 1773. JOHN HAWKESWORTH, the son of a watchmaker, was born at Bromely, in Kent, in the year 1715. He was brought up to his father's trade, but he had a liking for literary pursuits, and in time became a writer of some eminence. He wrote an account of Captain Cook's first voyage, and contributed a series of articles to the "Adventurer, a periodical of the day, besides a number of other compositions. He died in 1773. MORNING HYMN. IN sleep's serene oblivion laid, I safely pass'd the silent night; At once I see the breaking shade, And drink again the morning light. New-born-I bless the waking hour, Once more, with awe, rejoice to be; My conscious soul resumes her power, And springs, my gracious God, to Thee! Oh! guide me through the various maze My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread; And spread Thy shield's protecting blaze When dangers press around my head. A deeper shade will soon impend, A deeper sleep my eyes oppress; Yet still Thy strength shall me defend, Thy goodness still shall deign to bless. That deeper shade shall fade away, That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes; Thy light shall give eternal day, Thy love the rapture of the skies. 11 John Berridge. JOHN BERRIDGE, the son of a wealthy farmer, was born at Kingston, in Nottinghamshire, February, 1716. He was educated at Cam- bridge, and in 1749 became curate of Stapleford, and was appointed vicar of Everton, in Bedfordshire, in 1755. He was an eloquent preacher and a good hymn writer. One of his biographers says of him, "Berridge was ready for all work, and for work among all classes, for his Master's sake." He died in 1793. He is the author of "The Christian World Unmasked, "Zion's Songs," &c., &c. Born 1716. Died 1793. 124 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. LABOURER'S MORNING HYMN. I THANK my Lord for kindly rest Afforded in the night; Refresh'd and with new vigour blest, I wake to view the light. Why need I grieve to earn my bread, When Jesus did the same? If in my Master's steps I tread, No harm I get, or shame. Oh, let me bless, with thankful mind, My Saviour's love and care, That I am neither sick nor blind, Nor lame, as others are! A trusty workman I would be, And well my task pursue; Work when my master does not see, And work with vigour too. And whilst I ply the busy foot, Or heave the labouring arm, Do thou my withering strength recruit, And guard me well from harm. To sweeten labour, let my Lord Look on, and cast a smile; For Jesus can such looks afford As will the hours beguile. Anne Steele. ANNE STEELE was the daughter of a Baptist minister at Broughton, in Hampshire. She was born about the year 1716. She published many volumes with the signature "Theodosia." She suffered much from bad health, and many of her writings were composed in her sick-room. The profits of her works were given to charity. She died in 1778. RESIGNATION. FATHER! Whate'er of earthly bliss Thy sov'reign will denies; Accepted at Thy throne of grace, Let this petition rise: Born 1716. Died 1778. Give me a calm, a thankful heart, From ev'ry murmur free; ANNE STEELE. ļ 125 The blessings of Thy grace impart, And let me live to Thee. Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine, My life and death attend, Thy presence through my journey shine, And crown my journey's end. THE IMMORTAL MIND. • Аn! why should this immortal mind, Enslav'd by sense, be thus confined, And never, never rise? Why, thus amused with empty toys, And soothed with visionary joys, Forget her native skies? The mind was formed to mount sublime Beyond the narrow bounds of time, To everlasting things; But earthly vapours cloud her sight, And hang with cold, oppressive weight Upon her drooping wings. The world employs its various snares, Of hopes and pleasures, pains and cares, And chained to earth I lie: When shall my fettered powers be free, And leave these seats of vanity, And upward learn to fly! Bright scenes of bliss, unclouded skies, Invite my soul; oh, could I rise, Nor leave a thought below! I'd bid farewell to anxious care, And say to every tempting snare, Heaven calls, and I must go. Heaven calls,-—and can I yet delay? Can aught on earth engage my stay? Ah! wretched, lingering heart! Come, Lord, with strength, and life, and light, Assist and guide my upward flight, And bid the world depart. 126 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. COME, WEARY SOULS. COME, weary souls, with sin distressed, The Saviour offers heavenly rest; The kind, the gracious call obey, And cast your gloomy fears away. Oppressed with guilt, a painful load, Oh, come, and spread your woes abroad! Divine compassion, mighty love, Will all the painful load remove. Here mercy's boundless ocean flows To cleanse your guilt and heal your woes; Pardon, and life, and endless peace- How rich the gift! how free the grace! Lord, we accept with thankful heart The hope Thy gracious words impart; We come with trembling, yet rejoice, And bless the kind, inviting voice. Dear Saviour, let Thy powerful love Confirm our faith, our fears remove, And sweetly influence every breast, And guide us to eternal rest. Rev. B. Beddome, M.. {Bied 1793. BENJAMIN BEDDOME was born in Warwickshire in the year 1717. He studied for the Church, and became a Baptist minister in 1743, at Bourton-on-the-Water, in which position he faithfully laboured till his death. He wrote a number of hymns, one of which was com- posed on his death-bed. He was also the author of several sermons, which were published in 1835. He died in 1795. A PRAYER. JESUS, my Saviour, let me be More perfectly conform'd to Thee; Implant each grace, each sin dethrone, And form my temper like Thine own. My foe, when hungry, let me feed, Share in his grief, supply his need; The haughty frown may I not fear, But with a lowly meekness bear. 1 3 1 REV. BENJAMIN BEDDOME. Let the envenom'd heart and tongue, The hand outstretched to do me wrong, Excite no feelings in my breast, But such as Jesus once express'd. To others let me always give What I from others would receive; Good deeds for evil ones return, Nor, when provoked, with anger burn. This will proclaim how bright and fair The precepts of the Gospel are; And God Himself, the God of love, His own resemblance will approve. PRAYER IS THE BREATH OF GOD. PRAYER is the breath of God in man, Returning whence it came; Love is the sacred fire within, And prayer the rising flame. The Christian's life with it concludes, And with it doth begin; 'Tis this invigorates the soul, And is the death of sin. It gives the burdened spirit ease, And soothes the troubled breast; Yields comfort to the mourners here, And to the weary rest. When God inclines the heart to pray, He hath an ear to hear; To Him there's music in a groan, And beauty in a tear. The humble suppliant cannot fail To have his wants supplied, Since He for sinners intercedes Who once for sinners died. A 127 128 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. John Cennick. JOHN CENNICK, born at Reading, Berkshire, in 1717, was, accord- ing to his own account, suddenly converted whilst walking along Cheapside, London. "The hand of the Lord touched me; I felt at once an uncommon fear and dejection." He became a Methodist preacher. Whitefield said of him, "Such a hard worker with his hands, and such a preacher, I have scarcely known-a second John Bunyan. Cennick afterwards joined the Moravians, and founded a settlement at Grace Hill, in Ireland. His religious labours were blessed to many, among whom was John Montgomery, the father of the celebrated poet. Čennick's principal writings are his hymns and sermons. He died in July, 1755. "" JESUS, MY ALL. JESUS, my all, to Heaven is gone, He whom I fix my hopes upon; His track I see, and I'll pursue The narrow way, till Him I view. The way the holy prophets went, The way that leads from banishment, The King's highway of holiness, I'll go; for all His paths are peace. No stranger may proceed therein, No lover of the world and sin; No lion, no devouring care, No ravenous tiger shall be there. No; nothing may go up thereon But travelling souls; and I am one: Wayfaring men, to Canaan bound, Shall only in the way be found. S Born 1717. Died 1755. Nor fools, by carnal men esteem'd, Shall err therein; but they, redeem'd In Jesus' blood, shall show their right To travel there, till heav'n's in sight. This is the way I long had sought, And mourn'd because I found it not; My grief, my burden, long have been, Because I could not cease from sin. The more I strove against its power, I sinn'd and stumbled but the more'; Till late I heard my Saviour say, "Come hither, soul! for I'm the Way!" 1 ADMIRAL RICHARD KEMPENFELT. 129 Lo! glad I come; and Thou, dear Lamb, Shalt take me to Thee, as I am: Nothing but sin I Thee can give; Yet help me, and Thy praise I'll live! I'll tell to all poor sinners round What a dear Saviour I have found; I'll point to Thy redeeming blood, And say, "Behold the way to God!" { Admiral Richard Kempenfelt. {Browned 1782. RICHARD KEMPENFELT was born at Westminster in 1718. His father was of Swedish origin, and an officer in the British army. Kem- penfelt entered the royal navy, and rose gradually in rank until he became an admiral. He was a pious Christian, and published some hymns and sacred poems in 1777. He was drowned in the Royal George, of 100 guns, which sunk at Spithead 19th August, 1782. THE CRY OF NATURE AND THE VOICE OF GOD. GREAT King! Thy dread decrees, Thy wrathful judgments, roar Loud as the raging seas, That lash the sounding shore; And Nature's echo rings the word— 'Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" The universal call Storms through the frightened air, Rocks this terrestial ball, And shrieks the word, "Prepare!" Tempestuous winds convey the word- "Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" Thunders in solemn peal The awful cry repeat, While showers of jarring hail Express the sinner's fate; And rapid lightnings flash the word— "Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" High o'er the rolling world The twinkling stars appear, While comets round are hurled, And meteors blaze in air; While all united give the word— “Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!” F* 130 • } "" GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Nor these alone; for all The ambassadors of God, Here join the general call, And cry the truth abroad; Incessantly announce the word- Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!” The eternal Spirit gives Compunctions to the breast; Conscience the alarm receives, And robs the soul of rest, More piercing than a two-edged sword- 66 'Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" 1 Great God! how few regard Thy summons to prepare! Deaf to the charmer's word, And destitute of fear, The sons of men reject the word— "Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" When death shall give the alarm, And lift his powerful spear, Sinners, professors, hear, The Gospel call is sent, Extend his meagre arm, And chill the soul with fear; How dreadful then will sound the word- (6 Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" A The great Commander's near, Repent! repent! repent! The trump of God shall sound the word- "Prepare, prepare to meet the Lord!" James Merrick. JAMES MERRICK was born in 1720. His writings, besides various poems on sacred subjects, include a translation of Tryphiodorus' Capture of Troy;" but his principal work is a version of the Psalms, with annotations. Lowth writes of him as a very good man, and a distinguished scholar. He died at Reading in the year 1769. PRAYER FOR DIVINE AID. AUTHOR of Good! to Thee I turn: Thy ever wakeful eye Alone can all my wants discern, Thy hand alone supply. Born 1720. Died 1769. BESTILLER REV. JOHN NEWTON. 131 I Oh, let Thy fear within me dwell, Thy love my footsteps guide! That love shall meaner loves expel, That fear all fears beside. And, oh! by error's force subdued, Since oft my stubborn will, Preposterous, shuns the latent good, And grasps the specious ill; Not to my wish, but to my want, Do thou Thy gifts apply; Unasked, what good Thou knowest, grant; What ill, though asked, deny. Rev. John Newton. JOHN NEWTON, born in London July, 1725, was early instructed in Christian principles by his mother. His father was a master mari- ner, and latterly governor of York Fort, Hudson's Bay. Newton for many years led a seafaring life as a sailor in the merchant and royal navies. He was at one period an ill-treated servant of a slave-dealer, and was afterwards the commander of a slave- ship. A dreadful storm at sea awaked his sleeping conscience, and recalled his mother's Christian teachings. He quitted the sea, married, became a tide-surveyor at Liverpool, then studied for the ministry, which he entered in 1764, and was curate, and subsequent- ly vicar, of Olney, where, with Cowper, he wrote the famous Olney Hymns. He published various other works. In 1779 he was rector of St. Mary, Woolnoth, London. He died 1st December, 1807. All we can boast till Christ we know Is vanity and toil. THE JOY OF THE LORD IS YOUR STRENGTH. Joy is a fruit that will not grow In nature's barren soil: But were the Lord has planted grace, And made His glories known; The fruits of heavenly joy and peace Are found, and there alone. J Born 1725. Died 1807. A bleeding Saviour seen by faith, A sense of pardoning love, A hope that triumphs over death, Give joys like those above. 132 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 To take a glimpse within the veil, To know that God is mine, Are springs of joy that never fail, Unspeakable! divine! These are the joys which satisfy And sanctify the mind; Which make the spirit mount on high, And leave the world behind. No more, believers, mourn your lot, But if you are the Lord's, Resign to them that know Him not, Such joys as earth affords. HOME IN VIEW. As when the weary traveller gains The height of some o'erlooking hill, His heart revives, if 'cross the plains He eyes his home, though distant still. While he surveys the much-loved spot, He slights the space that lies between; His past fatigues are now forgot, Because his journey's end is seen. Thus when the Christian pilgrim views By faith his mansion in the skies, The sight his fainting strength renews, And wings his speed to reach the prize. The thought of home his spirit cheers; No more he grieves for troubles past, Nor any future trial fears, So he may safe arrive at last. 'Tis there, he says, I am to dwell With Jesus in the realms of day; Then I shall bid my cares farewell, And He shall wipe my tears away. Jesus on Thee our hope depends To lead us on to Thine abode; Assured our home will make amends For all our toil while on the road. { 1 REV. JOHN NEWTON. 133 f THE CHILD. QUIET, Lord, my froward heart; Make me teachable and mild, Upright, simple, free from art; Make me as a weaned child: From distrust and envy free, Pleas'd with all that pleases Thee. What Thou shalt to-day provide, Let me as a child receive; What to-morrow may betide, Calmly to Thy wisdom leave: 'Tis enough that Thou wilt care; Why should I the burden bear? As a little child relies On a care beyond his own; Knows he's neither strong nor wise; Fears to stir a step alone: Let me thus with Thee abide, As my Father, Guard, and Guide. Thus preserv'd from Satan's wiles, Safe from dangers, free from fears, May I live upon Thy smiles, Till the promis'd hour appears, When the sons of God shall prove All their Father's boundless love. PRAYER ANSWERED BY CROSSES. I ASKED the Lord that I might grow In faith, and love, and every grace; Might more of His salvation know, And seek more earnestly His face. 'Twas He who taught me thus to pray, And He, I trust, has answered prayer; But it has been in such a way As almost drove me to despair. I hoped that in some favoured hour At once He'd answer my request, And by His love's constraining power, Subdue my sins and give me rest. 4 134 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Instead of this, He made me feel The hidden evils of my heart, And let the angry powers of hell Assault my soul in every part. Yea, more-with His own hand He seemed Intent to aggravate my woe; Crossed all the fair designs I schemed, Blasted my gourds, and laid me low. "Lord, why is this?" I, trembling, cried; "Wilt Thou pursue Thy worm to death?" "Tis in this way," the Lord replied, "I answer prayer for grace and faith. "These inward trials I employ From self and pride to set thee free, And break thy schemes of earthly joy, That thou may'st seek thy all in me." Joseph Grigg. "Jesus. GRIGG was a mechanic, and though engaged in laborious occupa- tions, found time to compose some hymns, two of which, and shall it ever be?” and “Behold! a Stranger's at the Door," have become popular, and are inserted, more or less altered, in many collections of hymns. Grigg published nineteen hymns in a pamph- let, and the success that he attained in hymn-writing seems to have led him to quit his trade, and become a preacher of the gospel. He was an assistant minister to the Rev. Mr. Bures in a chapel in Silver Street, London. He did not continue in this employment after the decease of Mr. Bures. Grigg died at Walthamstow, in Essex, in October, 1768. Died 1768. I STAND AT THE DOOR AND KNOCK. BEHOLD! a Stranger's at the door! He gently knocks, has knocked before, Has waited long, is waiting still; You treat no other friend so ill. But will He prove a Friend indeed? He will! the very Friend you need! The Man of Nazareth, 'tis He, With garments dyed at Calvary. Oh, lovely attitude! He stands. With melting heart, and laden hands! JOSEPH GRIGG. 135 } Coklat 1 Oh, matchless kindness! and He shows This matchless kindness to His foes, Rise, touch'd with gratitude divine; Turn out His enemy and thine, That hateful, hell-born monster, Sin, And let the Heavenly Stranger in. If thou art poor (and poor thou art), Lo! He has riches to impart; Not wealth, in which mean av'rice rolls; Oh, better far! the wealth of souls! Thou'rt blind; He'll take the scales away, And let in everlasting day: Naked thou art; but He shall dress Thy blushing soul in righteousness. Art thou a weeper? Grief shall fly; For who can weep with Jesus by? No terror shall thy hopes annoy; No tear, except the tear of joy. Admit Him, for the human breast Ne'er entertained so kind a Guest; Admit Him, for you can't expel; Where'er He comes, He comes to dwell. Admit Him, ere His anger burn; His feet, departed, ne'er return! Admit Him; or the hour's at hand, When at His door denied you'll stand. Yet know (nor of the terms complain), If Jesus comes, He comes to reign; To reign, and with no partial sway; Thoughts must be slain that disobey! Sovereign of souls! Thou Prince of Peace! O may Thy gentle reign increase! Throw wide the door, each willing mind! And be His empire all mankind! : 136 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Born 1725. The Hon. and Rev. W. Shirley. {Bied 1786. THE HON. AND REV. WALTER SHIRLEY, son of the Hon. Laurence Shirley, and grandson of Earl Ferrers, was born in 1725. He studied for the Church, and laboured as a preacher in England, and after- wards in Ireland. He has written many hymns, which are much admired; a volume of sermons; and two poems, entitled, "Liberty, an Ode," and "The Judgment." The following hymn was published in 1774, in a collection of hymns by Lady Huntingdon. He died in 1786. SWEET THE MOMENTS, RICH IN BLESSING. SWEET the moments, rich in blessing, 'Which before the cross I spend; Life and health and peace possessing From the sinner's dying Friend. Here I'll sit for ever viewing Mercy's streams in streams of blood, Precious drops, my soul bedewing, Plead and claim my peace with God. Truly blessed is this station, Low before His cross I lie; While I see Divine compassion Floating in His languid eye. Here it is I find my heaven, While upon the Lamb I gaze; Love I much? I'm much forgiven, I'm a miracle of grace. J ! Love and grief my heart dividing, With my tears His feet I'll bathe; Constant still, in faith abiding, Life deriving from His death. May I still enjoy this feeling, In all need to Jesus go; Prove His wounds each day more healing, And Himself most deeply know! William Cowper. WILLIAM COWPER was born, 26th November, 1731, at Berkhampstead, Hertfordshire, of which place his father was the rector. He was educated at a private school, and afterwards at Westminster. At the age of eighteen he was articled to an attorney, but disliked the profession. Some influential friends obtained for him the offices of Reading Clerk and Clerk of the Committees of the House of Lords. But as these appointments required him to appear in the House, he Born 1731. Died 1800. f WILLIAM COWPER. 137 resigned them. He was then appointed Clerk of the Journals, but as it was necessary that he should appear at the bar of the House, it had such an effect on his nerves that he was obliged to resign the office, and for some time was under the care of Dr. Cotton at St. Albans. He was afterwards an inmate in the family of a clergy- man of the name of Unwin, at Huntingdon, and after that gentle- man's death Cowper boarded with his widow. They removed to Olney, in Buckinghamshire, where he wrote sixty-eight of the "Olney Hymns." The Olney Collection, written by Rev. John New- ton and Cowper, was published in 1779, and it was after that period that Cowper wrote the series of poems which have made his name immortal. In 1795 a royal pension of £300 per annum was granted to him. He died at Dereham, in Norfolk, April, 1800. RETIREMENT. FAR from the world, O Lord! I flee, From strife and tumult far; From scenes where Satan wages still His most successful war. : The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree, And seem, by Thy sweet bounty, made For those who follow Thee. There if Thy Spirit touch the soul, And grace her mean abode, Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God! * There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays, Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise. Author and Guardian of my life, Sweet Source of light divine, And (all harmonious names in one) My Saviour, Thou art mine! What thanks I owe Thee, and what love! A boundless, endless store, Shall echo through the realms above When time shall be no more. THE COTTAGER. YON Cottager, who weaves at her own door- Pillow and bobbins all her little store- Content, though mean, and cheerful, if not gay, Shuffling her threads about the live-long day, 3- 138 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Just earns a scanty pittance, and at night Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light: She, for her humble sphere by nature fit, Has little understanding, and no wit; Receives no praise; but, though her lot be such, (Toilsome and indigent) she renders much; Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew- And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes, Her title to a treasure in the skies. O happy peasant! O unhappy bard! His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward; He, praised, perhaps, for ages yet to come, She, never heard of half-a-mile from home; He, lost in errors his vain heart prefers, She, safe in the simplicity of hers. NATURE. THE Lord of all, Himself through all diffused, Sustains, and is the Life of all that lives; Nature is but a name for an effect, Whose Cause is God. He feeds the sacred fire By which the mighty process is maintained; Who sleeps not-is not weary; in whose sight Slow-circling ages are as transient days; Whose work is without labour; whose designs No flaw deforms, no difficulty thwarts; And whose beneficence no charge exhausts. Him blind antiquity profaned, not served, With self-taught rites, and under various names— Female and male, Pomona, Pales, Pan, 1 And Flora, and Vertumnas-peopling earth With tutelary goddesses and gods That were not; and commending as they would To each some province, garden, field, or grove. But all are under One. One Spirit--His, Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, Rules universal Nature. Not a flower But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain, Of His unrivalled pencil. He inspires Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues, And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes, In grains as countless as the seaside sands, The forms in which He sprinkles all the earth. : " WILLIAM COWPER. 139 " Happy who walks with Him! whom what he finds, Of flavour or of scent, in fruit or flower, Of what he views of beautiful or grand In Nature, from the broad, majestic oak To the green blade that twinkles in the sun, Prompts with remembrance of a present God. His presence, who made all so fair perceived, Makes all still fairer. As with Him no scene Is dreary, so with Him all seasons please. Though winter had been none, had man been true, And earth be punished for its tenants' sake, Yet not in vengeance, as this smiling sky, So soon succeeding such an angry night, And these dissolving snows, and this clear stream, Recovering fast its liquid music, prove. THE DEATH OF THE SCOFFER. WHERE England, stretch'd towards the setting sun, Narrow and long, o'erlooks the western wave, Dwelt young Misagathus; a scorner he Of God and goodness, Atheist in ostent, Vicious in act, in temper savage-fierce. He journey'd; and his chance was as he went To join a traveller of far different note, Evander, famed for piety, for years Deserving honour, but for wisdom more. Fame had not left the venerable man A stranger to the manners of the youth, Whose face, too, was familiar to his view. Their way was on the margin of the land, O'er the green summit of the rocks, whose base Beats back the roaring surge, scarce heard so high. The charity that warm'd his heart was moved At sight of the man-monster. With a smile, Gentle and affable, and full of grace, As fearful of offending whom he wish'd Much to persuade, he plied his ear with truths,. Not harshly thunder'd forth, or rudely press'd, But, like his purpose, gracious, kind, and sweet. "And dost thou dream," the impenetrable man Exclaim'd, "that me the lullabies of age And fantasies of dotards such as thou Can cheat, or move a moment's fear in me? Mark now the proof I give thee, that the brave I 140 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Need no such aids as superstition lends To steel their hearts against the dread of death." He spoke, and to the precipice at hand Push'd with a madman's fury. Fancy shrinks, And the blood thrills and curdles, at the thought Of such a gulf as he design'd his grave. But, though the felon on his back could dare The dreadful leap, more rational, his steed Declined the death, and wheeling swiftly round Or e'er his hoof had press'd the crumbling verge, Baffled his rider, saved against his will. The frenzy of the brain may be redress'd By medicine well applied; but without grace The heart's insanity admits no cure. Enraged the more, by what might have reform'd His horrible intent, again he sought Destruction, with a zeal to be destroy'd, With sounding whip, and rowels dyed in blood. But still in vain. The Providence that meant A longer date to the far nobler beast, Spared yet again the ignobler for his sake. And now, his prowess proved, and his sincere Incurable obduracy evinced, His rage grew cool; and pleased, perhaps, to have earn'd So cheaply the renown of that attempt, With looks of some complacence he resumed His road, deriding much the blank amaze Of good Evander, still where he was left Fix'd motionless, and petrified with dread. So on they fared. Discourse on other themes Ensuing seem'd to obliterate the past; And tamer far for so much fury shown (As is the course of rash and fiery men), The rude companion smiled, as if transform'd. But 'twas a transient calm. A storm was near, An unsuspected storm. His hour was come. The impious challenger of Power Divine Was now to learn that Heaven, though slow to wrath, Is never with impunity defied. His horse, as he had caught his master's mood, Snorting, and starting into sudden rage, Unbidden and not now to be controll'd, Rush'd to the cliff, and, having reach'd it, stood. At once the shock unseated him; he flew Sheer o'er the craggy barrier; and, immersed Deep in the flood, found, when he sought it not, WILLIAM COWPER. 141 The death he had deserved, and died alone. So God wrought double justice; made the fool The victim of his own tremendous choice, And taught a brute the way to safe revenge. THE ANCHOR OF HOPE. HOPE sets the stamp of vanity on all That men have deemed substantial since the fall, Yet, has the wondrous virtue to educe From emptiness itself a real use; And while she takes, as at a father's hand, What health and sober appetite demand, From fading good derives, with chemic art, That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth, Pants for the place of her ethereal birth, On steady wings sails through th' immense abyss, Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss, And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. Hope, as an anchor, firm and sure, holds fast The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. Hope! nothing else, can nourish and secure His new-born virtues and preserve him pure. Hope! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy, Whom now despairing agonies destroy, Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, What treasures centre, what delights in thee. Had he the gems, the spices, and the land That boasts the treasure, all at his command; The fragrant grove, th' inestimable mine, Were light, when weighed against one smile of thine. WAR. GREAT princes have great playthings. Some have play'd At hewing mountains into men, and some At building human wonders mountain-high. Some have amused the dull sad years of life (Life spent in indolence, and therefore sad), With schemes of monumental fame; and sought, By pyramids and mausolean pomp, Short-lived themselves, to immortalise their bones. :: 142 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Some seek diversion in the tented field. And make the sorrows of mankind their sport But war's a game which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at. Nations would do well To extort their truncheons from the puny hands Of heroes whose infirm and baby minds Are gratified with mischief; and who spoil, Because men suffer it, their toy the world. When Babel was confounded, and the great Confederacy of projectors wild and vain Was split into diversity of tongues, Then, as a shepherd separates his flock, These to the upland, to the valley those, God drave asunder, and assigned their lot To all the nations. Ample was the boon He gave them, in its distribution fair And equal; and He bade them dwell in peace. Peace was awhile their care; they plough'd, and sow'd, And reap'd their plenty without grudge or strife. But violence can never longer sleep Than human passions please. In every heart Are sown the sparks that kindle fiery war; Occasion needs but fan them, and they blaze. Cain had already shed a brother's blood: The deluge wash'd it out; but left unquench'd The seeds of murder in the breast of man. Soon, by a righteous judgment, in the line Of his descending progeny was found The first artificer of death; the shrewd Contriver, who first sweated at the forge, And forced the blunt and yet unbloodied steel To a keen edge, and made it bright for war. Him, Tubal named, the Vulcan of old times, The sword and falchion their inventor claim; And the first smith was the first murderer's son. His art survived the waters; and, ere long, When man was multiplied and spread abroad In tribes and clans, and had begun to call These meadows and that range of hills his own, The tasted sweets of property begat. Desire of more; and industry in some, To improve and cultivate their just demesne, Made others covet what they saw so fair. 1 Thus war began on earth: these fought for spoil, And those in self-defence. WILLIAM COWPER. 143 THE STRICKEN DEER. I WAS a stricken deer that left the herd Long since: with many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charged, when I withdrew, To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts, He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live. Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene; With few associates, and not wishing more. GOOD WORKS. No works shall find acceptance in that day, When all disguises shall be rent away, That square not truly with the Scripture plan, Nor spring from love to God or love to man. As he ordains things sordid in their birth To be resolved into their parent earth; And, though the soul shall seek superior orbs, Whate'er this world produces, it absorbs; So self starts nothing, but what tends apace Home to the goal where it began the race. Such as our motive is, our aim must be; If this be servile, that can ne'er be free: If self employ us, whatsoe'er is wrought, We glorify that self, not Him we ought; Such virtues had need prove their own reward, The Judge of all men owes them no regard. True charity, a plant divinely nursed, Fed by the love from which it rose at first, Thrives against hope, and, in the rudest scene, Storms but enliven its unfading green; Exuberant is the shadow it supplies, ་ Its fruit on earth, its growth above the skies. To look at Him, who form'd us and redeem'd, So glorious now, though once so disesteem'd; To see a God stretch forth His human hand, To uphold the boundless scenes of His command; To recollect that, in a form like ours, 1 144 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + ! He bruised beneath His feet the infernal powers, Captivity led captive, rose to claim The wreath He won so dearly in our name; That, throned above all height, He condescends To call the few that trust in Him His friends; That, in the Heaven of heavens, that space he deems Too scanty for the exertion of His beams, And shines as if impatient to bestow Life and a kingdom upon worms below; That sight imparts a never-dying flame, Though feeble in degree, in kind the same; Like Him, the soul, thus kindled from above, Spreads wide arms of universal love; And, still enlarged as she receives the grace, Includes creation in her close embrace. Behold a Christian! and without the fires The Founder of that name alone inspires, Though all accomplishment, all knowledge meet, To make the shining prodigy complete, Whoever boasts that name--behold a cheat! Thomas Haweis. THE REV. THOMAS HAWEIS was rector of Aldwinkle and chaplain to the Countess of Huntington. "The Communicant's Spiritual Companion' is," observes Bickersteth, "an excellent devotional manual." First published in 1763, a new edition was issued in 1854. His "Evangelical Principles and Practice," 1762, reached a modern edition, Oxford, 1835. His sermons were at one period frequently alluded to by writers. His translation of the New Testament from the Greek, 1795, and his "History of the Church of Christ," 1800, are not favourably mentioned in works on the subject. Dean Isaac Milner severely criticised the latter. Haweis died in 1820. REMEMBER ME. O THOU, from whom all goodness flows, I lift my heart to Thee; In all my sorrows, conflicts, woes, Dear Lord, remember me. Born 1732. Died 1820. When groaning on my burden'd heart My sins lie heavily, My pardon speak, new peace impart, In love remember me! Temptations sore obsruct my way; And ills I cannot flee: fi 1 JAMES BEATTIE, LL.D. Oh, give me strength, Lord, as my day; For good remember me! Distrest in pain, disease, and grief, This feeble body see! Grant patience, rest, and kind relief; Hear, and remember me! If on my face, for Thy dear name, Shame and reproaches be; All hail reproach, and welcome shame, If Thou remember me! The hour is near; consign'd to death, I own the just decree; "Saviour!" with my last parting breath, "Remember me!" I'll cry, 145 James Beattie, LL.D. JAMES BEATTIE, whose father was a farmer, was born at Laurence- kirk, Kincardineshire, 25th October, 1735. He was educated at a parish school, and at Marischal College, Aberdeen. In 1751 he be- came parish schoolmaster of Fordoun, and in 1760, Professor of Nat- ural Philosophy and Logic in Marischal College. He wrote several prose and poetical productions, the best known of which are an Essay on Truth," answering Hume's infidel arguments, and "The Minstrel," a poem. In 1773 King George received Beattie with great favour, and a pension of £200 a-year and other honours were conferred upon him for his defence of religious truth against infidelity. He died 18th August, 1893. HOPE BEYOND THE GRAVE. Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you, For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; Kind nature the embryo blossom will save. Born 1735. Died 1803. But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave? 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. "Oh, pity, great Father of Light!" then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee! Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride: From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free." G # 146 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And darkness and doubt are now flying away; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn: So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending; And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb! Robert Robinson. Born 1735. ROBERT ROBINSON, born, in 1735, at Swaffham, Norfolk, was an ap- prentice to a barber. Whitefield's preaching caused him to leave his trade and become a preacher, first at the tabernacle in London. He left the Calvinistic Methodists, joined the Independents, quitted them at the age of twenty-five to be pastor of a Baptist congrega- tion at Cambridge, but he afterwards changed his religious opin- ions to Socinianism. He composed two favourite hymns, "Come, Thou Fount of every blessing," and "Mighty God! while angels bless Thee." HITHERTO HATH THE LORD HELPED US. COME, Thou Fount of every blessing, Tune my heart to sing Thy grace; Streams of mercy, never ceasing, Call for songs of loudest praise. Teach me some melodious sonnet Sung by flaming tongue above; Praise the mount-I'm fixed upon it; Mount of God's unchanging love! Here I raise my Eben-ezer; Hither by Thy help I'm come; And I hope, by Thy good pleasure, Safely to arrive at home. Jesus sought me when a stranger, Wandering from the fold of God; He, to save my soul from danger, Interposed. His precious blood.. Oh! to grace how great a debtor Daily I'm constrained to be! Let that grace now, like a fetter, Bind my wandering heart to Thee. Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it; Prone to leave the God I love; Here's my heart, oh, take and seal it; Seal it for Thy courts above. # JOHN FAWCETT, D.D. 147 Samuel Medley. SAMUEL MEDLEY was born, in June, 1738, at Cheshunt, in Hertford- shire. At the age of seventeen he entered the Royal Navy, and was wounded in an action near Cape Lagos between English and French fleets. He left the navy. He became a Baptist minister in 1766. He is the author of numerous hymns. He died at Liverpool in 1799. THE LOVING-KINDNESS OF THE LORD. AWAKE, my soul, in joyful lays, And sing thy great Redeemer's praise; He justly claims a song from me, His loving-kindness is so free. He saw me ruined in the fall, Yet loved me, notwithstanding all; And saved me from my lost estate, His loving-kindness is so great. When I was Satan's easy prey, And deep in debt and bondage lay, He paid His life for my discharge, His loving-kindness is so large. Through mighty hosts of cruel foes, Where earth and hell my way oppose, He safely leads my soul along, His loving-kindness is so strong. When earthly friends forsake me quite, And I have neither.skill nor might, He's sure my helper to appear, His loving-kindness is so near. MAN-HIS TRIALS. THUS far my God hath led me on, And made His truth and mercy known; Born 1738. Died 1799. John Fawcett, D.D. JOHN FAWCETT was born, in 1739, at Lidget Green, near Bradford, Yorkshire. He was converted by the preaching of Mr. Whitefield, and in 1758 he joined the Baptist Church at Bradford. In 1765 he was appointed the Baptist minister at Wainsgate. He wrote numer- ous prose works, poetic essays, and hymns. He died in 1817. My hopes and fears alternate rise, And comforts mingle with my sighs. Born 1739. Died 1817 148 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Through this wild wilderness I roam, Far distant from my blissful home. Lord, let Thy presence be my stay, And guard me in this dangerous way. Temptations everywhere annoy; * And sins and snares my peace destroy; My earthly joys are from me torn, And oft an absent God I mourn. My soul, with various tempests tossed, Her hopes o'erturned, her projects crossed, Sees every day new straits attend, And wonders where the scene will end. Is this, dear Lord, that thorny road, Which leads us to the Mount of God? Are these the toils Thy people know, While in this wilderness below? 'Tis even so: Thy faithful love Doth all Thy children's graces prove; 'Tis thus our pride and self must fall, That Jesus may be All in all. Augustus M. Toplady. AUGUSTUS M. TOPLADY, the son of a major in the army, was born at Farnham, Surrey, in 1740. He went to Westminster School, thence to Trinity College, Dublin. A deep impression was made upon him by a layman who was preaching in a barn. He entered the Chris- tian ministry in 1762, and became minister of Blagdon, Somerset, then vicar of Broad Hembury, Devonshire, in 1768. Owing to his failing health he went, in 1775, to London, where he laboured zeal- ously until his death, 11th August, 1778. He published numerous theological works. His hymns are some of the most sublime in the language. Toplady's hymn, "Rock of Ages," would alone have im- nortalised him. Born 1740. Died 1778. ROCK OF AGES. "Rock of Ages cleft for me"- Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, Fell the words unconsciously, From her girlish, gleeful tongue; Sang as little children sing; Sang as sing the birds in June; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune- 1 AUGUSTUS M. TOPLADY. 149 “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Let me hide myself in Thee,” Felt her soul no need to hide: Sweet the song as song could be- And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not they each might be On some other lips a prayer— "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." "Rock of Ages, cleft for me"— 'Twas a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully; Every word her heart did know, Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred- Every syllable aprayer— "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." ↓ "Rock of Ages, cleft for me”— Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly- Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim. "Let me hide myself in Thee"- Trembling though the voice and low, Ran the sweet strain peacefully, Like a river in its flow. Sung as only they can sing, Who behold the promised rest- "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee." 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me”—___ Sung above a coffin lid; Underneath, all restfully, • All life's joys and sorrows hid. Never more, O storm-tossed soul, Never more from wind or tide, Never more from billow's roll, Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 150 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 1 Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye, still, the words would be, "Let me hide myself in Thee." AFFLICTION SWEETENED. WHEN languour and disease invade This trembling house of clay, 'Tis sweet to look beyond our cage, And long to fly away. Sweet to look inward, and attend The whispers of His love; Sweet to look upward to the place Where Jesus pleads above. Sweet to look back, and see my name In life's fair book set down; Sweet to look forward, and behold Eternal joys my own. Sweet to reflect how grace divine My sins on Jesus laid; Sweet to remember that His blood My debt of suffering paid. Sweet in His righteousness to stand, Which saves from second death; Sweet to experience, day by day, His Spirit's quickening breath. Sweet on His faithfulness to rest, Whose love can never end; Sweet on His covenant of grace For all things to depend. Sweet in the confidence of faith To trust His firm decrees; Sweet to lie passive in His hands, And know no will but His. Sweet to rejoice in lively hope That when my change shall come, Angels will hover round my bed, And waft my spirit home. } ¦ MRS. BARBAULD. 151 1 Then shall my disimprisoned soul Behold Him and adore; Be with His likeness satisfied, And grieve and sin no more. Shall see Him wear that very flesh On which my guilt was lain; His love intense, His merit fresh, As though but newly slain. Soon, too, my slumbering dust shall hear The trumpet's quickening sound; And by my Saviour's power rebuilt, At His right hand be found. These eyes shall see Him in that day, The God that died for me; And all my rising bones shall say, Lord, who is like to Thee. If such the views which grace unfolds, Weak as it is below; What raptures must the Church above In Jesus' presence know! If such the sweetness of the stream, What must the fountain be; Where saints and angels draw their bliss Immediately from Thee! Oh! may the unction of these truths For ever with me stay; Till, from her sinful cage dismissed, My spirit flies away. Mrs. Barbauld. ANN LETITIA AIKEN was born at Kibworth Harcourt, Leicestershire, 20th June, 1743. Her father, the Rev. J. Aiken, was master of a boys' school. It was not until she was thirty years of age that Miss Aiken published, in 1773, a volume of poems, written at various periods. In 1774 she married the Rev. Rochement Barbauld, the minister of a Dissenting congregation at Palgrave, Suffolk, where he and Mrs. Barbauld conducted a boarding school for boys. Mrs. Barbauld published various works. and distinguished herself by promoting the cause of rational education. She wrote fourteen articles for "Evenings at Home," a work published by her brother, Dr. Aiken, with whom she resided after the death of her husband, She died 9th March, 1825. ; Born 1743. Died 1825. 152 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 3 AGAIN THE LORD OF LIFE AND LIGHT. AGAIN the Lord of life and light Awakes the kindling ray, Unseals the eyelids of the morn, And pours increasing day. Oh, what a night was that which wrapt The heathen world in gloom! Oh, what a sun which broke this day, Triumphant from the tomb! This day be grateful homage paid, And loud hosannas sung; Let gladness dwell in every heart, And praise on every tongue. Ten thousand differing lips shall join To hail this welcome morn, Which scatters blessings from its wings To nations yet unborn. Jesus! the friend of human kind, With strong compassion moved Descended, like a pitying God, To save the souls He loved. The powers of darkness leagued in vain To bind His soul in death; He shook their kingdom, when He fell, With His expiring breath. Not long the toils of hell could keep The Hope of Judah's line; Corruption never could take hold On aught so much Divine. And now His conquering chariot wheels Ascend the lofty skies; While, broke beneath His powerful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies. Exalted high at God's right hand, And Lord of all below, Through Him is pardoning love dispensed, And boundless blessings flow. f HANNAH MORE. 153 And still for erring, guilty man A brother's pity flows; • And still His bleeding heart is touched With memory of our woes. To Thee, my Saviour and my King, Glad homage let me give; And stand prepared, like Thee, to die, With Thee that I may live. Hannah More. HANNAH MORE was born at Stapleton, Gloucestershire, in 1744-5. Her father, master of a grammar school, gave her the rudiments of a classical education, which she finished at her sister's boarding school in Bristol. When seventeen she published her first work, The Search after Happiness." She was engaged to be married to an elderly gentleman of fortune, who did not marry her, but gave her an annuity for life, and £1000 at his death. With these means she was able to pursue a literary career in London, until a sense of religious duty caused her to leave the metropolis, and reside near Bristol with her sisters. She occupied herself with writing various useful works and tracts. "The Shepherd of Salis- bury Plain "had soon a sale of a million of copies. She died 7th September, 1833. A PRAYER. For me, Eternal Spirit, let Thy Word My path illume! O Thou compassionate God! Born 1744-5. Died 1833. Thou know'st our frame, thou know'st we are but dust: From dust, a seraph's zeal Thou wilt not seek, Nor wilt Thou ask an angel's purity. But hear, and hearing, pardon; as I strive. Though with a feeble voice and flagging wing, A glowing heart, but powerless hand to paint The faith of favour'd man to heaven-to sing The ways inscrutable of heaven to man; May I, by Thy celestial guidance led, Fix deep in my own heart the truths I teach! In my own life transcribe whate'er of good To others I propose! and by Thy rule Correct the irregular, reform the wrong, Exalt the low, and brighten the obscure! Still may I note how all the agreeing parts Of this consummate system, join to frame One fair, one finished, one harmonious whole! Trace the close links which form the perfect chain In beautiful connexion; mark the scale Whose nice gradations, with progression true, For ever rising, end in Deity! G* + 154 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. & Michael Bruce. MICHAEL BRUCE was born at Kinneswood, Portmoak, Kinross-shire, 27th March, 1746. Though his father was a poor weaver, with a wife and eight children to support, Michael was educated at Edinburgh University to be a clergyman. During the vacations he taught as a schoolmaster. He composed some poetry, which, after his prema- ture death, was published by his friend Logan, who has been ac- cused of publishing as his own some of Bruce's poetry. This has given rise to much controversy. Bruce died of consumption, 5th July, 1767. ་ MESSIAH, AT THY GLAD APPROACH. MESSIAH, at Thy glad approach The howling winds are still; Thy praises fill the lonely waste, And breathe from every hill. The hidden fountains at Thy call Their sacred stores unlock; Loud in the desert sudden streams Burst living from the rock. / The incense of the spring ascends Upon the morning gale, Red o'er the hill the roses bloom, The lilies of the vale. Renewed, the earth a robe of light, A robe of beauty wears; And in new heavens a brighter sun Leads on the promised years. The kingdom of Messiah come, Appointed times disclose, And fairer in Emmanuel's land The new creation glows. Let Israel to the Prince of Peace The loud hosanna sing! With hallelujahs and with hymns, O Zion, hail thy King. TRUST FOR THE FUTURE. ALMIGHTY Father of Mankind, On Thee my hopes remain; And when the day of trouble comes, I shall not trust in vain. Born 1746. Died 1767. 1 ; THOMAS CHATTERTON. 155 In early days 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. 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 I'll sing Thy praise, When time shall be no more. Thomas Chatterton. THOMAS CHATTERTON was born at Bristol, 20th November, 1752. He was brought up at Colston's Charity School, and afterwards ap- prenticed to a lawyer. Chatterton's father was a schoolmaster, and was a nephew of the sexton of St. Mary's Redcliffe Church, founded, or rebuilt, in the reign of King Edward IV. Chatterton alleged that he had old manuscripts which had been taken by his deceased father out of an old box, "Canynge's Cofre," in this church. He published some of the contents, as he stated, of these old manuscripts. Whilst some persons believed the statement, others doubted it. Chatterton also published various other pro- ductions in prose and verse; but, being unsuccessful in his literary career in London, he put an end to his own life on the 25th of August, 177O. HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. ALMIGHTY Framer of the skies, Oh, let our pure devotion rise Like incense in Thy sight! Wrapt in impenetrable shade, The texture of our souls was made, Till Thy command gave light. Born 1752. Died 1770. 1 156 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + The sun of glory gleam'd, the ray Refined the darkness into day, And bid the vapours fly: Impell'd by His eternal love, He left His palaces above To cheer our gloomy sky. How shall we celebrate the day When God appeared in mortal clay; The mark of worldly scorn. When the archangel's heavenly lays Attempted the Redeemer's praise, And hail'd salvation's morn! A humble form the Godhead wore, The pains of poverty He bore, To gaudy pomp unknown: Though in a human walk He trod, Still was the man Almighty God, In glory all His own. Despised, oppressed; the Godhead bears The torments of this vale of tears, Nor bids His vengeance rise: He saw the creatures He had made Revile His power, His peace invade, He saw with Mercy's eyes. John Ryland, D.. D.D. Born 1753. Died 1825. JOHN RYLAND was born at Warwick 29th January, 1753. His father was pastor of the Baptist Church in that town. He was carefully educated by his pious mother and his father, who was a learned man. In 1781 he was ordained, and appointed to be his father's as- sistant in the ministry of a church at Northampton. He was one of the originators of the Baptist Missionary Society. He afterwards became president of the Baptist College, Bristol. Besides numerous hymns, he wrote several prose works, "Memoirs of the Rev. R. Hall," sermons, &c. THE SOVEREIGN RULER. SOVEREIGN Ruler of the skies, Ever gracious, ever wise, All my times are in Thy hand, All events at Thy command. WILLIAM HURN. 157 1 1. His decree, who form'd the earth, Fix'd my first and second birth; Parents, native place, and time, All appointed were by Him. He that form'd me in the womb, He shall guide me to the tomb; All my times shall ever be Order'd by His wise decree. 1 Times of sickness, times of health, Times of penury and wealth; Times of trial and of grief, Times of triumph and relief. Times the Tempter's power to prove, Times to taste a Saviour's love; All must come, and last, and end, As shall please my heavenly Friend. Plagues and deaths around me fly; Till He bids, I cannot die; Not a single shaft can hit Till the God of love sees fit. O Thou Gracious, Wise, and Just! In Thy hands my life I trust: Have I something dearer still? I resign it to Thy will. May I always own Thy hand; Still to the surrender stand; Know, that Thou art God alone; I and mine are all Thy own. Thee at all times will I bless; Having Thee I all possess; How can I bereaved be, Since I cannot part with Thee? N William Hurn. man. WILLIAM HURN was born at Breccles Hall, Norfolk, 21st December, 1754. He entered the army, but soon quitted it to become a clergy- He was appointed chaplain to the Duchess Dowager of Chan- dos. In 1790 he was made vicar of Debenham, Suffolk. In 1822 he resigned his vicarage and left the Established Church. His reasons for this secession have been published. In 1823 he became the min- ister of the Congregational Church, Woodbridge, where he con- tinued till his death on 13th October, 1829. J Born 1754. ¡ Died 1829. 158 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. THERE IS A RIVER. THERE is a River, deep and broad, Its course no mortal knows; It fills with joy the Church of God, And widens as it flows. Clearer than crystal is the stream, And bright with endless day; The waves with every blessing teem, And life and health convey. Where'er they flow contentions cease, And love and meekness reign; The Lord Himself commands the peace, And foes conspire in vain. Along the shores, angelic bands Watch every moving wave; With holy joy their breast expands When men the waters crave. To them distressed souls repair, The Lord invites them nigh; They leave their cares and sorrows there, They drink, and never die. Flow on, sweet stream, more largely flow, The earth with glory fill; Flow on, till all the Saviour know, And all obey His will. CONSOLATION. CHILD of sorrow, lend thine ear, Turn and thy Deliverer see; Jesus brings His ransom near, Tells thee it was paid for thee. 'Tis the precious stream that flow'd From His hands, His feet, His side; Then He made our peace with God, Justice then He satisfied. Sins of deep and scarlet dye Vanish where His blood is known; Hellish foes in terror fly, Conscious that their power is gone. 1 REV. GEORGE CRABBE. 159 ! This will bring thee life and joy When 'tis sprinkled on thy heart; Nothing shall thy peace destroy, Death resigns his poison'd dart. Welcome, then, to Mercy's store, Mercy for the vilest free; Trembling sinner, doubt no more, Trust in Him who died for thee. But reflect, when turn'd to God, What it cost to make thee clean; Trample not on Jesus' blood- Love the Lord, and fear to sin. 1 Rev. George Crabbe. GEORGE CRABBE was born at Aldborough, Suffolk, 24th December, 1754. His father was a warehouseman and tax-collector. He was educated to be a surgeon, in which profession he failed; and having previously published poetry in periodicals, &c., he resolved to follow a literary career. He was reduced to great misery, from which he was rescued by the celebrated Edmund Burke, by whose aid he was enabled to become a clergyman of the Church of England. He was eventually chaplain to the Duke of Rutland, married Miss Elmy, and obtained several other preferments before he was appointed vicar of Trowbridge, with £500 a year. Crabbe composed several volumes of poetry, chiefly depicting, in a plain, homely style, scenes of English life. He died 3rd February, 1832. THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM. PILGRIM, burdened with thy sin, Come the way to Zion's gate; There, till Mercy speaks within, Knock and weep, and watch and wait. Knock-He knows the sinner's cry; Weep-He loves the mourner's tears; Watch for saving grace is nigh; Wait-till heavenly grace appears. Hark! it is thy Saviour's voice, "Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest.” Now within the gate rejoice, Safe and owned, and bought and blest. Safe-from all the lures of vice; Owned-by joys the contrite know; Bought by love and life the price; Blest the mighty debt to owe! Born 1754. Died 1832. 160 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. • الم 5. Holy pilgrim! what for thee In a world like this remains? From thy guarded breast shall flee Fear and shame, and doubt and pains. Fear-the hope of heaven shall flee; Shame-from glory's view retire; Doubt-in full belief shall die; Pain-in endless bliss expire. Mrs. Anne Grant. MRS. ANNE GRANT, of Laggan, was born in Glasgow in 1755. Her father was an officer in the army, and her husband was the minister of Laggen-the Rev. James Grant. After the death of her husband, Mrs. Grant removed to Edinburgh; and, in 1803, her poetical talent was displayed in a work entitled, "The Highlanders, and Other Poems." She also wrote, "Letters from the Mountains" (in which she gives an account of the inassacre of Glencoe), "Memoirs of an American Lady," and many other works. She died in Edinburgh in 1838. HYMN FOR THE SONS OF THE CLERGY. How blest these olive plants that grow Beneath the altar's sacred shade, Where streams of fresh instruction flow, And comfort's humble board is spread. 'Twas thus the swallow reared her young, Secure within the house of God, Of whom the royal prophet sung, When banished from that blest abode. When, like the swallow's tender brood, They leave the kind paternal dome, On weary wing to seek their food, Or find in other climes a home; Where'er they roam, where'er they rest, Through all the varied scenes of life, Whether with tranquil plenty blest, Or doom'd to share the deadly strife; Still may the streams of grace divine Glide softly near their devious way; And faith's fair light serenely shine To change their darkness into day. Still may they with fraternal love Each other's shield and aid become; } Born 1755. Died 1838. 1 . J ¡ ALICE FLOWERDEW. And, while through distant realms they rove, Remember still their childhood's home; The simple life, the frugal fare, The kind paternal counsels given, The tender love, the pious care, That early wing'd their hopes to heaven. And when the evening shades decline, And when life's toilsome task is o'er, May they each earthly wish resign, And holier, happier climes explore. + And when the faithful shepherds view Each ransom'd flock around them spread, How will they bless the plants that grew Beneath the altar's sacred shade! Alice Flowerdew. ALICE FLOWERDEW was the widow of Daniel Flowerdew, an English gentleman, who had at one time held a Government appointment in Jamaica. After his return to England he was in such poor cir- cumstances that Mrs. Flowerdew was obliged to keep a school at Islington. One of her hymns has appeared in many collections, and has sometimes been attributed to John Needham. It is possible that he may have altered a few words in it. From Islington she removed to Bury St. Edmunds, and then to Ipswich, where she died, 23rd September, 1830. FOUNTAIN OF MERCY. FOUNTAIN Of Mercy! God of Love! How rich Thy bounties are! The rolling seasons, as they move, Proclaim Thy constant care. When in the bosom of the earth The sower hid the grain, Thy goodness marked its secret birth, And sent the early rain. The spring's sweet influence was Thine, The plants in beauty grew; Thou gav'st refulgent suns to shine, And mild refreshing dew. These various mercies from above Matured the swelling grain; 131 Born 1759. Died 1830. : L 162 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. A yellow harvest crowned Thy love, And plenty fills the plain. Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone Thou dost on man bestow; Let him not, then, forget to own From whom his blessings flow. Fountain of love! our praise is Thine; To Thee our songs we'll raise, And all created nature join In sweet harmonious praise. Robert Burns. ROBERT BURNS was born at Alloway, near Ayr, 25th January, 1759. Though poor, the father of the poet was a man of cultivated taste and piety, and all his children were taught a love of literature. For many years Burns laboured, with his brothers and sisters, on his father's farm. He tried flax-dressing as a trade, but failed of suc- cess. After the father's death the family removed to Mossgiel, Mauchline, where Burns, pressed by poverty, published a volume of poems by subscription in 1786. He went to Edinburgh, where he was enthusiastically received, and gained £500 by an edition of his immortal poems. He afterwards married, engaged in unsuccessful farming operations, was appointed an exciseman in 1789. He con- tinued to write poetry to the last. He died 21st April, 1796. THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT. Born 1759. Died 1796. * * * * THE cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet reverently is laid aside, * His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim; Perhaps "Dundee's " wild, warbling measures rise, Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name; Or noble "Elgin" beats the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise: Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. TAN ROBERT BURNS. 163 The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild seraphic fire; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme- How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; How he, who lone in Patmos banishèd, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King, "> The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing, That thus they all shall meet in future days: There ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear; Together hymning their Creator's praise In such society, yet still more dear; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere, Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But, haply, in some cottage far apart, May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll. Then hameward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request, 164 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. That He, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. VERSES LEFT AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE. O THOU dread Power! who reign'st above, I know Thou wilt me hear, When for this scene of peace and love I make my prayer sincere. The hoary sire-the mortal stroke Long, long be pleased to spare; To bless his little filial flock, And show what good men are. She, who her lovely offspring eyes With tender hopes and fears, Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, But spare a mother's tears! Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, In manhood's dawning blush- Bless him, Thou God of love and truth, Up to a parent's wish! The beauteous, seraph sister-band- With earnest tears I pray— Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand, Guide Thou their steps alway! When, soon or late, they reach that coast, O'er life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in heaven! A PRAYER ON THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. O THоυ unknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence, ere an hour, Perhaps I must appear! 1 ROBERT BURNS. 165 If I have wandered in those paths Of life I ought to shun; As something, loudly, in my breast Remonstrates I have done,- Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty steps aside, Do thou, All-Good!-for such thou art - In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have erred, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. WINTER-A DIRGE. THE wintry wind extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.. The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, The joyless winter day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My grief it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine. Thou Power Supreme! whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here firm I rest, they must be best Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign. 166 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. James Grahame. JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glasgow, 22nd April, 1765. He was educated at the University of Glasgow, and studied law. He after- wards joined the English Church, and became curate of Shipton, in Gloucestershire, and then of Sedgefield, in Durham. He wrote "Biblical Pictures," British Georgics," and several other poems; but his chief work is "The Sabbath," which, though written in Eng- land, shows that his feelings and sympathies were Scottish. He resigned his curacy on account of his health, and returned to Glas- gow, where he died, 14th September, 1811. Born 1765. Died 1811, THE SABBATH. How still the morning of the hallowed day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the car-the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-sunk glen; While from you lowly roof, whose curling smoke O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And, as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground JAMES GRAHAME. 167 & Both seat and board, screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God-not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face, and upward earnest eyc. Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day: The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air pure from the city's smoke; While wandering slowly up the river-side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks, In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around the roots; and while he thus surveys With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes-yet fears presumption in the hope- To reach those realms, where Sabbath never ends. THE SABBATH IN SCOTLAND. O SCOTLAND! much I love thy tranquil dales; But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight, Wandering and stopping oft, to hear the song Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs; Or, when the simple service ends, to hear The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man, The father and the priest, walk forth alone Into his garden-plot or little field, To commune with his God in secret prayer, To bless the Lord that in his downward years His children are about him. Sweet, meantime, The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn, Brings to his view the days of youthful years, When that same aged thorn was but a bush. Nor is the contrast between youth and age To him a painful thought: he joys to think His journey near a close; heaven is his home. 168 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. * Robert Bloomfield. " ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, the son of a tailor, was born at Honington, Suffolk, 3rd December, 1766. As he was not strong enough to continue to be a farmer's boy, he was sent by his mother, a widow, to London, to learn the trade of a shoemaker. He composed a rural poem, 'The Farmer's Boy," whilst working with six or seven other shoe- makers in 4 Bell Alley, Coleman Street, London. This poem was brought out under the patronage of Mr. Capel Lofft. 26.000 copies were sold in three years. Bloomfield published several other works. He obtained a Government situation in the Seal Office, which ill health obliged him to relinquish. He had a pension of one shilling 2-day from the Duke of Grafton till he died, 19th August, 1823. Born 1766. Died 1823. HARVEST. Irs dark green hue, its sicklier tints all fail, And ripening harvest rustles in the gale. A glorious light, if glory dwells below, Where Heaven's munificence makes all the show, O'er every field and golden prospect found, That glads the ploughman's Sunday morning round, When on some eminence he takes his stand, To judge the smiling produce of the land. Here vanity sinks back, her head to hide: What is there here to flatter human pride? The towering fabric, or the dome's loud roar, And steadfast columns, may astonish more, Where the charm'd gazer long delighted stays, Yet traced but to the architect the praise; Whilst here the veriest clown that treads the sod Without one scruple gives the praise to GOD: And twofold joys possess his raptured mind, From gratitude and admiration join'd. Here, midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, Nature herself invites the reapers forth; Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, And gives that ardour which in every breast From infancy to age alike appears, When the first sheaf its plumy top appears. No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows- Children of want, for you the bounty flows! And every cottage from the plenteous store Receives a burden nightly at its door. ETERNAL POWER! from whom those blessings flow, Teach me still more to wonder, more to know: Seed-time and harvest let me see again; Wander the leaf-strewn wood, the frozen plain : ▼ MRS. AMELIA OPIE. 169 Here round my home, still lift my soul to THEE; And let me ever, midst Thy bounties, raise A humble note of thankfulness and praise! Mrs. Amelia Opie. AMELIA ALDERSON was born at Norwich, 12th December, 1769. Her father was a physician. In May, 1798, she married Mr. Opie, a cele- brated artist, who died in 1807. Mrs. Opie returned to Norwich to reside with her father, until his death," after which she became a Quakeress. She had hitherto published several successful works of fiction and poems, but after this change her writings were more serious. She spent much of her time in visiting the sick and poor. She died 2nd December, 1853. LINES WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE. ABOVE, lo! cloud to cloud succeeds; Below, the waves in surges roll, Bounding and white, as Grecian steeds That bore their monarch to the goal. Now his swift wings the sea-bird lowers, For well he reads the angry skies; And ere the storm its fury pours, For shelter to the rock he flies. Bird of the wave, when dangers threat, When life looks dark, and all is drear, Should deep remorse and vain regret Rouse in my heart desponding fear, May I for shelter seek, like thee— Shelter which can all fears remove, And to my Rock of refuge flee— A dying Saviour's pardoning love. PRAYER FOR THE WANDERERS. WATCH not o'er these alone, O Lord! Whom Thou hast sent to teach Thy will, And with Thine everlasting Word The hungry conscious sinner fill; Not only wanderers from our fold On Christian mission kindly sent, With love's protecting eye behold, And guard the spirit Thou hast lent; H Born 1769. Died 1853. + 170 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The other wanderers far less blest, Thy watchful care, Thy love display; To wanderers from the path of rest, To wanderers from Thy holy way. Such wanderers, Lord, from things impure Let Thy awakening Spirit call; By hope of smiling mercy lure, By fear of frowning wrath appall. For though the mission'd wanderer go O'er desert wilds and trackless tides, To regions of eternal snow, Or wheresoever man abides- More dangerous, wretched, rugged, wide, The best, the brightest path must be Of him, allur'd from virtue's side, Who wanders, gracious God, from Thee. ON THE DEATH OF A MOTHER. AT length, then, the tenderest of mothers is gone! Her smiles, her love accents, can glad thee no more; That once cheerful chamber is silent and lone, And for thee all a child's precious duties are o'er. Her welcome at morning, her blessing at night, No longer the crown of thy comforts can be; And the friend seen and loved since thine eyes first saw light Thou canst ne'er see again! thou art orphan'd like me. Oh, change! from which nature must shrink overpower'd, Till faith shall the anguish remove and condemn; For the change to those blest ones who "die in the Lord," Though to us it brings sorrow, gives glory to them. COME, YE MOURNERS. COME, ye mourners, plung'd in sorrow, And a Christian's call obey! Come, all ye who dread to-morrow, And through tears behold to-day; Come! and Calvary's mount ascending, There with me in fancy view Christ beneath the burden bending Of the cross He bore for you. THOMAS KELLY. 171 " Friends forsaking, foes remaining, See His wrongs, His shame, His pain! See Him all earth's woes sustaining, That its sons might heaven obtain. See the horrid insults offer'd! See the more than heathen spite! Could it be, that He who suffer'd Was the Lord of life and light? Yes, the temple's veil is rending! Darkness shrouds the noontide hour! Earthquakes, too, their witness lending, Speak the Victim's name and power! View the blood that's from Him streaming With affection's grateful eyes! With that blood your souls redeeming- 'Tis for you He bleeds and dies. And shall you, your woes bewailing, Murmuring, share your Saviour's pain? Sinners! mourners! trials hailing, Count each earthly loss a gain: Come to Him, and, sin forsaking, Set His cross before, your view: Courage thence and comfort taking, Live for Him who died for you. Thomas Kelly. THOMAS KELLY, the son of an Irish judge, was born in Dublin in 1769. His father at one time intended him for the legal profession, but his own wish was to enter the ministry. He was ordained, about the year 1793, as a clergyman of the Episcopal Church in Dublin. He preached with great decision the doctrine of justifica- tion by faith, which gave offence to some of his friends. He met with opposition, also, from some of his superiors in the Church, and he was induced to leave it; but he continued to labour in Dub- lin for more than sixty years with great success. He composed numerous hymns, and set many of them to music. He died in May, 1855. On his death-bed, when the words were repeated to him, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want," he said, "The Lord is my everything, He is all in all." HARK! "TIS A MARTIAL SOUND. HARK! 'tis a martial sound! To arms, ye saints, to arms! Your foes are gathering round, And peace has lost its charms: Born 1769. Died 1855. 172 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 1 Prepare the helmet, sword, and shield; The trumpet calls you to the field. No common foes appear To dare you to the fight, But such as own no fear, And glory in their might: The powers of darkness are at hand; Resist, or bow to their command. An arm of flesh must fail In such a strife as this; He only can prevail Whose arm immortal is: 'Tis Heaven itself the strength must yield, And weapons fit for such a field. And Heaven supplies them, too: The Lord, who never faints, Is greater than the foe, And He is with His saints: Thus arm'd, they venture to the fight; Thus arm'd, they put their foes to flight. And when the conflict's past, On yonder peaceful shore They shall repose at last, And see their foes no more: The fruits of victory enjoy, And never more their arms employ. OUR ABIDING CITY. WE'VE no abiding city here,— This may distress the worldly mind; But should not cost the saint a tear, Who hopes a better rest to find. We've no abiding city here,— Sad truth were this to be our home; But let this thought our spirits cheer, We seek a city yet to come. We've no abiding city here,— Then let us live as pilgrims do; Let not the world our rest appear, But let us haste from all below. P I THOMAS KELLY. 173 We've no abiding city here,- We seek a city out of sight: Zion its name, the Lord is there, It shines with everlasting light. Zion! Jehovah is her strength! Secure, she smiles at all her foes, And weary travellers at length Within her sacred walls repose. O sweet abode of peace and love! Where pilgrims, freed from toil, are blest, Had I the pinions of a dove, I'd fly to thee, and be at rest. But hush, my soul! nor dare repine; The time thy God appoints is best; While here to do His will be mine; And His to fix my time of rest. THE SACRED BOOK OF GOD. I LOVE the sacred Book of God; No other can its place supply: It points me to the saint's abode; It gives me wings and bids me fly. Sweet Book, in thee my eyes discern The image of my absent Lord; From thine instructive page I learn The joys His presence will afford. In thee I read my title clear To mansions that will ne'er decay; My Lord, oh, when will He appear, And bear His pris'ner far away! Then shall I need thy light no more, For nothing shall be then concealed; When I have reached the heavenly shore, The Lord Himself will stand revealed. When, 'midst the throng celestial placed, The bright Original I see, From which thy sacred page was traced, Sweet Book, I've no more need of thee. SOLD - دل 174 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. But, while I'm here, thou shalt supply His place, and tell me of His love: I'll read, with faith's discerning eye, And get a taste of joys above. I know His Spirit breathes in thee, To animate His people here: May thy sweet truths prove life to me, Till in His presence I appear! COME, YE SAINTS. COME, ye saints, look here and wonder: See the place where Jesus lay; He has burst His bands asunder; He has borne our sins away; Joyful tidings! Yes, the Lord has risen to-day. Jesus triumphs! Sing ye praises; By His death He overcame; Thus the Lord His glory raises, Thus He fills His foes with shame. Sing ye praises! Praises to the Victor's name. Jesus triumphs! Countless legions Come from heaven to meet their king; Soon, in yonder blessed regions, They shall join His praise to sing; Songs eternal Shall through heaven's high arches ring. William Wordsworth. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, a native of Cockermouth, Cumberland, was born on the 7th of April, 1770. His father was law-agent to Lord Lonsdale. Wordsworth was educated at Hawkeshead School in Lan- cashire, and at St. John's College, Cambridge. During his travels abroad he was at Paris, but the Reign of Terror there made him glad to return to England. He changed his democratic political opinions, married his cousin, accepted the Government situation of distribu- tor of stamps, and resided for the rest of his life amongst the lakes and mountains of Westmoreland. He published a number of poems and lyrical ballads of a sweet and simple description. "He has dwelt." writes Hazlitt, "among pastoral scenes until each object has become connected with numberless feelings, a link in the chain of thought, a fibre of his own heart." In 1842 he received a Government pension of £300 a-year; and the following year the "Bard of Rydal Mount" was appointed poet-laureate. He died 23rd April, 1850. (Born 1770. Died 1850. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 175 { THANKSGIVING ODE. To Thee! to Thee! On this appointed day shall thanks ascend, That Thou hast brought our warfare to an end; And that we need no further victory! For a brief moment terrible, But to Thy sovereign penetration fair; Before whom all things are, that were, All judgments that have been, or e'er shall be, Links in the chain of Thy tranquillity! Along the bosom of this favour'd nation, Breathe Thou, this day, a vital undulation! Let all who do this land inherit Be conscious of Thy moving Spirit! Oh, 'tis a goodly ordinance! the sight, Though sprung from bleeding war, is one of pure delight; Bless Thou the hour, or ere the hour arrive, When a whole people shall kneel down in prayer, And, at one moment, in one spirit, strive With lip and heart to tell their gratitude For Thy protecting care, Their solemn joy-praising the eternal Lord For tyranny subdued, And for the sway of equity renew'd, For liberty confirm'd, and peace restored! (6 But hark, the summons! Down the placid lake Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells; Bright shines the sun, as if his beams might wake The tender insects sleeping in their cells; Bright shines the sun, and not a breeze to shake The drops that point the melting icicles. Oh, enter now His temple gate!" Inviting words-perchance already flung (As the crowd press devoutly down the aisle Of some old minster's venerable pile) From voices into zealous passion stung, While the tubed engine feels the inspiring blast, And has begun its clouds of sound to cast Towards the empyreal heaven, As if the fretted roof were riven. Its humbler ceremonies now await; ✔ But in the bosom with devout respect, The banner of our joy we will erect, And strength of love our souls shall elevate: 176 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. For, to a few collected in His name, The heavenly Father will incline His ear, Hallowing Himself the service which they frame. Awake! the majesty of God revere! Go,--and with foreheads meekly bow'd, Present your prayer: go, and rejoice aloud- The Holy One will hear! And what 'mid silence deep, with faith sincere, Ye in your low and undisturb'd estate, Shall simply feel, and purely meditate Of warnings-from the unprecedented might Which, in our time, the impious have disclosed; And of more arduous duties thence imposed Upon the future advocates of right; Of mysteries reveal'd, And judgments unrepeal'd,- Of earthly revolution, And final retribution,- To His omniscience will appear, As offering not unworthy to find place, On this high Day of Thanks, before the throne of grace. TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR. NoT seldom, clad in radiant vest, Deceitfully goes forth the morn; Not seldom evening, in the west, Sinks smilingly forsworn. The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, To the confiding bark, untrue; And if she trust the stars above, They can be treacherous too. The umbrageous oak, in pomp outspread, Full oft when storms the welkin rend, Draws lightning down upon the head It promised to defend. But Thou art true, incarnate Lord! Who didst vouchsafe for man to die; Thy smile is sure, Thy plighted word No change can falsify! I bent before Thy gracious throne, And asked for peace with suppliant knee; And peace was given-nor peace alone, But faith, sublimed to ecstasy! SIR WALTER SCOTT. 177 - Sir Walter Scott. 66 WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh, 15th August, 1771. He was a feeble, lame, sickly boy, and read much for amusement. He was educated at the Edinburgh High School and University. His father was a writer to the signet, and he adopted the legal profession as an advocate. In 1796 he married Miss Carpenter. He was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with £300 a-year, in 1799. His poems, The Lady of the Lake" and others, and his Waverley Novels and mis- cellaneous works, achieved the greatest success, and have made his name immortal. He was created a baronet. Unfortunately, he became liable for debts, amounting to above £100,000, by the failure of his publishers and partners. Scott paid of this £54,000, gained by his writings, the labour of which shortened his life. The public, unwilling that he should not reap the fruit of his labours, raised a subscription to purchase Abbotsford, which was settled on him and his heirs. He died there 21st September, 1832. HEBREW HYMN. WHEN Israel of the Lord belov'd Out from the land of bondage came, Her father's God before her mov'd, An awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonish'd lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow; By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands Returned 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 priests' and warriors' 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. Born 1771. Died 1832. But present still, though now unseen, When brightly shines the prosp'rous 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-suff'ring, 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, trump, and horn. H* 1 2 I 178 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. But Thou hast said, the blood of goat, The flesh of rams I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are more accepted sacrifice. CHRISTIAN HOPE. So flits the world's uncertain span! Nor zeal for God, nor love for man, Gives mortal monuments a date Beyond the power of Time and Fate. The towers must share the builder's doom; Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb; But better boon benignant Heaven To Faith and Charity has given, And bids the Christian hope sublime Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time. THE BIBLE. WITHIN that awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries! Happiest they of human race, To whom God has granted grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch, and force the way: And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. James Montgomery. JAMES MONTGOMERY, the son of an Irish Moravian missionary, was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, in 1771. He was sent to a school at Ful- neck, Yorkshire, England, to be educated for the Moravian min- istry; but his love for epic poetry made him unsuitable for future missionary work. He was placed in a shop, and after many strug- gles with difficulties, he became the editor and publisher of the journal The Sheffield Iris, which he conducted for thirty years. He was twice imprisoned in York Castle for printing certain political articles. As he grew older, he became more impressed with reli- gious views. In 1840 a Government pension of £150 a year was given to him. He died 30th April, 1854. He published a number of poems, but his beautiful sacred pieces are now best known. Born 1771. Died 1854. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 179 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 wintry 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. The Grave that never spake before, Hath found at length a tongue to chide; Oh, listen! I will speak no more- Be silent, pride! "Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights, Endearing days, for ever flown, And tranquil nights? Oh, live and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past; Rely on Heaven's unchanging will For peace at last. Whate'er thy lot, where'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: 'Tis done! arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground, 180 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. [ The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image, freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine A star of day! The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The soul, immortal as its Sire, Shall never die! "PRAYING ALWAYS WITH ALL PRAYER." PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, Utter'd, or unexpress'd; The motion of a hidden fire, That trembles in the breast: Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high: Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gate of death, He enters heaven with prayer. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry, "Behold, he prays!" In prayer, on earth, the saints are one, In word, and deed, and mind; When with the Father and his Son Sweet fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made on earth alone: The Holy Spirit pleads; And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For sinners intercedes. O Thou, by whom we come to God, The Life, the Truth, the Way! The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; Lord, teach us how to pray! . JAMES MONTGOMERY. 181 THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER. Occasioned by the sudden death of the Rev. Thomas Taylor; after having declared, in his last Sermon, on a preceding evening, that he hoped to die as an old soldier of Jesus Christ, with his sword in his hand. "SERVANT of God! well done; Rest from thy loved employ; The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy Master's joy."- The voice at midnight came; He started up to hear, A mortal arrow pierced his frame: Hc fell, but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him in the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield: His sword was in his hand, Still warm with recent fight; Ready that moment at command, Through rock and steel to smite. It was a two-edged blade, Of heavenly temper keen; And double were the wounds it made, Where'er it smote between: 'Twas death to sin:-'twas life To all that mourn'd for sin; It kindled and it silenced strife, Made war and peace within. Oft with its fiery force, His arm had quell'd the foe, And laid, resistless in his course, The alien-armies low. Bent on such glorious toils, The world to him was loss; Yet all his trophies, all his spoils, He hung upon the cross. At midnight came the cry, "To meet thy God prepare!" He woke,—and caught his Captain's eye; Then, strong in faith and prayer, His spirit, with a bound, 182 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Burst its encumbering clay; His tent, at sunrise, on the ground A darken'd ruin lay. The pains of death are past, Labour and sorrow cease, And life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ! well done; Praise be thy new employ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. Born 1772. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. {Bied 1831. SAMUEL TAYLor ColeridgE, whose father was a vicar, was born on the 20th of October, 1772. He was educated at Christ's Hospital (Blue Coat School), London, and at Jesus College, Cambridge. He got into debt, enlisted in the 15th Dragoons, was bought out, and devoted the rest of his life to literary pursuits. He mar- ried Miss Fricker, the sister in-law of the poet Southey. For many years Coleridge resided at Keswick. He, with Wordsworth and Southey, became known as the "Lake Poets. In 1816, Cole- ridge, in order to cure himself of opium eating, left his family, and resided at Highgate, near London, where he wrote his celebrated philosophical and miscellaneous works. He died 25th July, 1834. "} CHAMOUNY AT SUNRISE. OUT of the deep shade of the silent fir-grove, Trembling, I survey thee, mountain-head of eternity, Dazzling (blinding) summit, from whose vast height My dimly-perceiving spirit floats into the everlasting. Who sank the pillar deep in the lap of earth, Which, for past centuries, fast props thy mass up? Who uptowered, high in the vault of ether, Mighty and bold, thy beaming countenance? Who poured you from on high, out of eternal winter's realm, O jagged streams, downward with thunder-noise? And who bade aloud, with the Almighty Voice, "Here shall rest the stiffening billows?" Who marks out there the path for the morning star? Who wreathes with blossoms the skirt of the eternal frost? To whom, wild Arveiron, in terrible harmonies, Rolls up the sound of thy tumult of billows? ROBERT SOUTHEY, 188 Jehovah! Jehovah! crashes in the bursting ice! Avalanche-thunders roll it in the cleft downward; Jehovah! it rustles in the bright tree-tops; It whispers murmuring in the purling silver-brooks. Reb. Legh Richmond. LEGH RICHMOND, the son of a physician, was born at Liverpool, 29th January, 1772. Educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, he entered the ministry, married Miss Chambers, of Bath, and, whilst a curate in the Isle of Wight, was deeply impressed by reading Wilberforce's "Practical Christianity." In 1805 he was appointed chaplain of the Lock Hospital, London, which led to his obtaining the rectory of Turvey, Bedfordshire. He published several valuable and ex- tremely popular works-"The Fathers of the English Church," "The Dairyman's Daughter," &c. He was chaplain to the Duke of Kent, and clerical secretary to the Religious Tract Society. He died 8th May, 1827. I've lost the child I held so dear, Nor can I check the flowing tear; But when I view Thy mercy-seat, My meditation shall be sweet. ON THE DEATH OF ONE OF HIS CHILDREN. AND is my heart oppress'd with grief? At Jesus' cross I'll seek relief, And there, adoring at His feet, My meditation shall be sweet. 'Tis true I weep, but Thou hast smiled; Safe in Thy arms faith sees my child: I flee to Thee, my loved retreat, And meditation shall be sweet. Born 1772. Died 1827. Born Robert Southey, TT.D. {Bied 1843. ROBERT SOUTHEY, the son of a linen-draper, was born in Wine Street, Bristol, in 1774. He was educated at Westminster School, and at Balliol College, Oxford; but, having adopted republican and unita- rian opinions, he published democratic poetry, such as "Wat Tyler," &c. He married Miss Fricker, Coleridge's sister-in-law, went to Portugal and Spain, changed his political and religious opinions, becoming a monarchist and churchman. After some official employment, he settled near Keswick, Cumberland, where he was one of the "Lake Poets," and wrote a great number of prose and poetical productions. In 1813 he was appointed poet- laureate. In 1835 a government pension of £300 a-year was granted him. His second wife was Caroline Bowles, the poetess, whom he married in 1839. He died in 1843. P 184 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. LOVE NEVER FAILETH. THEY sin who tell us love can die: With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In heaven, ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vault of hell: ANA Earthly these passions of the earth, They perish where they had their birth; But love is indestructible. Its holy flame for ever burneth; From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times distrest, It here is tried and purified, It hath in heaven its perfect rest; It soweth here, in toil and care, But the harvest time of love is there. Oh! when the mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy- Hath she not then for all her fears, The anxious day, the watchful night, For all her sorrows, pains, and tears, An over-payment of delight? DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM. THE rage of Babylon is roused, The King puts forth his strength; And Judah bends the bow And points her arrows for the coming war. Her walls are firm, her gates are strong, Her youth gird on the sword; High are her chiefs in hope, For soon will Egypt send the promised aid. But who is he whose voice of woe Is heard amid the streets? Whose ominous voice proclaims Her strength, and arms, and promised succours vain. His meagre cheek is pale and sunk, Wild is his hollow eye, Yet awful is its glance; And who could bear the anger of his frown? } ROBERT SOUTHEY. 185 Prophet of God! in vain thy lips Proclaim the woe to come; In vain thy warning voice, Summons her rulers timely to repent! The Ethiop changes not his skin. Impious and reckless still The rulers spurn thy voice, And now the measure of their crimes is full. For now around Jerusalem The countless foes appear; Far as the eye can reach, Spreads the wide horror of the circling siege. Why is the warrior's cheek so pale? Why droops the gallant youth Who late in pride of heart Sharpen'd his javelin for the welcome war? "Tis not for terror that his eye Swells with the struggling woe; Oh! he could bear his ills, Or rush to death, and in the grave have peace. His parents do not ask for food, But they are weak with want; His wife has given her babes Her wretched pittance,—she makes no complaint. The consummating hour is come! Alas for Solyma How is she desolate,- She that was great among the nations, fallen! And thou-thou miserable king— Where is thy trusted flock, Thy flock so beautiful, Thy Father's throne, the temple of thy God? Repentance brings not back the past; It will not call again Thy murdered sons to life, Nor vision to those eyeless sockets more. Thou wretched, childless, blind, old man, Heavy thy punishment; Dreadful thy present woes, Alas! more dreadful thy remembered guilt! Ꮠ 186 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + Thomas Campbell. THOMAS CAMPBELL was born at Glasgow in 1777. His father, Alexan- der Campbell, was a merchant in that city. Campbell was educated at the University of Glasgow, where he distinguished himself spe- cially as a Greek scholar. He then went to Edinburgh, where he be- came a private tutor, and devoted his leisure time to literary pur- suits. In 1799 he published his celebrated poem, "The Pleasures of Hope," which was said by Lord Byron to be one of the most beauti- ful didactic poems in the language. He went to the Continent dur ing the war, had a view of the battle of Hohenlinden, and then wrote his well-known verses on it. In 1803 he settled in London, and continued to pursue literature as a profession. In 1806 he received a pension of £200 a year. In 1809 he published Gertrude of Wyo- ming," and became also editor of various magazines. He was elected more than once Lord Rector of the Glasgow University, and took an active part in establishing University College in London. He died at Boulogne on 15th June, 1844. He was buried in West- minster Abbey, where there is a marble statue of him in the Poet's Corner. 6. THE LAST MAN. ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality. I saw a vision in my sleep That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time: I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation's death behold, As Adam saw her prime. The sun's eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan; The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man. Some had expired in fight the brands Still rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb. Born 1777, Died 1844, Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood As if a storm passed by, Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'Tis Mercy bids thee go; THOMAS CAMPBELL. 187 For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth The vassals of his will; Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, Thou dim discrowned king of day: For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang Heal'd not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. Go! let oblivion's curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life's tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back Nor waken flesh, upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire. My lips that speak thy dirge of death— Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall- The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost. This spirit shall return to Him That gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine In bliss unknown to beams of thine By Him recall'd to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death. 1 188 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On nature's awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste- Go tell the night that hides thy face, Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, On earth's sepulchral clod, The dark'ning universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God. CHRISTMAS HYMN. WHEN Jordan hushed his waters still, And silence slept on Zion's hill; When Bethlehem's shepherds through the night Watched o'er their flocks by starry light. Hark! from the midnight hills around, A voice of more than mortal sound, In distant hallelujahs stole Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul. Then swift to every startled eye, New streams of glory light the sky; Heaven bursts her azure gates to pour Her spirits to the midnight hour. On wheels of light, on wings of flame, The glorious hosts of Zion came; High heaven with songs of triumph rung, While thus they strung their harps and sung: O Zion! lift thy raptured eye, The long-expected hour is nigh; The joys of nature rise again, The Prince of Salem comes to reign. See Mercy from her golden urn Pours a rich stream to them that mourn; Behold! she binds with tender care, The bleeding bosom of despair. I He comes! to cheer the trembling heart, Bids Satan and his host depart: Again the day-star gilds the gloom, Again the bowers of Eden bloom. THOMAS MOORE. 189 I Thomas Moore. THOMAS MOORE was born in Dublin on the 28th of May, 1779. His parents were tradespeople. He was educated at the Dublin Uni- versity, went to England, and became a law student in the Middle Temple, London. He published a translation of Anacreon, and a volume of poems, which rendered him extremely popular, especially in fashionable society, where his attractive manners and fine sing- ing were highly esteemed. He was appointed Admiralty Registrar of Bermuda, and performed the duties by deputy. Moore married Miss Bessie Dyke in 1811. He wrote new words to Irish national tunes, and "Moore's Irish Melodies" were a great success, as also his Oriental poem, "Lalla_Rookh,". for which he obtained £3000. It has been translated into Persian. His "Sacred Songs were also received with great favour, and are deservedly popular. He pub- lished a variety of other works, and in 1835 the Government gave him the literary pension of £300 a-year. He died 25th February, "" 1852. THE DOVE. THE dove, let loose in Eastern skies, Returning fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wings, nor flies Where idle warblers roam; But high she shoots, through air and light Above all low delay, Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from earthly care, From pride and passion free, Aloft, through faith and love's pure air, To hold my course to Thee; No lure to tempt, no art to stay My soul, as home she springs; Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy blessing on her wings, SUNRISE. BEHOLD the sun! how bright From yonder east he springs, As if the soul of life and light Were breathing from his wings. So bright the Gospel broke Upon the souls of men; So fresh the dreaming world awoke In truth's full radiance then. Born 1779. Died 1852. 190 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Before yon sun arose, Stars clustered through the sky; But oh, how dim, how pale were those To His one burning eye! So truth lent many a ray To bless the pagan's night; But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they To Thy one glorious light! GOD THE LIFE AND LIGHT OF ALL. THOU art, O Lord! 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 parting 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 dyes; 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. SINCE FIRST THY WORD. SINCE first Thy Word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art, All light and love, before me. NATAS * I * THOMAS COTTERILL. Nought else I feel, or hear, or see, All bonds of earth I sever, Thee, O God! and only Thee, I live for, now and ever. Like him whose fetters dropped away When light shone o'er his prison, My spirit, touched by mercy's ray, Hath from her chains arisen. And shall a soul Thou bidst be free Return to bondage?—Never! Thee, O God! and only Thee, I live for, now and ever. Thomas Cotterill. THOMAS COTTERILL was born at Cannock, Staffordshire, in 1779. He was educated at Cambridge, and took his degree of M.A. at St. John's College there. He was destined for the Church, and in 1806 began his ministerial labours at Tutbury, and some years after- wards became curate of St. Paul's, Sheffield. His writings are chiefly hymns, the best known being a volume entitled, "A Selec- tion of Psalms and Hymns for Public and Private Use, adapted to the Services of the Church of England." He also wrote a volume of Family Prayers. He died at Sheffield in 1823. THE LIGHT TO LIGHTEN THE GENTILES. O'ER the realms of pagan darkness, Let the eye of pity gaze; See the kindreds of the people, Lost in sin's bewildering maze: Darkness brooding On the face of all the earth. Light of them that sit in darkness! Rise and shine, Thy blessings bring: Light to lighten all the Gentiles! Rise with healing in Thy wing: To Thy brightness Let all kings and nations come. 191 Born 1779. Died 1823. May the heathen, now adoring Idol-gods of wood and stone, Come, and worshipping before Him, Serve the living God alone: Let Thy glory Fill the earth as floods the sea. 3 192 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. £ Thou to whom all power is given, Speak the word; at Thy command, Let the company of preachers Spread Thy name from land to land; Lord, be with them, Alway to the end of time. Rev. George Croly. GEORGE CROLY was born in Dublin in August, 1780, and received his education at Trinity College. He was for some years a curate in Meath; after which he went to Spain during the Peninsular War, then visited Germany and France, and published his first poem, "Paris," in 1815. He afterwards pursued a literary career, con- tributing to periodicals, and publishing prose and poetical works, of greater popularity then than now. After some other preferment, he became rector of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, London, and gained celebrity as a powerful preacher. He died 24th November, 1860. WATCHMAN! WHAT OF THE NIGHT? SAY, watchman what of the night? Do the dews of the morning fall? Have the orient skies a border of light, Like the fringe of a funeral pall? "The night is fast waning on high, And soon shall the darkness flee, Born 1780. Died 1860. And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky, And bright shall its glories be." But, watchman, what of the night, When sorrow and pain are mine, And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright, No longer around me shine? "That night of sorrow thy soul May surely prepare to meet, But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, And the morning of joy be sweet." But, watchman, what of the night, When the arrow of death is sped, And the grave, which no lingering star can light, Shall be my sleeping bed? "That night is near,-and the cheerless tomb Shall keep thy body in store, Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom, And night—shall be no more!” JOHN MARRIOTT. 193 ! Horace Smith. HORACE SMITH was born in London in 1779. He wrote several pieces in poetry and prose; but the best known of his literary efforts is a volume written along with his brother James, and entitled "The Rejected Addresses. He died at Tunbridge Wells in 1849. " Born 1779. Died 1849. GOD VISIBLE IN HIS WORKS. ETERNAL, and Omnipotent unseen! Who bad'st the world, with all its lives complete, Start from the void, and thrill beneath Thy feet, Thee I adore, with reverence serene. Here, in the fields, Thine own cathedral meet, Built by Thyself, blue-roof'd, and hung with green, Wherein all breathing things, in concert sweet, Organ'd by winds, perpetual hymns repeat; Where Thou hast spread that Book to every eye, Whose tongue and truth all—all ma¸ read and prove; On whose three blessed leaves, Earth, Ocean, Sky, Thine own right hand hath stamped Might, Justice, Love, True trinity which binds in due degree God, man, and brute, in mutual unity. John Marriott. JOHN MARRIOTT was born in 1780. He was educated at Rugby and Oxford. He was for some time a private tutor in the family of the Duke of Buccleuch, and was afterwards curate in several parishes in England. He died at Broad Clyst, near Exeter, in 1825. THOU, WHOSE ALMIGHTY WORD. THOU, whose almighty word Chaos and darkness heard, And took their flight; Hear us, we humbly pray; And, where the gospel's day Sheds not its glorious ray, Let there be light! Thou, who didst come to bring On Thy redeeming wing Healing and sight, Health to the sick in mind, Born 1780. Died 1825. } I 194 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 Sight to the inly blind, Oh, now to all mankind Let there be light! Spirit of truth and love, Life-giving, holy Dove, Speed forth Thy flight! Move on the waters' face Bearing the lamp of grace, And in earth's darkest place Let there be light! Holy and blessed Three, Glorious Trinity, Wisdom, Love, Might! Boundless as ocean's tide Rolling in fullest pride, Through the earth, far and wide, Let there be light! Born 1780. Rev. John William Cunningham. {Bied 1861. THE REV. JOHN WILLIAM CUNNINGHAM, M.A., was born about the year 1780. He was educated at Cambridge, where he became a Fellow of St. John's College. In 1811 he was appointed vicar of Harrow, in Middlesex. His the author of several clever works, which were once very popular, and still deserve to be so. The principal of these are "The Velvet Cushion, ""The World without Souls," &c., &c. He died in 1861. THE SABBATH IN THE SANCTUARY. DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me, When village bells awake the lay, And, by their sacred minstrelsy, Call me from earthly cares away. + And dear to me the wingèd hour, Spent in Thy hallow'd courts, O Lord! To feel devotion's soothing power, And catch the manna of Thy Word. And dear to me the loud Amen, Which echoes through the bless'd abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God. JEDINÉANT EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 195 And dear the rustic harmony, Sung with the pomp of village art, That holy, heavenly melody, The music of a thankful heart. In secret I have often prayed, And still the anxious tear would fall; But on Thy sacred altar laid, The fire descends and dries them all. Oft when the world, with iron hands,, Has bound me in its six-days' chain, This bursts them like the strong man's bands, And lets my spirit loose again. Then dear to me the Sabbath morn, The village bells, the shepherd's voice; These oft my heart have found forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice. Ebenezer Elliott. EBENEZER ELLIOTT was born near Rotherham, Yorkshire, in 1781. He was an iron merchant at Sheffield. He wrote against the Corn Laws in a local paper; and his “Rhymes," which were published afterwards in a volume, created a great sensation. A collected edition of his works was published in 1834. He died near Barnsley in 1849. THE POOR MAN'S DAY. SABBATH holy ! To the lowly, Still art thou a welcome day. When thou comest, earth and ocean, Shade and brightness, rest and motion, Help the Poor Man's heart to pray. Sun-waked forest Bird that soarest O'er the mute empurpled moor, Throstle's song that stream-like flowest, Wind that over dew-drop goest, Welcome now the woe-worn poor! Little river, Young for ever! Born 1781. Died 1849. 1 196 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Cloud gold-bright with thankful glee, Happy woodbine, gladly weeping, Gnat within the wild-rose keeping, Oh! that they were blest as ye. Sabbath holy! For the lowly Paint with flowers thy glittering sod; For affliction's sons and daughters Bid thy mountains, woods, and waters Pray to God-the Poor Man's God! From the fever, Idle never, Where on hope, want bars the door; From the gloom of airless alleys, Lead them to green hills and valleys, Plunder'd England's trampled poor. Pale young mother, Gasping brother, Sister toiling in despair, Grief-bowed sire that life-long diest, White-lipp'd child that sleeping sighest, Come and drink the light and air! Tyrants curse ye While they nurse ye, Life for deadliest wrongs to pay; Yet, O Sabbath! bringing gladness Unto hearts of weary sadness, Still art thou "The Poor Man's day." Sabbath's Father! Wouldst Thou rather, Some should curse than all be blest? If Thou hate not fruit and blossom, To the oppressor's godless bosom, Bring the Poor Man's day of rest,— With its healing, With his feeling, With his humble, trustful bliss; With the Poor Man's honest kindness Bless the rich man's heart of blindness, Teach him what religion is! JOHN BICKERSTETH. 197 Thomas Morell. THOMAS MORELL was born at Maldon, in Essex, in 1781. He studied at Homerton College, and became the minister of a Congregational Church at St. Neot's, Huntingdonshire. He removed to London in 1833. He published a series of volumes in prose, entitled, "Studies in History," and several poems and hymns. He died in 1840. THE SAVIOUR'S GRACE PROCLAIM. Go, and the Saviour's grace proclaim, Ye favoured men of God: Go publish, through Immanuel's name, Salvation bought with blood. What though your arduous track may lie Through regions dark as death; What though, your faith and zeal to try, Perils beset your path; Yet with determined courage go, And armed with power divine; Your God will needful strength bestow, And on your labours shine. Born 1781. Died 1840. He who has called you to the war Will recompense your pains: Before Messiah's conquering car Shall mountains sink to plains. Shrink not, though earth and hell oppose, But plead your Master's cause; Assured that e'en your mightiest foes Shall bow before His cross. Born 1782. Rev. John Bickersteth, M.. {Bied 1835. JOHN BICKERSTETH was born at Kirkby, Lonsdale, 19th June, 1782. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, became vicar of Acton, Suffolk, and then rector of Sapcote, Leicestershire. He pub- lished several sermons and lectures, and also a volume of "Psalms and Hymns, Selected and Revised." He died 2nd October, 1855. TO THE REDEEMER. HAST Thou, holy Lord, Redeemer, Left for man this pledge of love, Thee to honour, to remember, When enthron'd in light above? ܀ M 198 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Didst Thou quit for him Thy glory, Sojourn in a vale of tears, Realise that bitter story Prophesied by holy seers? " Didst Thou, pierc'd with keenest anguish, Close the great, the gracious plan, Guiltless suffer, guiltless languish, To deliver guilty man? And shall the redeem'd, ungrateful, Hostile to a Saviour's views, Sunk in sin and pleasures hateful, This Thy dearest pledge refuse? Search, O Lord! and cleanse and save us, Heal us by Thy power divine, Burst the bonds that here enslave us, That we may be wholly Thine. Thus may we, secur'd from sadness, All with joy and peace believe, Feed on Thee with faith and gladness, And Thy cup of grace receive. Mrs. Ann Gilbert. ANN TAYLOR was born in London, 30th January, 1782. Her father, Isaa Taylor, was an eminent engraver; and she was the sister of Isaac Taylor, the author of "Ancient Christianity, and many other works, and of Jane Taylor, also the author of various works in prose and verse. The hymns written by Jane and Ann have been translated into various foreign languages. In 1813 Ann mar- ried the Rev. Joseph Gilbert, a Congregational minister, who was first a tutor in a college, then a pastor at Hull, and afterwards at Nottingham, where he died in 1852. Ann Gilbert died 20th Decem- ber, 1866, in her 85th year. GOD OMNIPRESENT. AMONGST the deepest shades of night, Can there be one who sees my way? Yes: God is like a shining light, That turns the darkness into day. When every eye around me sleeps, May I not sin without control? No; for a constant watch He keeps On every thought of every soul. { Born 1782. Died 1866. GERARD THOMAS NOEL. 199 If I could find some cave unknown, Where human feet had never trod, Yet there I could not be alone; On every side there would be God. He smiles in heaven; He frowns in hell; He fills the air, the earth, the sea; I must within His presence dwell; I cannot from His anger flee. Yet I may flee: He shows me where; To Jesus Christ He bids me fly; And while I seek for pardon there, There's only mercy in His eye. 1782. The Hon, and Bev. Gerard T. Hoel. {Bied 1851. THE HON, AND REV. GERARD THOMAS NOEL was born 2nd December. 1782. He was the second son of Sir Gerard Noel Noel, Bart., and the Baroness Barham. He was educated at Edinburgh and Cam- bridge. He was successively curate of Radwell, Hertfordshire; vicar of Rainham, Kent; and curate of Richmond, Surrey. He was made canon of Winchester in 1834, and in 1840 he became vicar of Romsey, where he died 24th February, 1851. GRATITUDE. If human kindness meets return, And owns the grateful tie; If tender thoughts within us burn, To feel a friend is nigh; Oh! shall not warmer accents tell The gratitude we owe To Him who died our fears to quell, Our more than orphan's woe? While yet His anguished soul surveyed Those pangs He would not flee; What love His latest words displayed, "Meet, and remember me!" Remember Thee! Thy death, Thy shame, Our sinful hearts to share; O memory! leave no other name Than His recorded there. 3 200 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Born William Bengo Collyer, D.D. (Died 1854. WILLIAM BENGO COLLYER was born at Blackheath Hill, and was ed- ucated at Homerton College. He became the minister of a Con- gregational Church at Peckham, where he was so popular that it was necessary to build a larger chapel, as the congregation in- creased rapidly. He was the means of doing great good among his people. He published many prose works, as well as a collection of hymns for the use of his congregation. He died in 1854. RETURN, O WANDERER. RETURN, O wanderer, return, And seek an injured Father's face; Those warm desires that in thee burn, Were kindled by reclaiming grace. Return, O wanderer, return, And seek a Father's melting heart; Whose pitying eyes thy grief discern, Whose hand can heal thy inward smart. Return, O wanderer, return; He heard the deep, repentant sigh; He saw thy softened spirit mourn When no intruding ear was nigh. Return, O wanderer, return, Thy Saviour bids thy spirit live; Go to His bleeding feet and learn How freely Jesus can forgive. Born 1783. Bishop Reginald Heber. {Bied 1598. REGINALD HEBER was born at Malpas, Cheshire, 21st April, 1783. He gave early indication of his piety and poetical talents. He greatly dis- tinguished himself at Oxford University where he won prizes for the best Latin verse, the best English poem (Palestine), and the best prose essay. He visited various foreign countries, wrote an account of his travels, became rector of Hodnet, in Shropshire. He was appointed second bishop of Calcutta in 1823. He died on the 3rd of April, 1826. THE MARRIAGE AT CANA. INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell In lowly shape and cottage cell, Didst not refuse a guest to be, At Cana's poor festivity. 1 BISHOP REGINALD HEBER. 201 1 Oh, when our soul from care is free, Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee, And, seated at the festal board, In fancy's eye behold the Lord. Then may we seem in fancy's ear, Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear; And think, even now, Thy searching gaze Each secret of our soul surveys! So may such joy, chastised and pure, Beyond the bounds of earth endure; Nor pleasure in the wounded mind Shall leave a rankling sting behind! BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid; Star of the East! the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Coid on His cradle the dew-drops are shining; Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumbers reclining- Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odours of Edom, and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean? Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine? Vainly we offer each ample oblation— Vainly with gifts would His favour secure; Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid; Star of the East! the horizon adorning, Lead where the infant Redeemer is laid. I* 202 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. PRAISE TO GOD. 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. 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 birds forsake the shade, The winds be lulled, the sun and moon forget their old decree; But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to Thee. CHRISTMAS DAY. O SAVIOUR! whom this holy morn Gave to our world below; To mortal want and labour born, And more than mortal woe! Incarnate Word! by every grief, By each temptation tried, Who lived to yield our ills relief, And to redeem us died! If, gaily clothed and proudly fed, In dangerous wealth we dwell, Remind us of Thy manger bed And lowly cottage cell! BISHOP REGINALD HEBER. 203 Į If prest by poverty severe, În envious want we pine, Oh, may Thy Spirit whisper near, How poor a lot was Thine! Through fickle fortune's various scene From sin preserve us free! Like us, Thou hast a mourner been, May we rejoice with Thee! GOD'S LOVE. LIFE nor death shall us dissever From His love who reigns for ever: Will He fail us? Never! never! When to Him we cry! Sin may seek to snare us, Fury, passion tear us! Doubt and fear, and grim despair, Their fangs against us try. But His might shall still defend us, And His blessed Son befriend us, And His Holy Spirit send us Comfort ere we die! PRAYER IN THE STORM. WHEN through the torn sail The wild tempest is streaming, When o'er the dark wave The red lightning is gleaming, Nor hope lends a ray The poor seaman to cherish, We fly to our Maker, ،، Save, Lord! or we perish.' "" O Jesus! once tossed On the breast of the billow, Aroused by the shriek Of despair from Thy pillow; High now in Thy glory, Still the mariner cherish, Who cries in his anguish, "Save, Lord! or we perish." 204 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And oh, when the storm Of wild passion is raging; When sin in our hearts Its fierce warfare is waging, Arise in Thy strength, Thy redeemed to cherish, Rebuke the destroyer— Save, Lord! or we perish. Jane Taylor. JANE TAYLOR, one of the well-known Taylors of Ongar, a family who seem to have had a hereditary taste for literature. Their works are recorded in a volume, entitled "The Family Pen," edited by her grandfather, the Rev. Isaac Taylor, Incumbent of St. Mathias, Bethnal Green. Jane was born in London, 23rd Septem- ber, 1783. Her father, Isaac Taylor, author of "Scenes in Europe, &c., was originally a line engraver, but afterwards became minister of an Independent congregation at Colchester, in Essex. He gave his children a good education, and careful training under his own superintendence. Jane began to scribble verses when she was nine years of age. Along with her sister Ann (afterwards Mrs. Gilbert), she published “Original Poems," and "Hymns for Infant Minds, which are deservedly popular. She is also the author of "Essays in Rhyme."" Display," &c., &c. She died at Ongar, in Essex, 12th April, 1824. Isaac Taylor, author of the "Natural History of En- thusiasm, and many other prose works, is a brother of Jane Taylor. "" "" RENOUNCING THE WORLD. COME, my fond, fluttering heart, Come, struggle to be free; Thou and the world must part, However hard it be; My trembling spirit owns it just, But cleaves yet closer to the dust. Ye tempting sweets, forbear; Ye dearest idols, fall; My love ye must not share, Jesus shall have it all: "Tis bitter pain, 'tis cruel smart, But ah! thou must consent, my heart. Ye fair enchanting throng! Ye golden dreams, farewell! Earth has prevail'd too long, And now I break the spell: Ye cherish'd joys of earthly years; Jesus, forgive these parting tears. Born 1783. Died 1824. 19 1 JANE TAYLOR. 205 But must I part with all? My heart still fondly pleads; Yes; Dagon's self must fall, It beats, it throbs, it bleeds: Is there no balm in Gilead found To soothe and heal the smarting wound? Oh, yes, there is a balm, A kind Physician there, My fever'd mind to calm, To bid me not despair. Aid me, dear Saviour; set me free, And I will all resign to Thee. Oh, may I feel Thy worth, Ánd let no idol dare, No vanity of earth, With Thee, my Lord, compare. Now bid all worldly joys depart, And reign supremely in my heart. GUIDANCE THROUGH LIFE. THOU who didst for Peter's faith Kindly condescend to pray; Thou whose loving-kindness hath Kept me to the present day, Kind Conductor, Still direct my devious way! When a tempting world in view Gains upon my yielding heart, When its pleasures I pursue, Then one look of pity dart,- Teach me pleasures Which the world can ne'er impart. When with horrid thoughts profane .Satan would my soul invade, When he calls religion vain, Mighty Victor! be my aid! Send Thy Spirit; Bid me conflict undismayed. When my unbelieving fear Makes me think myself too vile, When the legal curse I hear, 1 206 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Cheer me with a gospel smile: Or, if hiding, Hide Thee only for a while. When I listen to Thy Word In Thy temple cold and dead, When I cannot see my Lord, All faith's little daylight fled, Sun of glory, Beam again around my head. When Thy statutes I forsake, When Thy graces dimly shine, When the covenant I break, Jesus, then remember Thine: Check my wanderings By a look of love divine. ' Then if heavenly dews distil, And my views are bright and clear, While I sit on Zion's hill, Temper joy with holy fear; Keep me watchful, Safe alone while Thou art near. When afflictions cloud my sky, When the tide of sorrow flows, When the rod is lifted high, Let me on Thy love repose; Stay Thy rough wind When Thy chilling east wind blows. When the vale of death appears, Faint and cold this mortal clay, Kind Forerunner, soothe my fears, Light me through the darksome way: Break the shadows, Usher in eternal day. Starting from this dying state, Upward bid my soul aspire; Open Thou the crystal gate, To Thy praise attune my lyre; Dwell for ever, Dwell on each immortal wire. From the sparkling turrets there, Oft I'll trace my pilgrim way, Often bless Thy guardian care, Fire by night and cloud by day; PRAAK. JANE TAYLOR. 207 F While my triumphs At my Leader's feet I lay. And when mighty trumpets blown Shall the judgment dawn proclaim From the central burning throne, 'Mid creation's final flame, With the ransomed, Judge and Saviour, own my name! THE HAY-FIELDS. THE sun had risen, the air was sweet, And brightly shone the dew, And cheerful sounds and busy feet Pass'd the lone meadows through; And waving, like a flowery sea Of gay and spiry bloom, The hay-fields rippled merrily In beauty and perfume. I saw the early mowers pass Along that pleasant dell, And rank on rank the shining grass Around them quickly fell; I looked, and far and wide at noon The fallen flowers were spread, And all, as rose the evening moon, Beneath the scythe were dead. “All flesh is grass," the Scriptures say, And so we truly find; Cut down, as in a summer's day, Are all of human kind: Some, while the morning still is fair, Taken in earliest prime; Some, mid-day's heat and burden bear, But all, laid low in time. A fable full of truth to me Is this the mower's tale; I soon a broken stem shall be Like hay that strews the vale; At early dawn, or closing light, The scythe of death may fall; Then let me learn the lesson right, So full of truth to all. » 208 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + John Bowdler. JOHN BOWDLER was born in London, 4th February, 1783. He was educated at the Grammar School of Sevenoaks, and afterwards at Winchester. He became a barrister-at-law, but, owing to failing health, he went abroad for change of air; but this was in the end of no avail, and he died in 1815, aged 32. The peculiar value of Bowd- ler's "Select Pieces in Prose and Verse," 1814, is the combination of talent, of taste, and of piety which they exhibit. A posthumous edition was published in 1818. SING TO THE LORD. SING to the Lord with cheerful voice, From realm to realm the notes shall sound, And Heaven's exulting sons rejoice To bear the full hosanna round. When, starting from the shades of night, At dread Jehovah's high behest, The Sun arrayed his limbs in light, And Earth her virgin beauty drest. Thy praise transported Nature sung In pealing chorus loud and far; The echoing vault with rapture rung, And shouted every morning star. When, bending from His native sky, The Lord of Life in mercy came, And laid His bright effulgence by, To bear on earth a human name. Born 1783. Died 1815. The song, by cherub voices raised, Roll'd through the dark blue depths above; And Israel's shepherds heard, amazed, The seraph notes of peace and love. And shall not man the concert join, For whom this bright creation rose; For whom the fires of morning shine, And eve's still lamps, that woo repose? And shall not he the chorus swell, Whose form the Incarnate Godhead wore; Whose guilt, whose fears, whose triumph tell How deep the wounds his Saviour bore? Long as yon glittering arch shall bend, Long as yon orbs in glory roll, BERNARD BARTON. 209 Long as the streams of life descend, To cheer with hope the fainting soul, Thy praise shall fill each grateful voice, Shall bid the song of rapture sound; And heaven's exulting sons rejoice To bear the full hosanna round. SEASIDE THOUGHTS. BEAUTIFUL, sublime, and glorious, Mild, majestic, foaming, free! Over time itself victorious, Image of eternity. Bernard Barton. THE first volume of poetry by Bernard Barton, the "Quaker Poet," was published in 1812, and it was followed by several other volumes. Barton's poetry, though never very popular, is pure and Christian in tone and sentiment, and is not deficient in glowing fancy. His merits as a poet obtained for him a pension of £100 a-year from Government. Barton was a banker's clerk by profession. He was born near London in 1784, and died at Weybridge, Surrey, 19th Feb- ruary, 1849. Sun, and moon, and stars shine o'er thee, See thy surface ebb and flow; Yet attempt not to cxplore thee In thy soundless depths below. Born 1784. Died 1849. Whether morning's splendour steep thee With the rainbow's glowing grace, Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee, 'Tis but for a moment's space. Earth, her valleys and her mountains, Mortal man's behest obey; Thy unfathomable fountains Scoff his search and scorn his sway. Such art thou, stupendous ocean! But, if overwhelmed by thee, Can we think without emotion What must thy Creator be? 210 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Allan Cunningham. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM was born at Blackwood, near Dalswinton, Dum- friesshire, 7th December, 1785. He was the son of a gardener and small farmer. Allan was brought up to fill a situation in India, through the influence of a friend, but this prospect ending, he was placed with a relation to be a mason. In 1810 he went to London, and engaged in literary work. He next obtained the situation of foreman to the celebrated sculptor, Sir F. Chantrey, filling up his spare time with literary pursuits. He published several prose and poetical works. The "Lives of the most eminent Painters, Sculp- tors, &c.," is his chief production. He died 29th October, 1842. Born 1785. Died 1842. ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT DAUGHTER. SWEET babe! she glanced into our world to see A sample of our misery, Then turned away her languid eye To drop a tear or two, and die. Sweet babe! she tasted of life's bitter cup, Refused to drink the potion up; But turned her little head aside, Disgusted with the taste, and died. Sweet babe! she listened for a while to hear Our mortal griefs, then turned her ear To angels' harps and songs, and cried To join their notes celestial, sighed, and died. Sweet babe no more, but seraph now, Before the throne behold her bow; To heavenly joys her spirit flies, Blest in the triumph of the skies; Adores the grace that brought her there, Without a wish, without a care; That washed her soul in Calvary's stream, That shortened life's distressing dream. Short pain, short grief, dear babe, was thine; Now joys eternal and divine. Yes, thou art fled, and saints a welcome sing; Thine infant spirit soars on angel's wing: Our dark affection should have hoped thy stay- The voice of God has called His child away. Like Samuel, early in the temple found, Sweet rose of Sharon! plant of holy ground! Oh, more than Samuel blest, to thee 'tis given, The Lord he served on earth, to serve in heaven. 443 { WILLIAM TENNANT. 211 Deep, deep regret that thus should part Friends so beloved and knit in heart; They lifted up their voices loud, And wept, till tears excessive flowed, Till sad Naomi rose from where She sate, and kissed the sister-pair; Then, with kind look addressed to each, She chid them home with gentle speech: William Tennant. WILLIAM TENNANT was born at Anstruther, Fife, in 1785. In early life, he had the misfortune to lose the use of his feet, but this does not seem to have interfered with his literary career. He was for several years employed as a schoolmaster and classical teacher, for which position he was well qualified, having studied several lan- guages, including Hebrew, Syriac, and Chaldaic. In 1835 he was appointed Professor of Oriental Languages in the University of St. Andrews. Three dramas written by him display a considerable Anster Fair," and degree of poetic genius; as also the poems "Life of Allan Ramsay. He died in 1848. RUTH AND NAOMI. THIS said, the aged mother shed Tears for the living and the dead, Her daughters, weeping at her side, Sat silent, nor a word replied; Grief for the dead heaved heavy throes, And for the living there arose "Turn ye, my daughters, turn again To your sweet homes in Moab's plain!" Then Ruth arose-then Orpah rose, And, as their flood of sorrow flows, They kissed their aged mother's facc, With many a long and fond embrace, Till passion forth in utterance broke, And thus the younger sister spoke: "O mother! ask me not to part From thee, so lorn and sick of heart; Entreat me not that I should be Estrang'd from following after thee! When I receiv'd from thy glad hand My husband in my father's land, His I became; now thou to me As husband art-and dear as he! Then do not press me to betray That love, and turn from thee away. Born 1785. Died 1843. ¦ 212 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Two sisters are we, lone and sad; Two mothers have we to make glad; My sister shall return to find And comfort her I left behind! For me! Wherever thou shalt go, I too will follow thee not slow; Where'er thou shalt thy dwelling make, I too will mine abode uptake; Attendant ever, I will be Thy comforter, to cherish thee; At morn, to rear thy pillow'd head Gently from slumber on thy bed; At noon, sweet solace to prepare, And tend thy tottering steps with care; At eve, fresh service to employ, And lead thee to thy couch in joy. Thy couch, thy cottage, shall be mine, One joy, one grief, our souls shall join! Thy God shall be my God; to me Thy people shall my people be; And where thou diest I will die, And there beside thee buried lie; O mother! ask me not to part From thee, thus lorn and sick of heart!" She spoke; her mother then forbore T'entreat her from her purpose more; The elder sister took her way To Moab's land, her place of stay; The younger with her mother went, With gentle footsteps westward bent, Till reach'd they Bethlehem's green ascent. Henry Kirke White. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, the son of a butcher, was born at Nottingham, 21st August, 1785. He was apprenticed to a stocking-maker, and was afterwards placed in a lawyer's office, where he successfully studied languages, and gained a prize for a translation from the Latin poet Horace. IIe also wrote a volume of juvenile, yet serious poems, of great merit, for the purpose of gaining, as he stated, enough money with which to be educated for the Christian ministry. Southey, Wilberforce, and others, responded to the appeal. He was sent to St. John's College, Cambridge. He died from the effects of over-study, 19th October, 1806. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. WHEN marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky, Born 1785. Died 1806, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 213 One star alone of all the train Can fix the sinner's wandering eye: 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 yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark; Deep horror 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 danger's thrall, It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored, my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore, The Star, the Star of Bethlehem. A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. O LORD! another day is flown, And we, a lowly 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 chastened, cleansed, entirely Thine, A flock by Jesus led: 214 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The Sun of Holiness shall shine In glory on our head. 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. Sir Robert Grant. SIR ROBERT GRANT was born in 1785. He was educated at Cambridge, and became a barrister in 1807. In 1826 he was elected Member of Parliament for the Inverness Burghs. He was appointed Governor of Bombay in 1834. While in India he published several works. He died at Dapoorie, in India, 9th July, 1838. He had contributed several hymns and pieces of poetry to various periodicals, some of which were republished by his brother Lord Glenelg in a volume entitled "Sacred Poems." His hymns are to be found in almost every collection. OH! WORSHIP THE KING. Оn, worship the King, All glorious above; Oh, gratefully sing His power and His love; Our Shield and Defender, The Ancient of days, Pavilioned in splendour, And girded with praise. Oh, tell of His might Oh, sing of His grace, Whose robe is the light, Whose canopy space; His chariots of wrath Deep thunder-clouds form, And dark is His path On the wings of the storm. Frail children of dust, And feeble as frail, In Thee do we trust, Nor find Thee to fail, Thy mercies how tender! How firm to the end! Our Maker, Defender, Redeemer, and Friend. 1 Born 1785. Died 1838. } EDWARD BICKERSTETH. 215 ? O measureless Might! Ineffable Light! While angels delight To hymn Thee above, The humbler creation, Though feeble their lays, With true adoration, Shall lisp to Thy praise. Born 1785. Professor John Wilson. {Bied 1881 1854. JOHN WILSON was born at Paisley, 18th May, 1785. He was the son of a wealthy gauze manufacturer. He received his education at Glas- gow University and at Magdalen College, Oxford, where he greatly distinguished himself. He purchased some property near Lake Windermere, Westmoreland, and associated with the "Lake Poets," Wordsworth, Southey, and Coleridge, and published sev- eral poems. In 1811 he married Miss Jane Penny, of Liverpool. He lost his fortune through the treachery of an uncle. He went to re- side in Edinburgh, where, as a contributor to Blackwood's Maga- zine, he became famous as "Christopher North." He was elected Professor of Moral Philosophy in 1820. He had a Government pen- sion of £300 a-year from 1851 until his death in 1854. THE EVENING CLOUD. A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow, Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. Born 1786. Reb. Edward Bickersteth. {Bied 1550. EDWARD BICKERSTETH was born at Kirkby, Lonsdale, Westmore- land, 19th March, 1786. His father was a surgeon. Edward, at the age of fourteen, began his worldly career in the General Post-Office, which he quitted to be trained in a lawyer's office for the legal profession. He went to the west coast of Africa to visit the stations of the Church Missionary Society, of which, after his re- 216 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. turn, he was secretary until he was appointed rector of Watton, in Hertfordshire, where he died in 1850. He is the author of several Christian works. THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. LIGHT of the world, shine on our souls; Thy grace to us afford; And while we meet to learn Thy truth, Be Thou our teacher, Lord. As once Thou didst Thy Word expound To those that walk'd with Thee; So teach us, Lord, to understand, And its bless'd fulness see: Its riches, sweetness, power, and depth, Its holiness discern; Its joyful news of saving grace, By bless'd experience learn. Help us each other to assist; Thy spirit now impart; Keep humble, but with love inflame, To Thee and Thine, each heart. Thus may Thy Word be dearer still, And studied more each day; And, as it richly dwells within, Thyself in it display. J Born 1787. Died 1854. George Mogridge. (OLD HUMPHREY.) GEORGE MOGRIDGE was born at Ashted, Birmingham, 17th February, 1787. His father was a canal-agent, and his grandfather vicar of Kimbolton, Worcestershire. Mogridge was a japanner, in partner ship with his brother, who retired with a considerable fortune, whilst he, from attending too much to parochial affairs, literary pursuits, and giving away in charity, was reduced to poverty. He was obliged to relinquish his trade, and earn his subsistence by lit- erary work of a religious and moral character, under the names of "Old Humphrey, Many instances done by his His wife, Mary Ridsdale, greatly aided him in his literary work. vember, 1854. are recorded of the Grandmamma Gilbert," &c. He died 2nd No- TO THE HONOURED ANCIENT, ON HER BIRTHDAY. HONOURED Ancient, many days Thou hast worn the garb of sadness; He who watches all thy ways Soon shall change thy gloom to gladness; GEORGE MOGRIDGE. 217 He whom thou hast trusted long, Love and mercy go before Him, He is wise and He is strong: Still adore Him, still adore Him. Would that I could give relief, Gently soothe the pains that grieve thee: But take heart amid thy grief, He, thy Lord, will never leave thec. Hark! I hear the angels cry, "Whither wouldst thou wander, whither? All is peaceful in the sky: Come up hither, come up hither." Round thee bend a loving throng, Oh, how ardently they love thee! Angels are thy guests among, And thy Saviour is above thee; Think how hardly He was tried, When with cruel hands they tore Him: "Twas for thee He bled and died: Still adore Him, still adore Him. He shall change the darksome cloud To golden beams and silvery lightness; Comfort thee, and call aloud, And bid thy sun go down in brightness. Hark! again the angels cry, "Goodliest things on earth must wither, All are fadeless in the sky: Come up hither, come up hither.” OLD HUMPHREY'S INQUIRIES. ART thou a pilgrim? Dost thou travel straight By Calvary's cross, to find the narrow gate? Is Christ thy hope, thy trust? Yea, day by day, Thy guide, thy staff, thy lantern, and thy way? Canst thou for Him renounce thy worldly pride? Is He thy riches? Is all dross beside? Is He thy sword and shield in peril's hour? Thy rock, thy refuge, thine abiding tower? If, with thy wealth around thee, thou canst bend, And seek with all thy soul the sinner's Friend, A beggar still at mercy's open door, Then art thou rich indeed-if not, thou'rt poor. Ꭻ B 3 218 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The Rev. Dr. Reed. 6. ANDREW REED, the son of a watchmaker, was born in London, 27th November, 1787. He became, in 1811, the pastor of an Independent congregation, near the Commercial Road, London. His work, "No Fiction," was successful in awakening the minds of some of its readers to religious truth. Dr. Reed's next effort was to raise funds for establishing an Orphan Asylum. He began it by boarding three orphans. Subscriptions were few and trifling. What! despair, with the cross before me," wrote he. Under the patronage of the Duke of Kent, "I scour London," he observes, "crying, Money, money, money!" At last the London Orphan Asylum was erected, at a cost of £25,000. After a visit to the United States, he exerted himself to establish the Infant Orphan Asylum, Reedham Asylum for Fatherless Children, and the Asylum for Idiots, which cost £30,000. Dr. Reed composed several fine hymns. He died 25th February, 1862. PRAYER TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. SPIRIT Divine! attend our prayers, And make this house Thy home; Descend with all Thy gracious powers, Oh, come, Great Spirit, come! Come as the light-to us reveal Our emptinesss and woe; And lead us in those paths of life Where all the righteous go. Come as the fire-and purge our hearts Like sacrificial flame; Let our whole soul an offering be To our Redeemer's name. Come as the dew-and sweetly bless This consecrated hour; May barrenness rejoice to own Thy fertilising power. Come as the dove- and spread Thy wings, The wings of peaceful love; And let Thy Church on earth become Blest as the Church above. Come as the wind-with rushing sound, And pentecostal grace; That all of woman born may see The glory of Thy face. Born 1787. Died 1862. Spirit Divine! attend our prayers, Make a lost world Thy home; Descend with all Thy gracious powers, Oh, come, Great Spirit, come! CAROLINE FRY. 219 Born 1787. Richard Whately, D.D. Died 1963. ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN. RICHARD WHATELY, youngest son of a prebendary of Bristol, was born in London in 1787, He completed his education at Oriel College, Oxford, was ordained a minister, published several popular works on logical science, rhetoric, theology, and, after a brilliant career in various positions, was appointed Archbishop of Dublin in 1831. He died 8th October, 1863. THE LORD'S PRAYER. THOU to whom all power is given, Here on earth, above in heaven; Jesus, Saviour, mighty Lord, Be Thy holy name adored! In our hearts all-sovereign reign: All the world be Thy domain! May redeemed man, we pray Thee, Like th' angelic hosts, obey Thee! Thou, who dost the ravens feed, Grant us all our bodies need; Thou, in whom we move and live, Daily grace sustaining give. Pardon us, our sins confessing, Keep us from afresh transgressing; May we pardon one another As becomes a sinning brother. In temptation's dreadful hour, Shield us with Thy gracious power; From Satan's wiles our hearts defend, Saviour, Comforter, and Friend. Glory to Thee on earth be given; Christ our King, the Lord of heaven! Glory to Thee, great "First and Last," When (all) this world and time are past! Caroline Fry (Mrs. Wilson.) {Born 1787. Died CAROLINE FRY was born at Tunbridge Wells, 31st December, 1787. Her father was a farmer in good circumstances. She was educated at home, the best education for a girl, and even as a child she read much, and was acquainted with many works little known to the people of ordinary schools. Before she was fourteen years of age, her father had published her "History of England in Verse. She "" 220 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. A afterwards published "Serious Poetry," "The Assistant of Educa- tion, ""The Listener," and numerous other works. Her autobiog raphy is extremely interesting. In 1831 she married Mr. Wilson. She died at Tunbridge Wells, 17th September, 1846, GRACE OF GOD. GRACE does not steel the faithful heart, That it should know no ill; We learn to kiss the chastening rod, And feel its sharpness still. But how unlike the Christian's tears To those the world must shed! His sighs are tranquil and resigned As the heart from which they sped. The saint may be compelled to meet Misfortune's saddest blow; His bosom is alive to feel The keenest pang of woe. But, ever as the wound is given, There is a hand unseen, Hasting to wipe away the scar, And hide where it has been. The Christian would not have his lot Be other than it is; For, while his Father rules the world, He knows that world is his. He knows that He who gave the best, Will give him all beside; Assured that every good he asks Is evil, if denied. When clouds of sorrow gather round, His bosom owns no fear: He knows, whate'er portion be, His God will still be there. And when the threatened storm has burst, Whate'er the trial be, Something yet whispers him within, "Be still, for it is He!" Poor nature, ever weak, will shrink From the afflictive stroke; But faith disclaims the hasty plaint Impatient nature spoke, MRS. SOUTHEY, 221 He knows it is a Father's will, And therefore it is good; Nor would he venture, by a wish, To change it if he could. His grateful bosom quickly learns Its sorrows to disown; Yields to His pleasure, and forgets The choice was not his own. CALVARY. Love, love divine, I sing: Oh, for a seraph's lyre! Bathed in Siloa's stream, Mrs. Southey + CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES, only child of Captain Charles Bowles, was born at Buckland, near Lymington, Hampshire, in 1787. When young she lost her parents, and for many years she led a retired life. She published poetical and prose works at first without her' name. Her Chapters on Churchyards," in Blackwood's Magazine, brought her more prominently before the public as one of the gifted female writers of the period. In 1830 she married Robert Southey, the poet. On his death, in 1843, Government gave her a pension of £200 a-year. She died in 1854. And touched with living fire— Lofty, pure, the strain should be, When I sing of Calvary. Love, Love on earth appears! The wretched throng His way; He beareth all their griefs, And wipes their tears away- Soft and sweet the strain should be, Saviour when I sing of Thee. He saw me as He passed, In hopeless sorrow lie, Condemned and doomed to death, And no salvation nigh- Long and loud the strain shonld be, When I sing His love to me. "I die for thee," He said- Behold the cross arise! And lo! He bows His head- He bows His head, and dies! Born 1787. Died 1854. 222 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ↓ Soft, my harp, thy breathings be, Let me weep on Calvary. He lives! again He lives! I hear the voice of love— He comes to soothe my fears, And draw my soul above- Joyful now the strain shoulă be When I sing of Calvary. Rev. Thomas Raffles. THOMAS RAFFLES was born in London, 17th May, 1788. He was edu- cated first at a school in Peckham, and then at Homerton College. He became the Congregational minister at Hammersmith in 1809, and then removed to Liverpool, where his ministry was very suc cessful. He published works both in poetry and prose, and along with some of his friends, was editor of a London quarterly magazine, entitled The Investigator. He died 18th August, 1863. PEACE OF MIND. COME, heavenly peace of mind, Descend into my breast; For thee I long have pined, Oh! give my spirit rest- For thou canst chase the fiend, Despair, And smooth the rugged brow of care. Say, where's thy dwelling-place? To thy retreat I'd flee- Oh! yield to my embrace, And be a guest with me: Dispel the cares that now corrode, And make my bosom thine abode. I've sought thee long, in vain, And panted for thy smile; For thou canst ease my pain, And all my woe beguile: And wilt thou, heedless, pass me by, And leave me in despair to die? The gayest circles round Are dull and blank to me, I feel a grief profound, Amidst their revelry; + (Born 1788. 7 Died 1863. : REV. THOMAS RAFFLES. 223 And though I bear in them a part, The anguish still is at my heart. And if, chagrined, I turn To solitude and shade, I still am doomed to mourn— My grief is unallayed: Ah! why prolong the plaintive strain Where echo only mocks my pain? For streams that gently flow The peaceful vales among, And groves that only know The melody of song, The inward storm can ne'er control, Nor breathe their influence o'er my soul! 'Twas thus my spirit sigh'd, And poured its plaintive moan— When lo! a voice replied, With love in every tone, "The boon you seek is mine to give; Then, mourner, look to Me, and live!" It was His voice who hung Upon the accursed tree; Whose spirit there was wrung With keenest agony- O gracious words! I hear them yet- Methinks I never can forget! I looked, and felt relief And life in every gaze; Then joy succeeded grief, And calm and happy days; His smile has chased my gloom away, And turned my midnight into day: Hail, heavenly piece of mind! Thy dwelling-place serene No mortai e'er can find In all this earthly scene: I sought, in vain, the gift divine, Till faith in Jesus made thee mine! BROKEN CISTERNS. THIS world that we so highly prize, And seek so eagerly its smile ! : 224 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. What is it? Vanity and lies; A broken cistern all the while. Pleasure, with her delightful song, That charms the unwary to beguile- What is it? The deceiver's tongue; A broken cistern all the while. And earthly friendships fair and gay, That promise much with artful wile- What are they? Only treachery; A broken cistern all the while. Riches, that so absorb the mind, In anxious care and ceaseless toil-- What are they? Faithless as the wind; A broken cistern all the while. Yes; all are broken cisterns, Lord! To those that wander far from Thee; The living stream is in Thy Word, Thou Fount of Immortality! Lord Byron. GEORGE GORDON BYRON was born in Holles Street, London, 22nd January, 1788. His father, Captain Byron, having squandered his wife's fortune, deserted her, and died. Mrs. Byron went to Scotland to reside in her native place, Aberdeen. It was amongst the moun- tains and on the stormy coast of Scotland that Byron imbibed the love for the sublime and picturesque in nature. He went to the Grammar School of Aberdeen, but when he became, by the death of his grand-uncle, possessed of the title and estates of the Byron family, he was placed at Harrow School, and finished his education at Trinity College, Cambridge. His juvenile poetry having been un- favourably noticed in the Edinburgh Review. Lord Byron's talents were aroused, and the result was, "English Bards and Scotch Re- viewers." He continued to publish a variety of popular poems. He married Miss Milbanke, an heiress, in 1815. He separated from his wife, went abroad, and at last died, 19th April, 1824, whilst engaged in the cause of Greek independence. OH WEEP FOR THOSE, OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, Whose shrines are desolate, whose land, a dream; Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell; Mourn where their God hath dwelt, the godless dwell. Born 1788. Died 1824. And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? And where shall Zion's song again seem sweet? And Judah's melody once more rejoice The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice? 71 225 LORD BYRON. Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, How shall ye flee away and be at rest! The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, Mankind their country-Israel but the grave! DESTRUCTION OF THE ASSYRIANS. 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. Like 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 withered and strown. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed, And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled 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-beaten 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 ELIPHAZ. A SPIRIT passed before me: I beheld The face of immortality unveiled, Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine---- And there it stood, all formless, but divine: Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake: And as the damp hair stiffened, thus it spake: "Is man more just than God? Is man more pure Than He who deems e'en seraphs insecure? J* ! 226 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! The moth survives you, and are ye more just? Things of a day! you wither ere the night, Heedless and blind to wisdom's wasted light." William Knox. WILLIAM KNOX was born at Firth Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, in 1789. He was educated in the parish school, and afterwards at Mussel- burgh Grammar School. He was for some time a clerk in a lawyer's office, and then a farmer, but was unsuccessful, and in 1825 he went to Edinburgh to engage in literary work. He published several volumes of poems, "The Lonely Hearth," "Songs of Israel," &c., which have been much commended by Southey, Sir Walter Scott, the Rev. G. Gilfillan, and others. He died in 1825. HARP OF ZION. HARP of Zion, pure and holy, Pride of Judah's eastern land, May a child of guilt and folly Strike thee with a feeble hand? May I to my bosom take thee, Trembling from the prophet's touch, And with throbbing heart awake thee To the strains I love so much? I have loved thy thrilling numbers Since the dawn of childhood's day; Since a mother soothed my slumbers With the cadence of thy lay; Since a little blooming sister Born 1789. Died 1825. Clung with transports round my knee, And my glowing spirit blessed her With a blessing caught from thee! Mother-sister-both are sleeping Where no heaving hearts respire, Whilst the eve of age is creeping Round the widowed spouse and sire. He and his, amid their sorrow, Find enjoyment in thy strain: Harp of Zion, let me borrow Comfort from thy chords again! My song hath closed, the holy dream That raised my thoughts o'er all below, Hath faded like the lunar beam, And left me 'mid a night of woe, of CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT. 227 To look and long, and sigh in vain For friends I ne'er shall meet again. And yet the earth is green and gay; And yet the skies are pure and bright; But, 'mid each gleam of pleasure gay, Some cloud of sorrow dims my sight: For weak is now the tenderest tongue That might my simple songs have sung. And, like Gilead's drops of balm, They for a moment soothed my breast; But earth hath not a power to calm My spirit in forgetful rest, Until I lay me side by side With those that loved me, and have died. They died—and this a world of woe, Of anxious doubt and chilling fear; I wander onward to the tomb, With scarce a hope to linger here: But with a prospect to rejoin The friends beloved, that once were mine. Charlotte Elliott. (: 66 CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT was born on the 18th of March, 1789. She pub- lished Hours of Sorrow Cheered and Comforted, The Invalid's Hymn Book," and she edited and she edited "The Christian Remembrancer Pocket-Book," for twenty-five years. She is best known by two beautiful hymns, "Just as I am, " and "Thy will be done," which are to be found in most collections. She died 22nd September, 1871. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. My God! is any hour so sweet, From blush of morn to evening star, As that which calls me to Thy feet, The hour of prayer? S Born 1789. Died 1871. Blest is the tranquil hour of morn, And blest the hour of solemn eve, When, on the wings of prayer up-borne, The world I leave. 1 Then is my strength by Thee renewed; Then are my sins by Thee forgiven; Then dost Thou cheer my solitude With hopes of heaven. 228 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ť No words can tell what sweet relief There for my every want I find; What strength for warfare, balm for grief, What peace of mind. Hushed is each doubt, gone every fear; My spirit seems in heaven to stay; And e'en the penitential tear is wiped away. Lord! till I reach that blissful shore, No privilege so dear shall be, As thus my inmost soul to pour In prayer to Thee. JUST AS I AM. JUST as I am, without one plea, But that Thy blood was shed for me, And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, O Lamb of God, I come. Just as I am, and waiting not To rid my soul of one dark blot, To Thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, O Lamb of God, I come. Just as I am, though tossed about With many a conflict, many a doubt; Fightings within, and fears without, O Lamb of God, I come. . Just as I am-poor, wretched, blind; Sight, riches, healing of the mind, Yea, all I need in Thee to find, O Lamb of God, I come. Just as I am Thou wilt receive, Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve; Because Thy promise I believe, O Lamb of God, I come. Just as I am-Thy love unknown, Has broken every barrier down; Now to be Thine, yea, Thine alone, O Lamb of God, I come. ? 1 1 1 CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT. ELLIOT 229 } THY WILL BE DONE. My God, my Father, while I stray, Far from my home, in life's rough way, Oh, teach me from my heart to say, "Thy will be done." Though dark my path, and sad my lot, Let me 66 be still " and murmur not; Or breathe the prayer, divinely taught, 'Thy will be done.' (( What though in lonely grief I sigh For friends beloved no longer nigh? Submissive still, I would reply, "Thy will be done." If Thou shouldst call me to resign What most I prize, it ne'er was mine: I only yield Thee what was Thine; Thy will be done." Should pining sickness waste away My life in premature decay, My Father! still I strive to say, .. Thy will be done." (( ، ، If but my fainting heart be blest With Thy sweet Spirit for its guest, My God! to Thee I leave the rest, Thy will be done." Renew my will from day to day; Blend it with Thine, and take away All that now makes it hard to say, (" Thy will be done.” Then when on earth I breathe no more The prayer half mixed with tears before, I'll sing upon a happier shore, "Thy will be done." THE YOUNG BELIEVER'S PRAYER. O GOD! may I look up to Thee? I would address Thee if I may; And this my one request should be, Teach me to pray. 230 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 2 Now in my sorrow I would ask, What thoughts to think, what words to say; Prayer is a new and arduous task; Teach me to pray. A heartless form will not suffice, The self-deemed rich are sent away; The heart must bring the sacrifice- Teach me to pray. To whom shall I, Thy creature, turn? Whom else address? whom else obey? Teach me the lesson I would learn- Teach me to pray. Now, in my hour of trouble, deign To bow my spirit to Thy sway; Now, let me ask Thee not in vain- Teach me to pray. To Thee alone my eyes look up Turn not, O God, Thy face away, Prayer is my only door of hope- Teach me to pray. Josiah Conder. JOSIAH CONDER was born in London in 1789. His father was a bookseller. Encouraged by the success of some juvenile poems, Conder abandoned the trade of a bookseller to pursue a literary career. In 1814 he purchased the copyright of the Electic Review, and edited it for some years. In 1832 he became editor of the Patriot, and conducted it for three-and-twenty years. He also published other works-"A View of all Religions," "Poet of the Sanctuary," "Literary History of the New Testament, &c., and he has also written some fine hymns. He died in 1855. "" Born 1789. Died 1855. THE OFFERING. WITH blood--but not his own-the awful sign At once of sin's desert and guilt's remission, The Jew besought the clemency divine, The hope of mercy blending with contrition. Sin must have death! Its holy requisition The law may not relax. The opening tomb Expects its prey! Mere respite, life's condition; Nor can the body shun its penal doom. Yet there is mercy: wherefore else delay To punish? Why the victim and the rite? } 1 JOSIAH CONDER. 231 1 But can the type and symbol take away The guilt, and for a broken law requite? The cross unfolds the mystery: Jesus died: The sinner lives: the law is satisfied! With blood-but not his own-the Jew drew near The mercy-seat, and heaven received his prayer. Yet still his hope was dimmed by doubt and fear: If thou shouldst mark transgression, who might dare To stand before Thee? Mercy loves to spare And pardon, but stern Justice has a voice, And cries-our God is holy, nor can bear Uncleanness in the people of His choice. But now one Offering, ne'er to be renewed, Hath made our peace for ever. This now gives Free access to the Throne of Heavenly Grace. No more base fear and dark disquietude, He who was slain-the accepted Victim-lives, And intercedes before the Father's face. · COMMUNION WITH CHRIST. WHEN in the hours of lonely woe, I give my sorrow leave to flow; And anxious fear and dark distrust Weigh down my spirits to the dust. When not e'en friendship's gentle aid Can heal the wounds the world has made, Oh! this shall check each rising sigh, That Jesus is for ever nigh. His counsels and upholding care My safety and my comfort are; And He shall guide me all my days, Till glory crown the work of grace. Jesus! in whom but Thee above Can I repose my trust, my love? And shall an earthly object be Loved in comparison with Thee? My flesh is hastening to decay, Soon shall the world have passed away, And what can mortal friends avail, When heart, and strength, and life shall fail? + 232 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. But oh! be Thou, my Saviour, nigh, And I will triumph while I die; My strength, my portion is divine, And Jesus is for ever mine. Bryan W. Proctor. BRYAN W. PROCTOR, better known as "Barry Cornwall," was born in London about the year 1790. He was educated as a lawyer, and for several years was one of the Commissioners of Lunacy. In 1819 his first poetical work was published, entitled "Dramatic Scenes, and other Poems. "Marcian Colonna," "English Songs," and many other subsequent pieces, displayed considerable refinement of mind. He died 4th October, 1874. Born 1790. Died 1874. BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. OVER Babylon's sandy plains Belshazzar the Assyrian reigns; A thousand lords at his kingly call Have met to feast in a spacious hall, And all the imperial boards are spread With dainties whereon the monarch fed. Rich cates and floods of the purple grape; And many a dancer's serpent shape Steals slowly upon their amorous sights, Or glances beneath the flaunting lights; And fountains throw up their silver spray, And cymbals clash, and the trumpets bray, Till the sounds in the arched roof are hung, And words from the winding horn are flung: And still the carved cups go round, And revel, and mirth, and wine abound. But night has o'ertaken the fading day; And music has raged her soul away: The light in the bacchanal's eye is dim; And faint is the Georgian's wild love-hymn. "Bring forth" (on a sudden spoke the king, And hush'd were the lords' loud rioting), "Bring forth the vessels of silver and gold, Which Nebuchadnezzar, my sire, of old, Ravish'd from proud Jerusalem; And we and our queens will drink from them." And the vessels are brought, of silver and gold, Of stone, and of brass, and of iron old, And of wood, whose sides like a bright gem shine, And their mouths are all filled with the sparkling wine. f HENRY HART MILMAN. 233 "" “Let a health be drunk out unto Baal, the god.' They shout and they drink: but the music moans, And hush'd are the reveller's loudest tones: For a hand comes forth, and 'tis seen by all To write strange words on the plaster'd wall! The mirth is over;-the soft Greek flute And the voice of women are low-are mute; The bacchanal's eyes are all staring wide; And, where's the Assyrian's pomp of pride? That night the monarch was stung to pain: That night Belshazzar, the king, was slain! Henry Hart Milman, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S. HENRY HART MILMAN was born in London, 10th February, 1791. He was the son of Sir Francis Milman, a physician. He went to Eton School, and whilst at Brazenose College, Oxford, obtained the great- est number of prizes, and became a Fellow of his College, and also vicar of St. Mary, Reading, Berkshire. He published a number of poems, as well as many popular hymns. In 1849 he was appointed Dean of St. Paul's. As a prose writer, his best work is his "History of Christianity." He died in 1868. ADVENT HYMN. THE chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll in fire, As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of His ire; Self moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud, And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bow'd. Born 1791. Died 1868. The glory! the glory! around Him are pour'd The myriads of angels that wait on the Lord; And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there, And all who the palm-wreaths of victory wear. The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard; Lo! the depths of the stone-covered monuments stirred! From ocean and earth, from south pole and north, Lo! the vast generations of ages come forth! The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set, Where the Lamb and the white-vested elders are met; All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord; And the doom of eternity hangs on His word. O mercy! O mercy! look down from above, Redeemer, on us, Thy sad children, with love! When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven, May our justified souls find a welcome in heaven! + 234 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 WHO IS HE ? BOUND upon th' accursed tree, Faint and bleeding, who is He? By the eyes so pale and dim, Streaming blood and writhing limb, By the flesh with scourges torn, By the crown of twisted thorn, By the side so deeply pierced, By the baffled burning thirst, By the drooping death-dew'd brow— Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou! Bound upon th' accursed tree, Dread and awful, who is He? By the sun at noonday pale, Shivering rocks and rending veil; By earth that trembles at His doom, By yonder saints who burst their tomb, By Eden, promised ere He died, To the felon at His side; Lord! our suppliant knees we bow- Son of God! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou! 1 Bound upon th' accursed tree, Sad and dying, who is He? By the last and bitter cry, The ghost giv'n up in agony; By the lifeless body laid In the chamber of the dead; By the mourners come to weep Where the bones of Jesus sleep; Crucified! we know Thee now- Son of Man! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou! p de Bound upon th' accursed tree, Dread and awful, who is He? By the prayer for them that slew, "Lord! they know not what they do!" By the spoil'd and empty gravė, By the souls He died to save, By the conquest He hath won, By the saints before His throne, By the rainbow round His brow- Son of God! 'tis Thou, 'tis Thou! 1 HENRY HART MILMAN. 235 THE PASSION OF CHRIST. THEY bound Thy temples with the twisted thorn; Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain; The blood, from all Thy flesh with scourges torn, Deepened Thy robe of mockery's crimson grain: Whose native vesture bright Was the unapproached light, The sandal of whose foot, the rapid hurricane. They smote Thy cheek with many a ruthless palm; With the cold spear Thy shuddering side they pierc'd; The draught of bitterest gall was, all the balm They gave t' enhance Thy unslaked burning thirst: Thou, at whose words of peace Did pain and anguish cease, And the long-buried dead their bonds of slumber burst. Low bowed Thy head, convulsed and drooped in death; Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry; Slow struggled from Thy breast the parting breath, And every limb was wrung with agony: That head whose veilless blaze Filled angels with amaze, When at that voice sprung forth the rolling suns on high. And Thou wert laid within the narrow tomb, Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave-clothes bound. The sealed stone confirmed Thy mortal doom; Lone watchmen walked Thy desert burial ground: Whom heaven could not contain, Nor the immeasurable plain Of vast infinity enclose or circle round. For us! for us! Thou didst endure the pain, And Thy meek spirit bowed itself to shame, To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain, T'avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame: Thou who couldst nothing win, By saving worlds from sin, Nor aught of glory add to Thy all-glorious name. J 236 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. James Edmestone. James EdmestONE is the author of Sacred Lyrics, 1820-1, published in three volumes, which were highly praised in the Eclectic Review in June, 1821, as displaying true poetic feeling by the author. He also published a volume of hymns in 1844, and one of sonnets in 1845, followed by Closet Hymns and Poems in 1846, and by another volume entitled Sacred Poetry, in 1848. GRAVE OF A CHRISTIAN. THERE is a spot-a lovely spot, Embosomed in a valley's dale; The eye of splendour marks it not, Nor travellers of its beauties tell. The hazel forms a green bower there— Beneath, the grassy covering lies; And forest flowers, surpassing fair, Mingle their soft and lovely dyes. Morn decks the spot with many a gem, And the first break of eastern ray Lights up a spark in each of them, That seems to hail the opening day. When first that beam of morning breaks, The fancy here a smile may see, Like that when first the saint awakes At dawn of immortality. The free birds love to seek the shade, And here they sing their sweetest lays: Meet requiem!-He who there is laid, Breathed his last dying voice in praise. And here the villager will stray, What time his daily work is done, When evening sheds the western ray, Of sweet departing summer sun. On lovely lips his name is found, And simple hearts yet hold him dear— The Patriarch of the village round, The Pastor of the chapel near. Born 1791. Died 1867. The holy cautions that he gave, The prayers he breathed, the tears he wept, Yet linger here, though in his grave, Through many a year, the saint has slept. JAMES EDMESTONE. 237 And oft the villager has said- "Oh, I remember, when a child, He placed his hand upon my head, And blessed me then, and sweetly smiled. “'Twas he that led me to my God, And taught me to obey His will; The holy path which he has trod, Oh, be it mine to follow still!” Grave of the righteous! surely there The sweetest bloom of beauty is: Oh, may I sleep in couch as fair, And with a hope as bright as his! THE THUNDER-STORM. SONS of the mighty! pause and fear! Jehovah's power proclaim! The glory of His state revere, And bow before His throne. His watery cloud is rolling by; And hark! His voice of majesty Divides the forks of flame! He blasts the cedar, burns the oak, And cleaves the mountains with a stroke. He lays the forest thickets bare, And lights the shade profound; The deer, that crept for refuge there, Springs from the burning ground! The lion from his secret den Moans in instinctive horror then, And crouches at the sound: He knows his Maker's voice, and hides In the deep cavern's inmost sides. Amidst the storm Jehovah reigns, And guards His people's weal; He holds the lightnings fast in chains, Though all creation reel; And those whom He will deign to keep May lay them down in peace to sleep, Nor heed the threatening peal; Assured, beneath His mighty arm, Danger is safe, and tumult calm. 238 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. SABBATH EVENING. ANOTHER day has pass'd along, And we are nearer to the tomb! Nearer to join the heavenly song, Or hear the last eternal doom. These moments of departing day, When thought is calm and labours cease, Are surely solemn times to pray, To ask for pardon and for peace. Thou God of mercy, swift to hear, More swift than man to tell his need, Be Thou to us this evening near, And to Thy fount our spirits lead. Teach us to pray-and having taught, Grant us the blessings that we crave; Without Thy teaching prayer is nought· But with it-powerful to save! Sweet is the light of Sabbath Eve, And soft the sunbeam lingering there; Those sacred hours this low earth leave, Wafted on wings of praise and prayer. This time, how lovely and how still! Peace shines, and smiles on all below; The plain, the stream, the wood, the hill, All fair with evening's setting glow! Season of Rest! the tranquil soul Feels thy sweet calm, and melts in love; And while these sacred moments roll, FAITH sees a smiling heaven above. How short the time, how soon the sun Sets! and dark night resumes her reign! And soon the hours of rest are done, Then morrow brings the world again. Yet will our journey not be long, Our pilgrimage will soon be trod; And we shall join the ceaseless song, The endless Sabbath of our God, JAMES EDMESTONE. 239 • THE GRACIOUS SHEPHERD. KIND SHEPHERD, who Thy little flock dost guide, Wisdom Thy rod-Thy staff unceasing love; And dost in pastures feed and coverts hide The wanderers, till they reach Thy fold above. Each weakness and each want to Thee are known; All strength is Thine, and every holy joy; The people whom Thou choosest for Thine own, No force can sever, and no power destroy. 3. Rich is the food Thou givest, bread from heaven, Waters of life which from Thy presence flow; And fitting guidance all their journey given, Thy hand directing every step they go. When through the vale of death they leave this land— That vale where all is dark and chilly night— Thou wilt conduct them to Thine own right hand, And even gild the vale of death with light. THE HOUSE OF GOD. THERE's a refuge of peace from the tempests that beat, From the dark clouds that threaten, from the wild wind that blows; A holy, a sweet, and a lovely retreat, A spring of refreshment, a place of repose. 'Tis the house of my God-'tis the dwelling of prayer- 'Tis the temple all hallowed by blessing and praise; If sorrow and faithlessness conquer me there, My heart to the throne of His grace I can raise. For a refuge like this, ah! what praises are due, For a rest so serene, for a covert so fair; Ah! why are the seasons of worship so few? Ah! why are so seldom the meetings of prayer? THE MILLENIUM. It seems as if the summer sky Assumed a purer blue; It seems as if the flow'ret's dye Put on a brighter hue; 240 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + A loveliness, so soft, so fair, Pervades the earth, the sea, and air; Peace dwells below, and all above Bespeaks the reign of heavenly love. Within the cot, within the tower, Wherever we may roam; In city, field, or summer bower, How sweet is every home! Love and Religion mingling there Make all alike around it fair: Oh! this is love surpassing far What all mere earthly passions are. Such is the love that reigns around In palace, hall, or cot, The looks that beam, the words that sound, The joy that decks the spot; The hymn floats softly through the vale, The scent of flowers is in the gale, Combining joy and summer sun, Perfume and music, all in one. If heaven has ever shone below, Its dawning now appears; We e seem to catch the morning glow, From those celestial spheres; This is the time so long foreseen, When ages roll their years between; Oh! may it be an endless reign, Nor earth know other rule again! AN EVENING BLESSING. SAVIOUR, breathe an evening blessing, Ere repose our spirits seal; Sin and want we come confessing- Thou canst save and Thou canst heal. Though destruction walk around us, Though the arrows past us fly, Angel guards from Thee surround us— We are safe if Thou art nigh. Though the night be dark and dreary, Darkness cannot hide from Thee; Thou art He who, never weary, Watchest where Thy people be. JAMES EDMESTONE. 241 j Should swift death this night o'ertake us And our couch become our tomb, May the morn in heaven awake us, Clad in bright and deathless bloom. THE LITTLE CHILDREN. WHо are they whose little feet, Pacing life's short journey through, Now have reached that heavenly seat, They had ever kept in view? 'I, from Greenland's frozen land! Í, from India's sultry plain; I, from Afric's barren sand; I, from islands of the main. 'All our earthly journey past, Every tear and pain gone by, Here together met at last At the portal of the sky.' K Each the welcome "Come" awaits, Conquerors over death and sin; Lift your heads, ye golden gates, Let the little travellers in. NEW-YEAR'S HYMN. HOPE smiles upon a New-Year's Day, And wreathes the coming hours With thoughts of future, bright and gay— Imagination's flowers. But blighted oft these flowers may be, And only thorns appear; Yet seeking rightly, we might see This new-a happy year. Let it be new in holy things- New faith, new love, new zeal; New in more constant prayer, which brings God's blessing for its seal. New in more full supplies of grace, Which God, if asked, will give; New strength to run the Christian race, And to God's glory live. 242 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Then should this year be thus begun, And ended in God's fear, We shall confess when it is done, It was a happy year. And thus may life's year pass away, And fade in heaven's new year, When an eternal New-Year's Day Shall shut up all things here. John Keble. JOHN KEBLE, the son of the vicar of Coln Saint Aldwynd, was born at Fairford, Gloucestershire, in 1792. He gained a Corpus Christi scholarship at Oxford University, and was elected a Fellow of Oriel College. At Oxford he associated with Whately, Coleridge, Newman, Pusey, Arnold, Sanderson, and others. For twenty years he was a parochial clergyman, being curate to his father. He wrote "The Christian Year" (1827) and other works in poetry and prose, becoming one of the leaders of the High Church or Ritualis- tic party. He was appointed Professor of Poetry at Oxford in 1833. He married Miss Charlotte Clark, and became vicar of Hursley, Hampshire, in 1835. He almost rebuilt the church at Hursley, by the profits of "The Christian Year," which contains a poem for every Sunday, Saints' day, &c., throughout the year. He died in 1866. HOSANNA. YE whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of poesy; Heirs of more than royal race, Fram'd by Heaven's peculiar grace, God's own work to do on earth Born 1792. Died 1866. (If the world be not too bold) Giving virtue a new birth, And a life that ne'er grows old. Sovereign masters of all hearts! Know ye who hath set your parts? He who gave you breath to sing, By whose strength ye sweep the string, He hath chosen you to lead His hosannas here below- Mount, and claim your glorious meed; Linger not with sin and woe. But, if ye should hold your peace, Deem not that the song would cease- Angels round his glory throne, Stars, His guiding hand that own, JOHN KEBLE. 243 .. Flowers, that grow beneath our feet, Stones in earth's dark womb that rest, High and low in choir shall meet, Ere His name shall be unblest. Lord, by every minstrel tongue Be Thy praise so duly sung, That Thine angels' harps may ne'er Fail to find fit echoing here; We the while, of meaner birth, Who in that divinest spell Dare not hope to join on earth, Give us grace to listen well. But, should thankless silence seal Lips, that might half heaven reveal; Should bards in idol hymns profane The sacred soul-enthralling strain (As in this bad world below Noblest things find vilest using), – Then, Thy power and mercy show, In vile things noble breath infusing. Then waken into sound divine The very pavement of Thy shrine, Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor, Faintly give back what we adore; Childlike though the voices be, And untunable the parts, Thou wilt own the minstrelsy, If it flow from childlike hearts. THE CONVERSION OF ST. PAUL. "And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?"-ACTS ix. 4. THE mid-day sun, with fiercest giare, Broods o'er the hazy twinkling air; Along the level sand The palm-tree's shade unwavering lies, Just as thy towers, Damascus, rise To greet yon wearied band. The leader of that martial crew Seems bent some mighty deed to do, So steadily he speeds, 244 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. With lips firm clos'd and fixed eye, Like warrior when the fight is nigh, Nor talk nor landscape heeds. What sudden blaze is round him pour'd, As though all heaven's refulgent hoard In one rich glory shone? One moment-and to earth he falls! What voice his inmost heart appals?— Voice heard by him alone; For to the rest, both words and form Seem lost in lightning and in storm, While Saul, in wakeful trance, Sees, deep within that dazzling field, His persecuted Lord reveal'd, With keen yet pitying glance: And hears the meek upbraiding call, As gently on his spirit fall As if th' Almighty Son Were prisoner yet in this dark earth, Nor had proclaim'd His royal birth, Nor His great power begun. "Ah! wherefore persecut'st thou me?" He heard and saw, and sought to free His strained eye from the sight; But heaven's high magic bound it there, Still gazing, though untaught to bear Th' insufferable light. "Who art Thou, Lord?" he falters forth- So shall sin ask of heaven and earth At the last awful day. "When did we see Thee suffering nigh, And passed Thee with unheeding eye; Great God of judgment, say?" Ah! little dream our listless eyes What glorious presence they despise, While, in our noon of life, To power or fame we rudely press- Christ is at hand, to scorn or bless, Christ suffers in our strife. ! HENRY FRANCIS LYTE. 245 1 } ; Henry Francis Lyte. HENRY FRANCIS LYTE was born at Ednam, Roxburghshire, in 1793. His father, a naval officer, was T. Lyte, of Westermains House. Mr. Lyte at one time studied for the medical profession, but, after having finished his education at Trinity College, Dublin, he became a minister of the Church of England at Lower Brixham, where he laboured for five-and-twenty years. His health failing, he went abroad, and died at Nice, 20th November, 1847. PRAISE GOD. PRAISE, my soul, the King of Heaven, To His feet thy tribute bring: Ransom'd, heal'd, restor'd, forgiven, Who like thee His praise should sing. Praise Him, praise Him, Praise the Everlasting King. Praise Him for His grace and favour To our fathers in distress; Praise Him still the same for ever, Slow to chide and swift to bless. Praise Him, praise Him, Glorious in His faithfulness. Fatherlike, He tends and spares us; Well our feeble frame He knows; In His hands He gently bears us, Rescues us from all our foes. Praise Him, praise Him, Widely as His mercy flows. Angels, help us to adore Him; Ye behold Him face to face; Born 1793. Died 1847. All His works bow down before Him, Through the boundless realms of space. Praise Him, praise Him, Praise with us the God of grace. WE HAVE LEFT ALL. JESUS, I my cross have taken, All to leave and follow Thee; Naked, poor, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shalt be; { 246 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ! Perish every fond ambition, All I've sought, or hoped, or known; Yet how rich is my condition, God and heaven are still my own. Let the world despise and leave me; They have left my Saviour too: Human hearts and looks deceive me, Thou art not, like them, untrue. And whilst Thou shalt smile upon me, God of wisdom, love, and might, Foes may hate, and friends may scorn me, Show Thy face, and all is bright. Go, then, earthly fame and treasure, Come, disaster, scorn, and pain— In Thy service pain is pleasure, With Thy favour loss is gain. I have called Thee Abba, Father, I have set my heart on Thee; Storms may howl, and clouds may gather, All must work for good to me. Man may trouble and distress me, "Twill but drive me to Thy breast; Life with trials hard may press me, Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. Oh! 'tis not in grief to harm me, While Thy love is left to me; Oh! 'twere not in joy to charm me, Were that joy unmix'd with Thee. Soul, then, know thy full salvation, Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care; Joy to find in every station Something still to do or bear. Think what Spirit dwells within thee; Think what Father's smiles are thine;- Think that Jesus died to save thee: Child of heaven, canst thou repine? Haste thee on from grace to glory, Armed by faith, and winged by prayer, Heaven's eternal day's before thee, God's own hand shall guide thee there. Soon shall close thy earthly mission, Soon shall pass thy pilgrim days; Hope shall change to glad fruition, Faith to sight, and prayer to praise. MRS. HEMANS. 247 1 A NEW-YEAR'S WISH. ABIDE with me! fast falls the eventide; The darkness thickens: Lord! with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, oh abide with me! Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see; O Thou who changest not, abide with me! Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word, But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord- Familiar, condescending, patient, free— Come not to sojourn, but abide with me. Come not in terrors, as the King of kings, But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings; Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea; Come, Friend of sinners, thus abide with me! Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee; On to the close, O Lord! abide with me. I need Thy presence every passing hour,- What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, oh abide with me! I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless; Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death's sting? where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me! Mrs. Hemans. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE was born at Liverpool, 25th September, 1794. Her father was engaged in mercantile pursuits. Her mother was an English-woman, of Venetian origin. In 1812 Miss Browne married Captain Hemans, of the 4th Regiment. The marriage was not a happy one, and ended by Hemans quitting his wife, leaving her with five sons "to breast a stormy world alone," as she said. She published at various periods prose and poetical works. As she grew older her poetry became more religious, and of a far higher character. She resided for some time at Rhyllon, near St. Asaph, Wales, then at Wavertree, near Liverpool. She visited Scotland, where she met Sir Walter Scott. She eventually went to live in Dublin, where she died 12th May, 1835. Born 1794. Died 1835. SEX 248 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 A DOMESTIC SCENE. 'Twas early day, and sunlight streamed Soft through a quiet room, That hush'd, but not forsaken seemed; Still, but with nought of gloom: For there, secure in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of Heaven's recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his grey, hoary hair, And touched the Book with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there; But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone With something lovelier far- A radiance all the Spirit's own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met His calm, benignant eye; Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality; Some heart's deep language, where the glow Of quenchless faith survives: For every feature said "I know That my Redeemer lives." And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ersweeping death: Silent-yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls-and blest That home where God is felt. HYMN. O THOU! before whose radiant shrine, Entranc'd, adoring seraphs bend; Eternal Source of light divine! Wilt Thou Thy hallowed ear incline, And mortal prayer attend! Yes, Father! yes, benignant Power! the REV. PROFESSOR E. ROBINSON, D.D. Around Thee beams fair Mercy's purest ray; No awful terrors round Thee lower, Save when in Judgment's dreaded hour Thou bid'st creation tremble and obey. Then, rob'd in darkness and in clouds, That solemn veil Thy glory shrouds, Chaos and night Thy dark pavilion form: Thy Spirit on the whirlwind rides, Impels the unresisting tides, Glares in the lightning, rushes in the storm; But Thou wilt meet the suppliant eye, And Thou wilt mark the lowly sigh, And Thou the holy tear wilt see, Which penitence devotes to Thee; That sigh thy breezes waft to heaven, That holy tear is grateful incense given. Low, humble, sad to Thee I bend, Oh! listen from Thy blest abode, And though celestial hymns ascend, Oh! deign a mortal's prayer attend, My Father and my GOD. Teach me, if hope, if joy be mine, To bless Thy bounteous hand divine; And still, with trembling homage, raise A grateful pæan of exalted praise. When deep affliction wounds my soul, Still let me own Thy mild control; Teach me, submissive and resigned, To calm the tempest of the mind; To lift the meek adoring eye, Suppress the tear, and hush the sigh; Gaze on one bright unclouded star, And hail the "Dayspring " from afar; Bid angel-faith dispel surrounding gloom, And soar, on cherub-wing, beyond the tomb. 249 Born 1794. Rev. Professor E. Robinson, D.D. (Died 1863. EDWARD ROBINSON was born in Connecticut, in the United States of America, in 1794. He graduated at Hamilton College in 1816, and went to Andover in 1821, where he studied Hebrew, and assisted Dr. Stuart in the instruction of his classes. In 1826 he went to Europe, and tudied first at Paris and then at Halle, in Germany. He visited Palestine, and in 1841 published his "Biblical Researches in Paies- tine, Mount Sinai, and Arabia Petræa," which is considered a very $ K* -3- 250 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. valuable work. On his return to America, he became Professor of Sacred Literature in Andover, and in 1837 was appointed Professor in the Union Theological Seminary. He died in 1863, ONE IN CHRIST. ONE baptism, and one faith, One Lord, below, above! The fellowship of Zion hath One only watchword-Love. From different temples though it rise, One song ascendeth to the skies. Our Sacrifice is one; One Priest before the throne- The Crucified, the risen Son, Redeemer, Lord alone! And sighs from contrite hearts that spring, Our chief, our choicest offering. Oh, why should they who love One gospel to unfold, Who look for one bright home above, On earth be strange and cold? Why, subjects of the Prince of Peace, In strife and bitterness? Oh, may that holy prayer, His tenderest and His last, The utterance of His latest care, Ere to His throne He passed- No longer, unfulfilled, remain The world's offence, the people's stain! Head of Thy Church beneath, The catholic, the true, On her disjointed members breathe, Her broken frame renew! 1 Then shall Thy perfect will be done, When Christians love and live as one. William and Mary Howitt. {Mary, 1 William, Born 1795. Born 1803. WILLIAM HOWITT was born at Heanor, Derbyshire, in 1795. He was educated at several schools conducted by Quakers, as his father was a Quaker. He had to study intensely on his own account to complete an education neglected at inefficient schools. In 1823 he married Mary Botham, a Quakeress, born at Uttoxeter, Staffordshire, in the year 1803. "The Forest Minstrel," 1823, a volume of poems, was their first work, and they have since then written a great 1 WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. 251 number of articles, translations, and other works, in prose and poetry. In 1840 they went to live in Germany, which led to a series of works by them on Germany. After his return to England, he became part proprietor of The People's Journal, which had to be given up. Howitt's Journal likewise did not succeed, and in 1852 he went with his two sons to Australia, where he worked at the gold diggings. He returned to England, and published "Land, Labour, and Gold," 1855, a work on Australia. Since then, with occasional absences on the Continent, he and Mary Howitt have resided at Highgate, near London. • THE MISSIONARY. My heart goes with thee, dauntless man, Freely as thou dost hie, To sojourn with some barbarous clan, For them to toil or die. Fondly our spirits to our own Cling, nor to part allow; Thine to some land forlorn has flown; We turn-and where art thou? Thou climb'st the vessel's lofty side; Numbers are gathering there: The youthful warrior in his pride, The merchant in his care; Hearts which for knowledge track the seas, Spirits which lightly rove, Glad as the billows and the breeze- And thou, the child of love. A savage shore receives thy tread; Companion thou hast none; The wild boughs wave above thy head, Yet still thou journey'st on; Treading the tangled wild wood drear, Piercing the mountain glen, Till, wearily, thou drawest near The haunts of lonely men Strange is thine aspect to their eyes; Strange is thy foreign speech; And wild and strong is their surprise At marvels thou dost teach. Thy strength alone is in thy words; Yet armies could not bow The spirit of those barbarous hordes So readily as thou. But, oh! thy heart, thou home-sick man, With saddest thoughts runs o'er; ! · 1 252 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. -. + Sitting, as fades the evening wan, Silently at thy door. Yet that poor hut upon the wild, A stone beneath the tree, And souls to heaven's love reconciled- These are enough for thee! A FOREST SCENE IN THE DAYS OF WICKLIFFE. A LITTLE child read a Book, Beside an open door, And, as she read page after page, She wondered more and more. Her little finger carefully Went pointing out the place; Her golden locks hung drooping down, And shadowed half her face. She sat upon a mossy stone, An open door beside, And round for miles, on every hand, Stretched out a forest wide. The summer sun shone on the trees, The deer lay in the shade; And overhead the singing birds Their pleasant warbling made. The butterfly went flitting by, The bees were in the flowers; But the little child sat steadfastly, As she had sat for hours. 66 Why sit you here, my little maid?" An aged pilgrim spake; The child looked upward from her Book, Like one but just awake. "And what is there within that Book To win a child like thee? Up! join thy mates, the merry birds, And frolic with the bee." .. ¡ A WILLIAM AND MARY HOWITT. "Nay, sir, I cannot leave this Book, I love it more than play; I've read all legends, but this one Ne'er saw I till this day." "Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read A book with mickle heed? Books are for clerks-the king himself Hath much ado to read." "My father is a forester, A bowman keen and good; He keeps the deer within their bounds, And worketh in the wood." "Who was it taught you thus to read?" "Ah, sir, it was my mother; She taught me both to read and spell, And so she taught my brother: "My brother dwells at Allonby, With the good monks alway; And this new Book he brought to me, But only for one day." "Nay, read to me," the pilgrim said, And the little child went on To read of Christ, as was set forth In the Gospel of St. John. On, on she read, and gentle tears Adown her cheeks did slide; The pilgrim sat with bended head, And he wept at her side. "The Book it is a blessed Book! Its name, what may it be?" She said, "They are the words of Christ That I have read to thee." "Give me the Book, and let me read; My soul is strangely stirred; They are such words of love and truth As ne'er before I heard!" And, aye, he read page after page, Page after page he turned; And as he read these blessed words, His heart within him burned. 253 Still, still the Book the old man read, As he would ne'er have done; 254 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS : From the hour of noon he read the Book Unto the set of sun. The little child she brought him out A cake of wheaten bread; But it lay unbroke at eventide; Nor did he raise his head. Then came the sturdy forester, Along the homeward track, Whistling loud a hunting tune, With a slain deer at his back. Loud greeting gave the forester, Unto the pilgrim poor: The old man rose, with thoughtful brow, And entered at the door. The two they sat them down to meat, And the pilgrim 'gan to tell How he had been on Olivet, And drank at Jacob's well. And then he told how he had knelt Where'er our Lord had prayed; How he had in the garden been, And the tomb where he was laid; And then he turned unto the Book And read in English plain, How Christ had died on Calvary— How He had risen again. And all His comfortable words, His deeds of mercy all, He read, and of the widow's mite, And the poor prodigal. As water to the parched vale, As to the hungry, bread, So fell upon the woodman's soul Each word the pilgrim read. Thus through the midnight did they read Until the dawn of day: And then came in the woodman's son, To fetch the Book away. All quick and troubled was his speech, His face was pale with dread; For he said the king had made a law That the Book must not be read. HENRY NEELE. 255 Rev. William H Bathurst. Born 1796. WILLIAM HILEY BATHURST, M.A., was born at Clevedale, near Bristol, on the 28th August, 1796. He was educated at Winchester School and at Christchurch College, Oxford. In 1820 he became rector of Barwick-in-Elmet, near Leeds. In 1827 he published an 'Essay on the Limits of Human Knowledge," and in 1631, "Psalms and Hymns for Public and Private Use;" and also afterwards, "Metrical Mus- ings; or, Thoughts on Sacred Subjects," in verse. ETERNAL SPIRIT! BY WHOSE POWER. ETERNAL Spirit! by whose power Are burst the bands of death, On our cold hearts Thy blessing shower, Revive them with Thy breath. 'Tis Thine to point the heavenly way, Each rising fear control, And with a warm, enlivening ray To melt the icy soul. C "Tis Thine to cheer us when distressed, To raise us when we fall; To calm the doubting, troubled breast, And aid when sinners call. 'Tis Thine to bring God's sacred Word, And write it on our heart; There its reviving truths record, And there its peace impart. Almighty Spirit! visit thus Our hearts, and guide our ways; Pour down Thy quickening grace on us, And tune our lips to praise. Henry Neele. HENRY NEELE was the son of an engraver in the Strand, London. He was born in 1798. He was brought up to the profession of a solioi- tor. Whilst not neglecting his business, he devoted his leisure hours to literary pursuits. He published a volume of "Poems," The Romance of History,' "Dramatic Scenes," &c. He injured his brain by over-study, and, during a fit of insanity, he put an end to his existence, 7th February, 1828. Born 1798. Died 1828. A AN INFANT'S PRAYER. O THOU! who makest the sun to rise, Beam on my soul, illume mine eyes, And guide me through this world of care; 1 256 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The wandering atom Thou canst see, The falling sparrow's mark'd by Thee, Then, turning mercy's ear to me, Listen! listen! Listen to an infant's prayer! O Thou! whose blood was spilt to save Man's nature from a second grave; To share in whose redeeming care, Want's lowliest child is not too mean, Guilt's darkest victim too unclean, Oh! Thou wilt deign from heaven to lean, And listen! listen! Listen to an infant's prayer. O Thou! who wilt from monarchs part To dwell within the contrite heart, And build Thyself a temple there; O'er all my dull affections move, Fill all my soul with heav'nly love, And, kindly stooping from above, Listen! listen! Listen to an infant's prayer! Born 1798. David Macbeth Moir, M.D. Bied 1851. DAVID MACBETH MOIR was born at Musselburgh, 5th January, 1798. He was educated at the Grammar School of Musselburgh and at Edinburgh University. He entered the medical profession and prac- tised at Musselburgh. At the age of nineteen he published his first poem, and for thirty years, under the name of Delta, contributed to Blackwood's Magazine, &c.. and also published volumes of poetry. He died, universally regretted, for his talents and piety, on the 6th of July, 1851. THE COVENANTERS' NIGHT HYMN. Ho! plaided watcher of the hill, What of the night?-what of the night? The winds are lown, the woods are still, The countless stars are sparkling bright; From out this heathery moorland glen, By the shy wildfowl only trod, We raise our hymn, unheard of men, To Thee, an omnipresent God! Jehovah! though no sign appear, Through earth our aimless path to lead, } DAVID MACBETH MOIR, M.D. 257 We know, we feel Thee ever near, A present help in time of need- Near, as when, pointing out the way For ever in Thy people's sight, A pillared wreath of smoke by day, Which turned to fiery flame at night! Whence came the summons forth to go? From Thee awoke the warning sound! "Out to your tents, O Israel! Lo! The heathen's warfare girds thee round. Sons of the faithful! up-away! The lamb must of the wolf beware; The falcon seeks the dove for prey; The fowler spreads his cunning snare!" Day set in gold; 'twas peace around— 'Twas seeming peace by field and flood: We woke, and on our lintels found The cross of wrath--the mark of blood. Lord! in Thy cause we mocked at fears, We scorned the ungodly's threatening words; Beat out our pruning-hooks to spears, And turned our ploughshares into swords! Degenerate Scotland! days have been Thy soil when only freemen trod- When mountain-crag and valley green Poured forth their loud acclaim to God! The fire which liberty imparts, Sp Refulgent in each patriot eye, And, graven on a nation's hearts, The Word-for which we stand or die! Unholy change! The scorner's chair Is now the seat of those who rule; Tortures, and bonds, and death, the share Of all, except the tyrant's tool. That faith in which our fathers breathed, And had their life, for which they died-- That priceless heirloom they bequeathed Their sons--our impious foes deride! So we have left our homes behind, And we have belted on the sword, And we in solemn league have joined, Yea! covenanted with the Lord, Never to seek those homes again, Never to give the sword its sheath, 258 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Until our rights of faith remain Unfettered as the air we breathe! • O Thou, who rulest above the sky, Begirt about with starry thrones, Cast from the Heaven of heavens Thine eye Down on our wives and little ones; From hallelujahs surging round, Oh! for a moment turn Thine ear, The widow prostrate on the ground, The famished orphan's cries to hear! · And Thou wilt hear! it cannot be That Thou wilt list the raven's brood, When from their nest they scream to Thee, And in due season send them food; It cannot be that Thou wilt weave The lily such superb array, And yet unfed, unsheltered, leave Thy children--as if less than they! We have no hearths-the ashes lie In blackness where they brightly shone; We have no homes--the desert sky Our covering, earth our couch alone: We have no heritage-depriven Of these, we ask not such on earth; Our hearts are sealed-we seek in Heaven For heritage, and home, and hearth! O Salem! city of the saint And holy men made perfect! we Pant for thy gates, our spirits faint Thy glorious golden streets to see— To mark the rapture that inspires The ransomed and redeemed by grace; To listen to the seraphs' lyres, And meet the angels face to face! 1 Father in Heaven! we turn not back, Though briars and thorns choke up the path; Rather the tortures of the rack Than tread the winepress of Thy wrath! Let thunders crash, let torrents shower, Let whirlwinds churn the howling sea, What is the turmoil of an hour, To an eternal calm with Thee! HON. AND REV. B. W. NOEL. 259 } The Hon. and Rev. B. W. Noel. {Bied 1873. BAPTIST WRIOTHESLEY NOEL was born, 10th July, 1799. His father was Sir Gerald Noel, of Exton Court, Rutlandshire, and his mother was Baroness Barham, a Baroness in her own right. Noel gradu- ated at Trinity College, Cambridge. For many years he was min- ister of St. John's Chapel, Bedford Row, London. He quitted the Church of England on account of a difference of opinion about the sacraments. He officiated for many years as a Baptist minister. He published several religious works, travels, hymns, &c., and actively exerted himself in the cause of missionary and other re- ligious societies. He died in January, 1873. THE GOODNESS OF GOD. THERE's not a bird, with lonely nest In pathless wood or mountain crest, Nor meaner thing, which does not share, O God! in Thy paternal care. There's not a being now accurst, Who did not taste Thy goodness first; And every joy the wicked sce Received its origin from Thee. Each barren crag, cach desert rude, Holds Thee within its solitude; And Thou dost bless the wanderer there Who makes his solitary prayer. In busy mart and crowded street, No less than in the still retreat, Thou, Lord, art near, our souls to bless, With all a parent's tenderness! And every moment still doth bring Thy blessings on its loaded wing; Widely they spread through earth and sky, And last to all eternity! Through all creation let Thy name Be echoed with a glad acclaim! That let the grateful Churches sing; With that let heaven for ever ring! And we, where'er our lot is cast, While life, and thought, and feeling last, Through all our years, in every place, Will bless Thee for Thy boundless grace! 260 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Born 1799. Died 1827. Robert Pollok. ROBERT POLLOK was born at Muirhouse, Renfrewshire, in 1799, and was educated for the Church. Before he had attained his twenty- sixth year he wrote a poem entitled "The Course of Time," which was much admired. and remarkably successful, and reached its twenty-first edition in 1857. Pollok's health was injured by his ex- treme application to study, and when on his way to Italy, for the benefit of a southern climate, he died at Southampton, 15th Sep tember, 1827. PRAISE. GOD! Everlasting Father! Holy One! Our God, our Father, our eternal all! Source whence we came, and whither we return; Who made the heaven, who made the flowery land, Thy works all praise Thee; all Thy angels praise; Thy saints adore, and on Thy altars burn The fragrant incense of perpetual love. They praise Thee now: their hearts, their voices praise, And swell the rapture of the glorious song. Harp, lift thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout! And loudest, ye redeemed! glory to God, And to the Lamb, who bought us with His blood, From every kindred, nation, people, tongue; And washed, and sanctified, and saved our souls, And gave us robes of linen pure, and crowns Of life, and made us kings and priests to God. Shout back to ancient time! sing loud, and wave Your palms of triumph! sing, Where is thy sting, O death? Where is thy victory, O grave? Thanks be to God, eternal thanks, who gave Us victory through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Harp, lift thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout! And loudest, ye redeemed! glory to God, And to the Lamb all glory and all praise; All glory and all praise, at morn and even, That come and go eternally; and find Us happy still, and Thee for ever blest. Glory to God, and to the Lamb. Amen. For ever, and for evermore. Amen. THE DYING MOTHER. I Do remember, and will ne'er forget The dying eye! That eye alone was bright, And brighter grew as nearer death approached: ROBERT POLLOK. 261 1 1 ❤ As I have seen the gentle little flower Look fairest in the silver beam which fell Reflected from the thunder-cloud, that soon Came down, and o'er the desert scattered far And wide its loveliness. She made a sign To bring her babe-'twas brought, and by her placed: She looked upon its face, that neither smiled Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon't; and laid Her hand upon its little breast, and sought For it, with look that seemed to penetrate The heavens, unutterable blessings, such As God to dying parents only granted For infants left behind them in the world. ،، God, keep my child!" we heard her say, and heard · No more. The Angel of the Covenant Was come, and faithful to His promise, stood Prepared to walk with her through death's dark vale. And now her eyes grew bright, and brighter still, Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused With many tears, and closed without a cloud. They set, as sets the morning star, which goes Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides Obscured among the tempests of the sky, But melts away into the light of heaven. WISDOM. WISDOM took her harp, and stood in place Of frequent intercourse, stood in every gate, By every way, and walked in every street; And lifting up her voice proclaimed: "Be wise, Ye fools! be of an understanding heart; Forsake the wicked, come not near his house, Pass by, make haste, depart, and turn away. Me follow-me, whose ways are pleasantness, Whose paths are peace, whose end is perfect joy." The seasons came and went, and went and came, To teach men gratitude; and as they passed, Gave warning of the lapse of time, that else Had stolen unheeded by. The gentle flowers Retired, and stooping o'er the wilderness, Talked of humility, and peace, and love; The dews came down unseen at evening-tide, And silently their bounties shed, to teach Mankind unostentatious charity. 262 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. With arm-in-arm the forest rose on high, And lesson gave of brotherly regard, And on the rugged mountain-brow exposed, Bearing the blast alone, the ancient oak Stood, lifting high his mighty arm, and still, To courage in distress, exhorted loud The flocks, the herds, the birds, the streams, the breeze, Attuned the heart to melody and love. Mercy stood in the cloud, with eye that wept Essential love! and from her glorious bow, Bending to kiss the earth in token of peace, With her own lips, her gracious lips, which God Of sweetest accent made, she whispered still, She whispered to Revenge, "Forgive! forgive!" The sun, rejoicing, round the earth announced Daily the wisdom, power, and love of God. The moon awoke, and from her maiden face Shedding her cloudy locks, looked meekly forth, And with her virgin stars walked in the heavens, Walked nightly there, conversing as she walked Of purity, and holiness, and God. 66 In dreams and visions, sleep instructed much. Day uttered speech to day, and night to night Taught knowledge. Silence had a tongue; the grave, The darkness, and the lonely waste, had each A tongue that ever said, Man! think of God! Think of Thyself! think of eternity! Fear God! the thunder said--Fear God! the waves; Fear God! the lightning of the storm replied; Fear God! deep loudly answered back to deep; And in the temples of the Holy One, Messiah's messengers, the faithful few, Faithful 'mong many false, the Bible opened, And cried, Repent! repent! ye sons of men! Born 1799. Died 1859. Bishop Doane. GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE was born in 1799 at Trenton, New Jersey, and educated at Union College, Schenectady. He became minister of Trinity Church, New York, in 1821. He was afterwards Professor of Belles-Lettres and Oratory in Trinity College, Hartford, Connect- icut; and then Rector of Trinity Church in Boston. In 1832 he was consecrated Protestant Bishop of New Jersey. He published a volume entitled "Sermons on Various Occasions," and a volume of Songs by the Way." He died at Burlington, New Jersey, in 1859. BISHOP DOANE. 263 1 FLING OUT THE BANNER, LET IT FLOAT. FLING Out the Banner! let it float Skyward and seaward, high and wide; The sun, that lights its shining folds, The cross, on which the Saviour died. Fling out the Banner! Angels bend In anxious silence o'er the sign, And vainly seek to comprehend The wonder of the love divine. Fling out the Banner! Heathen lands Shall see from far the glorious sight; And nations, crowding to be born, Baptise their spirits in its light. Fling out the Banner! Sin-sick souls, That sink and perish in the strife, Shall touch in faith its radiant hem, And spring immortal into life. Fling out the Banner! let it float, Skyward and seaward, high and wide; Our glory, only in the cross; Our only hope, the Crucified. Fling out the Banner! wide and high, Seaward and skyward, let it shine; Nor skill, nor might, nor merit ours- We conquer only in that sign. THOU ART THE WAY: TO THEE ALONE. THOU art the Way: to Thee alone From sin and death we flee; And he who would the Father seek Must seek Him, Lord, by Thee. Thou art the Truth: Thy word alone True wisdom can impart; Thou only canst inform the mind, And purify the heart. Thou art the Life: the rending tomb Proclaims Thy conquering arm; And those who put their trust in Thee Nor death nor hell shall harm. 264 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Thou art the Way, the Truth, the Life! Grant us that Way to know, That Truth to keep, that Life to win, Whose joys eternal flow! : Canon Stowell. HUGH STOWELL was born at Douglas, Isle of Man, 3rd December, 1799. His father was rector of Ballaugh, near Ramsey. He was educated at Oxford, and became curate at Shapscombe, then at Trinity Church, Huddersfield, and afterwards at Salford. In 1845 he was appointed Canon of Chester, and afterwards Rural Dean of Salford. He was the author of the following works:- "A Model for Men of Business, Tractarianism Tested, Collection of Psalms and Hymns suited to the Services of the Church of England. He died at Salford in the year 1865. 11 "" A THE DAY OF REST. HAIL! hallow'd day of heavenly rest, To man in Eden given; The day which the Creator bless'd- A type and pledge of heaven. When fallen man, forlorn and reft, Was wrapped in sorrow's shroud, This sign of mercy still was left, A rainbow in the cloud. Memorial of blessings fled, 66 It bade the banished mourn; Prophet of good, it likewise said, "Ye banished ones, return." And now a richer light is shed On thee, sweet day of grace; Creation hides her lowly head Before Redemption's face. Let little children hail the day Which breathes of peace and love; Which bids their toils and cares away, And tells of rest above; 1. J Born 1799. Died 1865. Lord, for Thy day we bless Thy name; Thy law has made it sure; "C And love the soothing Sabbath bell, And love the house of prayer: Sweet thoughts and hopes within them swell Whilst they are gathered there. 1 ¡ · 1 CHARLES J. P. SPITTA. It stands from age to age the same, The birthright of the poor. Oh, may these first-fruits of our time, These Sabbath-seasons, be Bright steps up which our souls may climb, Till they are safe with Thee. Edward Churton, D.D. EDWARD CHURTON is the son of the late Ven. Ralph Churton, Arch- deacon of St. David's. He was educated at the Charterhouse and at Oxford. He was appointed rector of Crayke in 1835, and Arch- deacon of Cleveland in 1846. He has written many volumes, both in prose and verse, and is one of the editors of the "English- man's Library.” LORD, MY ROCK, TO THEE I CRY. LORD,, my Rock, to Thee I cry; Hear the voice of my complaining, Lest if Thou my suit deny, Through rebuke of Thy disdaining, I become as those that die! Hear me ere my life be gone, Where I kneel, my heart outpouring, In the place where Thou art known, Where the cherub-forms, adoring, Bend around Thy mercy throne! 265 Lord, on whom my hope relied, When I poured my heart before Thee, Be Thy mercy magnified; Let my grateful songs adore Thee For the help Thy love supplied. Mighty God, my shield in war, Strength in weakness, hope in sadness Great as Thy dear mercies are Is my heart's exulting gladness, Hymning forth Thy praise afar. Born 1800. Charles I. P. Spitta. CHARLES J. P. SPITTA was born at Hanover, 1st August, 1801. He was educated at the University of Gottingen, and in 1828 became assistant pastor at Sudwalde, in Hanover. Je was afterwards minister in the town of Wittingen; and in 1353 he removed to Peine, a town in the county of Hildesheim. In 1859 he removed to L Born 1801. Died 1859. 266 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + Burgdorf, and was appointed rural dean. He died 28th September, 1859. He was the author of numerous hymns, which have been translated by Mr. Richard Massie, and published under the title of "Lyra Domestica." WHAT SHALL WE BE ? WHAT shall we be, and whither shall we go, When the last conflict of our life is o'er, And we return from wandering to and fro To our dear home through heaven's eternal door! When we shake off the last dust from our feet, When we wipe off the last drop from our brow, And our departed friends once more shall greet, The hope which cheers and comforts us below? What shall we be, when we ourselves shall see, Bathed in the flood of everlasting light, And from all guilt and sin entirely free, Stand pure and blameless in our Maker's sight; No longer from His holy presence driven, Conscious of guilt, and stung with inward pain; But friends of God and citizens of heaven, To join the ranks of His celestial train? What shall we be, when we drink in the sound Of heavenly music from the spheres above, When golden harps to listening hosts around Declare the wonders of redeeming love; When, far and wide through the resounding air, Loud hallelujahs from the ransomed rise, And holy incense, sweet with praise and prayer, Is wafted to the Highest through the skies? What shall we be, when the freed soul can rise With unrestrained and bold aspiring flight To Him, who by His wondrous sacrifice Hath opened heaven, and scatter'd sin's dark night; When from the eye of faith the thin veil drops, Like wreaths of mist before the morning's rays, And we behold, the end of all our hopes, The Son of God in full refulgent blaze? What shall we be, when we shall hear Him say: "Come, oh ye blessed;" when we see Him stand, Robed in the light of everlasting day, Before the throne of God, at His right hand; When we behold the eyes from which once flowed Tears o'er the sin and misery of man, 1 LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 237 And the deep wounds from which the precious blood That made atonement for the world once ran? What shall we be, when hand in hand we go With blessed spirits risen from the tomb, Where streams of living water softly flow, And trees still flourish in primeval bloom; Where in perpetual youth no cheek looks old By the sharp tooth of cruel time imprest, Where no bright eye is dimm'd, no heart grows cold No grief, no pain, no death invades the blest? What shall we be, when every glance we cast At the dark valley underneath our feet, And every retrospect of troubles past Makes heaven brighter and her joys more sweet; When the remembrance of our former woe Gives a new relish to our present peace, And draws our heart to Him, to whom we owe Our past deliverance and our present bliss? What shall we be, who have in Christ believed— What, through His grace, will be our sweet reward? Eye hath not seen, ear heard, or heart conceived, What God for those who love Him hath prepared: Let us the steep ascent then boldly climb, Our toil and labour will be well repaid; Let us haste onward, till in God's good time We reap the fruit-a crown that doth not fade. 1902. Letitia Elizabeth Landon. {Bied 1839. LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON was born in Hans Place, Chelsea, in 1802. Her short poems, inserted in the Literary Gazette, were suc- cessful, and continuing to publish poetry, under the signature of "L. E. L.," in periodicals and volumes, she became one of the popular writers of the day. She also produced several prose works. In 1838 she married George Maclean, governor of Cape Coast Castle, where she died suddenly on the 15th of October, 1839. BENARES. CITY of idol temples and of shrines Where folly kneels to falsehood-how the pride Of our humanity is here rebuked! Man, that aspires to rule the very wind, And make the sea confess his majesty; Whose intellect can fill a little scroll With words that are immortal; who can build • 268 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Cities, the mighty and the beautiful; Yet man, this glorious creature, can debase His spirit down to worship wood and stone, And hold the very beasts which bear his yoke And tremble at his eye for sacred things! With what unutterable humility We should bow down, Thou blessed One, to Thee; Seeing our vanity and foolishness, When, to our own devices left, we frame A shameful creed of craft and cruelty. THE ORPHAN'S STAY. ALONE, alone!-no other face Wears kindred smile, or kindred line: And yet they say my mother's eyes, They say my father's brow, is mine; And either had rejoiced to see The other's likeness in my face, But now it is a stranger's eye That finds some long-forgotten trace. I heard them name my father's death, His home and tomb alike the wave; And I was early taught to weep Beside my youthful mother's grave. I wish I couldrecall one look— But only one familiar tone; If I had ought of memory, I should not feel so all alone. My heart is gone beyond the grave, In search of love I cannot find, Till I could fancy soothing words Are whispered by the evening wind: I gaze upon the watching stars, So clear, so beautiful above, Till I could dream they look on me With something of an answering love. My mother, does thy gentle eye Look from those distant stars on me? Or does the wind at evening bear A message to thy child from thee? Dost thou pine for me, as I pine Again a parent's love to share? L * 1 VICTOR HUGO. 269 I often kneel beside thy grave, And pray to be a sleeper there. The vesper bell!-'tis eventide, I will not weep, but I will pray: God of the fatherless, 'tis Thou Alone can be the orphan's stay! Earth's meanest flower, heaven's mightiest star, "" Are equal to their Maker's love: And I can say "Thy will be done, With eyes that fix their hopes above. Victor Hugo. VICTOR MARIE HUGO, the son of a colonel in the French army, was born at Besançon in 1802. At a very early age he showed a talent for poetry, and was a distinguished prize-taker at the Academy des Jeux Floraux. In 1822 a volume of "Odes and Ballads," written by him, was published; and some years after, a collection of poems entitled, "Les Orientales." Victor Hugo is also the author of many dramatic pieces and romances. In 1845 Louis Philippe created him a peer of France. His work, in 1862, "Les Miserables," still farther augmented his fame. THE PRAYER FOR ALL. To prayer, my child! and, oh! be thy first prayer For her who many nights, with anxious care, Rock'd thy first cradle; who took thy infant soul From heaven, and gave it to the world; then, rife With love, still drank herself the gall of life, And left for thy young lips the honied bowl. And then I need it more—then pray for me: For she is gentle, artless, true like thee; She has a guileless heart, brow placid, still: Pity she has for all, envy for none; Gentle and wise, she patiently lives on, And ill endures, nor knows who does the ill. She knows not, nor mayest thou, the miseries In which our spirits mingle; vanities, Born 1802. Remorse, soul-gnawing cares, pleasure's false show; Passions which float upon the heart like foam, Bitter remembrances which o'er us come, And shame's red spot spread sudden o'er the brow. I know life better; when thou'rt older grown I'll tell thee; it is needful to be known- Of the pursuit of wealth, art, power; the cost— 270 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. That it is folly-nothingness; that shame For glory is oft thrown us in the game Of Fortune's chances where the soul is lost. The soul will change: although of everything The cause and end be clear, yet wildering We go through life (of vice and error full), We wander as we go; we feel the load Of doubt, and to the briers upon the road Man leaves his virtue as a sheep its wool. Then go, pray for me!-and as the prayer Gushes in words, be this the form they bear: "Lord! Lord our Father! God, my prayer attend; Pardon! Thou art good. Pardon, Thou art great!" Let words go freely forth, fear not their fate, Where thy soul sends them, thitherward they tend. Born 1802. John Hampden Gurney. {Bied 1862. JOHN HAMPDEN GURNEY was born in London, 15th August, 1802. He was the son of Sir John Gurney, one of the Barons of the Exchequer. He was educated at Cambridge, and became curate at Lutterworth in 1827. In 1847 he was appointed rector of St. Mary's, Marylebone. Fe wrote numerous lectures and sermons, historical works and hymns. He died in London, 8th March, 1862. THE HARVEST. LORD of the harvest! Thee we hail; Thine ancient promise doth not fail; The varying seasons haste their round, With goodness all our years are crowned. Our thanks we pay This holy day; Oh, let our hearts in tune be found! If spring doth wake the song of mirth; If summer warms the fruitful earth; When-winter sweeps the naked plain, Or autumn yields its ripened grain, Still do we sing To Thee, our King; Through all their changes Thou dost reign. But chiefly when Thy liberal hand Scatters new plenty o'er the land; 1 ! 1 JOHN BURTON. 271 When sounds of music fill the air, As homeward all their treasures bear, We, too, will raise Our hymn of praise, For we Thy common bounties share. Lord of the harvest! all is Thine! The rains that fall, the suns that shine, The seed once hidden in the ground, The skill that makes our fruits abound. New, every year, Thy gifts appear; New praises from our lips shall sound. John Burton. Born 1803. He JOHN BURTON was born at Stratford, in Essex, 23rd July, 1803. carried on business as a cooper, but during his leisure hours he wrote many valuable works, some of which appeared, both in poetry and prose, in various magazines, and also in several separate vol- umes, published both in America and in England. O THOU THAT HEAREST PRAYER. O THOU that hearest prayer, Attend our humble cry, And let Thy servants share Thy blessing from on high! We plead the promise of Thy Word; Grant us Thy Holy Spirit, Lord. If earthly parents hear Their children when they cry; If they, with love sincere, Their children's wants supply, Much more wilt Thou Thy love display, And answer when Thy children pray. Our heavenly Father Thou; We, children of Thy grace: Oh, let Thy Spirit now Descend and fill the place, That all may feel the heavenly flame, And all unite to praise Thy name. Oh, may that sacred fire, Descending from above, 272 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. } Our frozen hearts inspire With fervent zeal and love! Enlighten our beclouded eyes, And teach our grovelling souls to rise. And send Thy Spirit down On all the nations, Lord, With great success to crown The preaching of Thy Word; That heathen lands may own Thy sway, And cast their idol-gods away. Then shall Thy kingdom come Among our fallen race, And the whole earth become The temple of Thy grace, Whence pure devotion shall ascend, And songs of praise till time shall end. Benjamin H. Kennedy, D.D. Born 1804. BENJAMIN HALL KENNEDY was born near Birmingham, in 1804. He was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge, where he distin- guished himself as an eminent scholar; and in 1828 was made Fel- low and Classical Lecturer of that college. His "Psalter in English Verse, by a Member of the University of Cambridge," was published in 1860. In 1867 he was appointed Regius Professor of Greek at Cambridge. ZION, AT THY SHINING GATES. ZION, at thy shining gates, Lo, the King of Glory waits! Haste, thy Monarch's pomp to greet, Strew thy palms before His feet. Christ, for Thee their triple light Faith, and Hope, and Love unite; This the beacon we display To proclaim Thine Advent day. Come, and give us peace within; Loose us from the bands of sin; Take away the galling weight Laid on us by Satan's hate. Give us grace Thy yoke to wear; Give us strength Thy cross to bear; Make us Thine in deed and word, Thine in heart and life, O Lord! f BENJAMIN H. KENNEDY, D.D. 273 Kill in us the carnal root, That the Spirit may bear fruit; Plant in us Thy lowly mind; Keep us faithful, loving, kind. L* So, when Thou shalt come again, Judge of angels and of men, We, with all Thy saints, shall sing Hallelujahs to our King. ASK YE WHAT GREAT THING I KNOW? Ask ye what great thing I know, That delights and stirs me so? What the high reward I win? Whose the name I glory in? Jesus Christ, the Crucified. What is faith's foundation strong? What awakes my lips to song? He who bore my sinful load, Purchased for me peace with God, Jesus Christ, the Crucified. Who is He that makes me wise To discern where duty lies? Who is He that makes me true, Duty, when discerned, to do? Jesus Christ, the Crucified. Who defeats my fiercest foes? Who consoles my saddest wóes? Who revives my fainting heart, Healing all its hidden smart? Jesus Christ, the Crucified. Who is Life in life to me? Who the death of death will be? Who will place me on His right, With the countless hosts of light? Jesus Christ, the Crucified. This is that great thing I know; This delights and stirs me so: Faith in Him who died to save, Him who triumphed o'er the grave- Jesus Christ, the Crucified. 1 ; 274 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Arthur Tozer Russell. ARTHUR TOZER RUSSELL was born at Northampton, 20th March, 1805. He was educated at Merchant Taylors' School, London, and after- wards at Cambridge. He was ordained deacon in 1829, and after various removals, he was appointed in 1867 to be the minister of Holy Trinity Church, Wrockwardine Wood, Wellington, Salop. He has written numerous works both in prose and poetry, and has translated many hymns from German into English. THE SON OF MAN. O'ER the dark wave of Galilee The gloom of twilight gathers fast; And on the waters drearily Descends the fitful evening blast. Born 1806. The weary bird hath left the air, And sunk into his shelter'd nest; The wandering beast has sought his lair, And laid him down to welcome rest. Still near the lake, with weary tread, Lingers a form of human kind; And on His lone unshelter'd head, Blows the chill night-damp of the wind. Why seeks He not a home of rest? Why seeks He not a pillow'd bed? Beasts have their dens, the bird its nest; He hath not where to lay His head. Such was the lot Christ freely chose, To bless, to save the human race; And through His poverty there flows A rich full stream of heavenly grace. Lady Flora Hastings. LADY FLORA HASTINGS was born in 1806. She was the daughter of the Marquis of Hastings. She was appointed lady of the bed-cham- ber to the Duchess of Kent. She wrote many beautiful poems. She died at Buckingham Palace, 5th July, 1839. ON THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS. As the fair flower which shuns the golden day, And blooms amidst the shades of silent night, Spreads her pale petals to the lunar ray, And hails with balmy breath the silver light: Born 1806. Died 1839. ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. 275 ! So virtue shuns the world's applause and gaze, In secret sheds her balmy sweets abroad, Nor seeks the voice of fame, nor glory's blaze, But blooms and blossoms to the praise of God! THE RAINBOW. SOFT glowing in uncertain birth, 'Twixt nature's smiles and tears, The bow, O Lord, which Thou hast bent, Bright in the clouds appears; The portal of Thy dwelling-place That pure arch seems to be, And, as I bless its mystic light, My spirit turns to Thee. Thus, gleaming o'er a guilty worid, We hail the ray of love; Thus dawns upon the contrite soul Thy mercy from above; And as Thy faithful promise speaks Repentant sin forgiven, In humble hope we bless the beam That points the way to heaven. Archbishop Trench. Born 1807. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH was born in Hampshire in 1807. In 1829 he graduated at Cambridge. Whilst he was the minister of Cur- dridge Chapel, he published two volumes of poetry, afterwards fol- lowed by other volumes containing various styles of sacred poetry. He also published several prose works-"The Parables,” “ English Past and Present," &c. After several preferments, he was appointed Dean of Westminster in 1856, and lastly Archbishop of Dublin in 1864 A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD. WE walked within the churchyard bounds, My little boy and I: He laughing, running happy rounds, I pacing mournfully. "Nay, child, it is not well," I said, "Among the graves to shout, To laugh and play among the dead, And make this noisy rout." 1 276 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. A moment to my side he clung, Leaving his merry play; A moment stilled his joyous tongue, Almost as hushed as they. Then quick, forgetting the command In life's exulting burst Of early glee, let go my hand, Joyous as at the first. And now I did not check him more; For, taught by nature's face, I had grown wiser than before, Even in that moment's space.. She spread no funeral pall above That patch of churchyard ground, But the same azure vault of love As hung o'er all around. And white clouds o'er that spot would pass As freely as elsewhere: The sunshine on no other grass A richer hue might wear. And formed from out that very mould In which the dead did lie, The daisy with the eye of gold, Looked up into the sky. The rook was wheeling overhead, Nor hastened to be gone; The small bird did its glad notes shed, Perched on a grey headstone. And God, I said, would never give This light upon the earth, Nor bid in childhood's heart to live Those springs of gushing mirth, If our one wisdom were to mourn And linger with the dead, To nurse as wisest thoughts forlorn Of worm and earthy bed. Oh no! the glory earth puts on, The child's unchecked delight, Both witness to a triumph won (If we but judged aright). ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. 277 1 1 A triumph won o'er sin and death, From these the Saviour saves; And, like a happy infant, Faith Can play among the graves. PRAYER. 1. WHEN prayer delights thee least, then learn to say, Soul, now is greatest need that thou should'st pray. II. Crooked and warped I am, and I would fain Straighten myself by thy right line again. III. Oh come, warm sun, and ripen my latė fruits; Pierce, genial showers, down to my parched roots. IV. My well is bitter; cast therein the tree, That sweet henceforth its brackish waves may be. V. Say what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed? The mighty utterance of a mighty need. VI. The man is praying, who doth press with might Out of his darkness into God's own light. VII. White heat, the iron in the furnace won, Withdrawn from thence, 'twas cold and hard anon. VIII. Flowers from their stalks divided, presently Droop, fail, and wither in the gazer's eye. IX. The greenest leaf divided from its stem, To speedy withering doth itself condemn. X. The largest river from its fountain head Cut off, leaves soon a parched and dusty bed. 1 1 278 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. XI. All things that live from God their sustenance wait, And sun and moon are beggars at His gate. XII. All skirts extended of thy mantle hold, When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold. PARADISE. I. Он! Paradise must show more fair Than any earthly ground, And therefore longs my spirit there Right quickly to be found. II. In Paradise a stream must flow Of everlasting love: Each tear of longing shed below Therein a pearl will prove. III. In Paradise a breath of balm All anguish must allay, Till every anguish growing calm, Even mine shall flee away. IV. And there the tree of stillest peace In verdant spaces grows: Beneath it one can never cease To dream of blest repose. V. A cherub at the gate must be, Far off the world to fray, That its rude noises reach not me, To fright my dream away. VI. My heart, that weary ship, at last Safe haven there will gain, And on the breast will slumber fast The wakeful infant, Pain. 1 ARCHBISHOP TRENCH. 279 VII. For every thorn that pierced me here The rose will there be found; With joy, earth's roses brought not near, My head will there be crowned. VIII. There all delights will blossom forth, That here in bud expire, And from all mourning weeds of earth Be wove a bright attire. IX. All here I sought in vain pursuit Will freely meet me there, As from green branches golden fruit, Fair flowers from garden fair. X. My youth, that by me swept amain, On swift wing borne away, And Love that suffered me to drain Its nectar for a day— XI. These, never wishing to depart, Will me for ever bless, Their darling fold unto the heart, And comfort and caress. XII. And there the Loveliness, whose glance From far did on me gleam, But whose unveilèd countenance Was only seen in dream, XIII. Will, meeting all my soul's desires, Unveil itself to me, When to the choir of starry lyres Shall mine united be. 280 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Born Thomas Rawson Taylor. {Bied 1835. THOMAS RAWSON TAYLOR was born near Wakefield, 9th May, 1807. His father was a Congregational minister. He was apprenticed to a printer in Nottingham, but afterwards resolved to prepare for the ministry. In July, 1830, he became minister of Howard Street Chapel, Sheffield. He died 7th March, 1835. • I'M BUT A STRANGER HERE. I'm but a stranger here, Heaven is my home; Earth is a desert drear, Heaven is my home; Danger and sorrow stand Round me on every hand; Heaven is my Father-land, Heaven is my home. What though the tempests rage? Heaven is my home; Short is my pilgrimage, Heaven is my home: And time's wild wintry blast Soon will be overpast; I shall reach home at last, Heaven is my home. There, at my Saviour's side, Heaven is my home, I shall be glorified, Heaven is my home: There are the good and blest, Those I loved most and best; And there I too shall rest, Heaven is my home. Therefore I murmur not, Heaven is my home, Whate'er my earthly lot, Heaven is my home; And I shall surely stand There, at my Lord's right hand; Heaven is my Father-land, Heaven is my home. i CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH. 281 Christopher Wordsworth. Born 1807. CHRISTOPHER WORDSWORTH, nephew of the poet Wordsworth, was born in 1807, and educated at Winchester and at Cambridge. In 1836 he became head-master of Harrow School, and in 1844 Canon of Westminster Abbey. He has written many volumes, both in prose and poetry. In 1865 he was made Archdeacon of Westminster, and in 1869 Bishop of Lincoln. THE DAY OF REST. O DAY of rest and gladness! O day of joy and light! O balm of care and sadness, Most beautiful, most bright! On thee the high and lowly Through ages, joined in tune, Sing, Holy, holy, holy, To the great God Triune! On thee at the creation The light first had its birth; On thee, for our salvation, Christ rose from depths of earth; On thee our Lord, victorious, The Spirit sent from heaven; And thus on thee, most glorious, A triple light was given. Thou art a holy ladder, Where angels go and come; Each Sunday finds us gladder, Near to heaven, our home. A day of sweet reflection, Thou art a day of love, A day of resurrection From earth to things above. To-day on weary nations The heavenly manna falls; To holy convocations The silver trumpet calls, Where gospel light is glowing With pure and radiant beams, And living waters flowing With soul-refreshing streams. + 282 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. New graces ever gaining From this, our day of rest, We reach the rest remaining To spirits of the blest. To Holy Ghost be praises, To Father, and to Son; The Church her voice upraises To Thee, blest Three in One. Robert Montgomery. 66 ROBERT MONTGOMERY was born at Bath in 1807. Owing to losses, his father's circumstances were narrow, and he obtained a University education at Lincoln College, Oxford, by the profits arising from some religious poems-"The Omnipresence of the Deity," in 1828, Satan," in 1829, and other poems. He was designed at first for the legal profession, but the reading of religious works led him to pre- fer the ministry. In 1831 he became curate of Whittington, Shrop- shire. In 1836 he was appointed to be the minister of Percy Street Episcopal Chapel, Fitzroy Square, London, thence he went to Glas- gow to be pastor of St. Jude's Church; but returned in 1843 to Percy Street Chapel. He continued to publish several poems-"The Mes- siah," "Luther," &c. He died in 1855. Born 1807. Died 1855, THE WIDOW'S MITE. AMID the pompous crowd Of rich adorers, came a humble form: A widow, meek as poverty doth make Her children! with a look of sad content, Her mite within the treasure-heap she cast; Then timidly, as bashful twilight, stole From out the temple. But her lowly gift Was witnessed by an Eye, whose mercy views, In motive, all that consecrates a deed To goodness: so He blessed the Widow's Mite Beyond the gifts abounding wealth bestowed. Thus is it, Lord! with Thee: the heart is thine, And all the world of hidden action there Works in Thy sight, like waves beneath the sun, Conspicuous! and a thousand nameless acts That lurk in lovely secrecy, and die Unnoticed, like the trodden flowers which fall Beneath a proud man's foot; to Thee are known, And written with a sunbeam in the Book Of Life, where Mercy fills the brightest page! KAN ROBERT MONTGOMERY. 283 O GOD UNSEEN, BUT NOT UNKNOWN. O GOD unseen, but not unknown, Thine eye is ever fixed on me; I dwell beneath Thy sacred throne, Encompassed by Thy deity. Throughout this universe of space To nothing am I long allied, For flight of time and change of place My strongest, dearest bonds divide. Parents I had, but where are they? Friends whom I knew, I know no more; Companions once that cheered my way Have dropt behind, or gone before. Now I am one amidst the crowd Of life and action hurrying round; Now left alone-for like a cloud They came, they went, and are not found. Even from myself sometimes I part, Unconscious sleep is nightly death; Yet surely by my bed Thou art, To prompt my pulse, inspire my breath. Of all that I have done or said, How little can I now recall! Forgotten things to me are dead, With Thee they live, Thou know'st them all. Thou hast been with me from the womb, Witness to every conflict here; Nor wilt Thou leave me at the tomb, Before Thy bar I must appear. The moment comes, when strength must fail, When, health, and hope, and comfort flown, I must go down into the vale And shade of death with Thee alone. Alone with Thee: in that dread strife Uphold me through mine agony, And gently be this dying life Exchanged for immortality. Then when the unbodied spirit lands Where flesh and blood have never trod, And in the unveiled presence stands Of Thee, my Saviour, and my God; 284 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Be mine eternal portion this, Since Thou wert always here with me, That I may view Thy face in bliss, And be for evermore with Thee. The Hon. Mrs. Norton. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN was born in 1808. She is the granddaughter of the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan. When very young she lost her father, but the loss was supplied by her estimable mother, who devoted herself to her children, and personally conducted their education, as every mother ought to do who has capacity for the task. At the age of nineteen she married the Hon. George C. Norton, brother of Lord Grantley. She was most unfortunate in her choice, and in 1836 a separation took place by mutual consent. Her afflictions very probably enhanced the depth of her poetry, which is also remarkable for its strength of feeling. Born 1808. GOD'S ANGELS. WHEN a slave's child lay dying, parched with thirst, Till o'er the arid waste a fountain burst: When Abraham's mournful hand upheld the knife To smite the silver cord of Isaac's life; When faithful Peter in his prison slept; When lions to the feet of Daniel crept; When the tried three walked through the furnace glare, Believing God was with them even there; When to Bethesda's sunrise-smitten wave + Poor trembling cripples crawled, their limbs to lave; In all the various forms of human trial, Brimming that cup, filled from a bitter vial, Which e'en the suffering Christ, with fainting cry, Under God's will, had shudderingly past by— To hunger, pain, and thirst, and human dread, Imprisonment, sharp sorrow for the dead, Deformed contractions, burdensome disease, Humbling and fleshly ills; to all of these The shining messengers of comfort came, God's angels, healing in God's holy name. And when the crowning pity sent to earth The Man of Sorrows, in mysterious birth, And the angelic tones with one accord Made loving chorus to proclaim the Lord, Was Isaac's guardian there, and he who gave Hagar the sight of that cool gushing wave? Did the defender of the youthful three, REV. HORATIUS BONAR, D.D. 285 And Peter's usher, join that psalmody; With him who at the dawn made healing sure, Troubling the waters with a fresh'ning cure, And those, the elect, to whom the task was given To offer solace to the Son of Heaven, When-mortal tremors by the Immortal felt- Pale, 'neath the Syrian olives Jesus knelt Alone, 'midst sleeping followers, warned in vain, Alone with God's compassion and His pain! * * * * * All that our wisdom knows, or ever can, Is this, that God hath pity upon man; And where His Spirit shines in holy writ, The great word Comforter comes after it. Rev. Horatius Bonar, D.D. Born 1808. HORATIUS BONAR was born in Edinburgh in 1808. He was educated &t the High School, and afterwards at the University. He became minister of Kelso in 1837, where he remained till 1861, when he was called to Edinburgh. He has published numerous poetical works. CHRIST IS ALL. O EVERLASTING Light! Giver of dawn and day, Dispeller of the ancient night In which creation lay! O Everlasting Light! Shine graciously within! Brightest of all on earth that's bright, Come, shine away my sin! O Everlasting Rock! Sole refuge in distress, My fort when foes assail and mock, My rest in weariness! O Everlasting Fount! From which the waters burst, The streams of the eternal mount, That quench time's sorest thirst! O Everlasting Health! From which all healing springs; My bliss, my treasure, and my wealth, To Thee my spirit clings! 1 Į 286 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. O Everlasting Truth! Truest of all that's true; Sure Guide of erring age and youth, Lead me and teach me too! O Everlasting Strength! Uphold me in the way; Bring me in spite of foes at length To joy, and light, and day! O Everlasting Love! Wellspring of grace and peace, Pour down Thy fulness from above, Bid doubt and trouble cease. O Everlasting Rest! Lift off life's load of care Relieve, revive this burdened breast, And every sorrow bear. Thou art in heaven our all! Our all on earth art Thou; Upon Thy glorious name we cal Lord Jesus, bless us now! HE LIVETH LONG WHO LIVETH WELL. HE liveth long who liveth well! All other life is short and vain, He liveth longest who can tell Of living most for heavenly gain. He liveth long who liveth well! All else is being flung away; He liveth longest who can tell Of true things truly done each day. Waste not thy being; back to Him Who freely gave it, freely give, Else is that being but a dream, 'Tis but to be, and not to live. : Be wise, and use thy wisdom well; Who wisdom speaks must live it too; He is the wisest who can tell How first he lived, then spoke, the true. REV. HORATIUS BONAR, D.D. 287 Be what thou seemest; live thy creed; Hold up to earth the torch divine; Be what thou prayest to be made; Let the great Master's steps be thine. Fill up each hour with what will last; Buy up the moments as they go; The life above, when this is past, Is the ripe fruit of life below. Sow truth if thou the true wouldst reap; Who sows the false shall reap the vain. Erect and sound thy conscience keep; From hollow words and deeds refrain. Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright: Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And find a harvest-home of light. 1 : HEAR MY CRY. O STRONG to save and bless! My rock and righteousness, Draw near to me. Blessing, and joy, and might, Wisdom, and love, and light, Are all with Thee! My refuge and my rest! As child on mother's breast, I lean on Thee. From faintness, and from fear, When foes and ill are near, Deliver me! Turn not away Thy face, Withhold not needed grace, My fortress be! Perils are round and round, Iniquities abound, See, Saviour, see! Come, God and Saviour, come! I can no more be dumb; Appeal I must 1 288 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + To Thee, the gracious one, Else is my hope all gone, I sink in dust! Oh, answer me, my God! Thy love is deep and broad, Thy grace is true! Thousands this grace have shared, Oh, let me now be heard! Oh, love me too! Descend, thou Mighty Love! Descend from heaven above, Fill Thou this soul! Heal every bruised part, Bind up this broken heart, And make me whole! 'Tis knowing Thee that heals: "Tis seeing Thee that seals Comfort and peace. Show me Thy cross and blood, My Saviour and my God! Then troubles cease. I LAY MY SINS ON JESUS. I LAY my sins on Jesus, The spotless Lamb of God; He bears them all, and frees us From the accursed load. I bring my guilt to Jesus, To wash my crimson stains, White in His blood most precious, Till not a spot remains. I lay my wants on Jesus; All fulness dwells in Him: He heals all my diseases, He doth my soul redeem. I lay my griefs on Jesus, My burdens and my cares; He from them all releases, He all my sorrow shares. I rest my soul on Jesus, This weary soul of mine; REV. HORATIUS BONAR, D.D. *289 1 M His right hand me embraces, I on His breast recline. I love the name of Jesus, Immanuel, Christ, the Lord; Like fragrance on the breezes, His name abroad is poured. I long to be like Jesus, Meek, loving, lowly, mild; I long to be like Jesus, The Father's holy child. I long to be with Jesus, Amid the heavenly throng, To sing with saints His praises, To learn the angels' song. 1 JESUS, STILL THE STORM. JESUS, still the storm! Only Thou hast power, In this troubled hour, To bid our tremblings cease, And give our spirits peace. Jesus, still the storm! Speak the potent word, "Peace, be still!" and then Calm returns again; Each billow hides its crest, And lays itself to rest. Speak the potent word! Jesus, love us still! O! love on, love on, As Thou hast ever done; Oh! love us to the end, Our one unchanging Friend. Jesus, love us still! Jesus, bless us still! Bless us on and on, Till our heaven be won; Oh! bless us evermore, On Thine own blessed shore. Jesus, bless us still! } I 290 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. • CONFESSION. No; not despairingly Come I to Thee! No; not distrustingly Bend I the knee! Sin hath gone over me, Yet is this still my plea, Jesus hath died. Ah! mine iniquity Crimson hath been; Infinite, infinite, Sin upon sin;- Sin of not loving Thee, Sin of not trusting Thee- Infinite sin. Lord, I confess to Thee, Sadly, my sin; All I am, tell I Thee; All I have been; Purge Thou my sin away, Wash Thou my soul this day, Lord, make me clean! Faithful and just art Thou, Forgiving all; Loving and kind art Thou When poor ones call; Lord, let the cleansing blood, Blood of the Lamb of God, Pass o'er my soul! Then all is peace and light This soul within; Thus shall I walk with Thee, The loved unseen; Leaning on Thee, my God, Guided along the road, Nothing between! PRESSING ON. ONWARD we press in haste, Upward our journey still, Ours is the path the Master trod, REV. W. L. ALEXANDER, D.D. 291 Through good report and ill. Hallelujah! There remains a rest for us! The way may rougher grow, The weariness increase; We gird our loins and hasten on: The end, the end is peace! Hallelujah! There remains a rest for us! Rev. W. L. Alexander, D.D. Born 1808. WILLIAM LINDSAY ALEXANDER, D.D, was born in Leith, 24th Au- gust, 1808, and educated principally at the University of Edinburgh. He studied for the Church, and became minister of Newington Chapel, Liverpool, and afterwards of Augustine Church, Edinburgh. In 1853 he was appointed Professor of Theology and Church History in the Theological Hall of the Congregational Churches of Scotland. Dr. Alexander has written many works which entitle him to a very high rank among living writers, both of prose and poetry. His hymns have appeared in various collections. FROM DISTANT CORNERS OF OUR LAND. FROM distant corners of our land, Behold us, Lord, before Thee stand, Once more prepared to Thee to raise Our humble prayer, our grateful praise. Blest be the hand whose guardian power Has kept us to this present hour; Blest be the grace that bids us meet Thus round the throne, in union sweet. We meet to seek, in faith and zeal, The brethren's good, the Church's weal; Oh, whilst for Zion's cause we stand, May Zion's King be near at hand! We meet, O God, that through our land, The churches planted by Thy hand, From error, weakness, discord free, May bloom like gardens blest by Thee. Smile on us, Lord, and through this place Diffuse the glory of Thy face; Here to our gathered tribes be given A brightening antepast of heaven. 292 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Alfred Tennyson, D.C.L. Born 1809. (POET LAUREATE.) ALFRED TENNYSON, the son of the Rev. George Tennyson, was born at Somerby, Lincolnshire, in 1809. He completed his education at Trinity College, Cambridge, and his poem entitled "Timbuctoo " gained the Chancellor's medal. A volume of his poetry was un- favourably criticised by Professor Wilson in Blackwood's Magazine; and it was not until some time afterwards that the poet published another volume, which obtained greater success. Other works fol- lowed, and he soon became the most popular poet of the period. In 1850 he was appointed poet-laureate, with a pension, in addition, of £200 a-year. In 1855 the University of Oxford conferred on him the degree of D.C.L. THE FOOLISH VIRGINS. LATE! late! so late! and dark the night and chill. Late! late! so late! but we can enter still. Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now." No light had we; for that we do repent; And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent. "Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now." No light, so late! and dark and chill the night; Oh, let us in, that we may find the light! "Too late! too late! ye cannot enter now. Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet? Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet! "No, no; too late! ye cannot enter now." EVE OF ST. AGNES. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies. : "" } ALFRED TENNYSON, D.C.L. As these white robes are soiled and dark, To yonder shining ground, As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round: So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in my earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strews her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll'd back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide- A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom with his bride! RING OUT, WILD BELLS. RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night- Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new- Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, parer laws. 293 3-30 294 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS.. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite: Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land- Ring in the Christ that is to be. M Born Elizabeth Barrett Browning. {Bied 1961. ELIZABETH BARRETT was born in London in 1809, but passed a part of her youth near the Malvern Hills, in Herefordshire. She began to write at an early age. In 1826 she published her poem, "Essay on Mind." Whilst residing at Torquay for her health, she had the misfortune to behold the death by drowning of a brother, which threw a shadow on her after life. After this she went to London, and published several poems, some of which met with great success. In 1849 she married Robert Browning, the poet, after which they went to Italy, where she died, 29th June, 1861. COMFORT. SPEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet, From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so, Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet! And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber while I go In reach of Thy divinest voice complete In humanest affliction, thus in sooth To lose the sense of losing. As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth, Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, He sleeps the faster that he wept before. PROFESSOR BLACKIE. 295 FAITH. Down God's ways, With just alighted feet between the snow And snowdrops, where a little lamb may graze, Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about the road, Albeit in our vain-glory we assume That, less than we have, thou hast learnt of God. Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet!-thou, to whom The earliest world-day light that ever flowed, Through Casa Guidi windows, chanced to come! Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy hair, And be God's witness;-that the elemental New springs of life are gushing everywhere, To cleanse the water courses, and prevent all Concrete obstructions which infest the air! That earth's alive, and gentle or ungentle Motions within her, signify but growth: The ground swells greenest o'er the labouring moles. Howe'er the uneasy world is vexed and wroth, Young children, lifted high on parent souls, Look round them with a smile upon the mouth, And take for music every bell that tolls. Professor Blackie. JOHN STUART BLACKIE was born at Glasgow in July, 1809. He is the son of Alexander Blackie, Esq., a banker in Aberdeen. He was ed- ucated at Aberdeen and in Edinburgh, and afterwards resided in Germany and Italy. In 1834 he was called to the bar; in 1841 he was appointed Professor of Latin Literature in Marischal College, Aber- deen; and in 1850 he was made Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh. PSALM CXLVIII. ANGELS holy, High and lowly, Sing the praises of the Lord! Earth and sky, all living nature, Man, the stamp of thy Creator, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord! Born 1809. Sun and moon bright, Night and moonlight, Starry temples, azure-floored, Cloud and rain, and wild winds' madness, M ? 296 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. : Sons of God that shout for gladness, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord! Ocean hoary, Tell His glory, Cliffs, where tumbling seas have roared! Pulse of waters, blithely beating, Wave advancing, wave retreating, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord! Rock and high land, Wood and island, Crag, where eagle's pride hath soared, Mighty mountains, purple-breasted, Peaks cloud-cleaving, snowy-crested, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord! Rolling river, Praise Him ever, From the mountain's deep vein poured, Silver fountain, clearly gushing, Troubled torrent, wildly rushing, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord! Youth, whose morning Smiles at warning, Age in counsel deeply stored; Maids and boys, in chorus blending, Let your anthem song, ascending, Praise high heaven's eternal Lord! Bond and free man, Land and sea man, Earth, with peoples widely stored, Wanderer lone o'er prairies ample, Full-voiced choir, in costly temple, Praise ye, praise ye, God the Lord! Praise Him ever, Bounteous Giver; Praise Him, Father, Friend, and Lord! Each glad soul, its free course winging, Each glad voice, its free song singing, Praise the great and mighty Lord! -3 of ** MONTAGUE STANLEY. 297 I Montague Stanley. MONTAGUE STANLEY was born at Dundee, 5th January, 1809, and was taken to New York by his parents when fourteen months old. His father, a seafaring man, died when Montague was three years of age. He returned to Great Britain with his inother in 1819, and then became an actor at York. He acted at Edinburgh, London, and Dublin with success, and in 1833 married Miss Eyre in Edinburgh. Letters from a pious friend in India, a member of his wife's family, made a deep impression on Stanley's mind, and, under the blessing of God, were made the means of his conversion. In 1838. from conscientious motives, he left the stage, and became a teacher of elocution and drawing. He was a successful artist. He went to Ascog, in Bute, for his health, where he died, 4th May, 1844. THE HOUR OF PRAYER. Go! 'tis the hour of prayer; Night bindeth up her raven hair, The diadem from her dark brow, With gems begirt, she lifteth now! One star she leaves to herald in the sun, Then, in the shadowy twilight dun, She flies his beams before: Go! 'tis the hour of prayer. Lose not the hour of prayer; Through all the heated, quivering air, The sun pours living light, And noontide blazeth bright; Shake off the chains that indolence would wreathe, Thy fervent, heartfelt, aspirations breathe; Pour forth thy soul to God: Now 'tis the hour of prayer. The hour of prayer is come, The sun hath journeyed home; Labour is o'er, and sweet repose Soon will thy wearied eyelids close; Hold off its soft oblivion for a while, Born 1809. Died 1844. Till thou hast sought thy heavenly Father's smile; Thy Saviour's peace received: Haste, 'tis the hour of prayer. PART II. Another Golden hour of prayer; Thy couch hath found thee wakeful there; Around, dark midnight reigns o'er all, And slumber weaves her wondrous thrall; M* & 298 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Silence herself seems stilled to deeper rest, Thou hear'st thy swelling bosom's throbbing guest In the dread hush around: An hour for deepest prayer. No eye, but His, to mark the strife, The wrestling agony for life; The Spirit! stirring mouldering bones! With tears and agonising groans, In intercession strong for thee; Urging each promise, and almighty plea- Christ's poured out soul and blood- Till God shall grant thy prayer. WHO WAS IT MADE THY TINY LIGHT? (The first verse of the following_beautifully simple lines, it is well known, is not by Mr. Stanley. He was so much delighted with it that, being unable to procure the remaining verses, he composed those now given for his little boy to sing.) “TWINKLE, twinkle, little star, How I wonder what you are; Up above the world so high, Like a diamond in the sky." Who was it made thy tiny light, Sparkling in the darkest night- Whose hand doth hold thee up so far, When thou twinklest, little star? 'Twas God who made thee shine so bright, The God who gave me life and light, And though you're beautiful, bright star, Yet God doth love me, better far. For Jesus spake the word, and thou Didst shine at first as thou dost now; But, oh! that Jesus died for me, And thus God loves me more than thee. And though thou lookest bright and free, Thou wilt wax old, and changed shalt be; But God shall make me brighter far When thou art faded, twinkling star. HENRY ALFORD. 299 THE lovely form of God's own Church, It riseth in all lands; Dean Alford. HENRY ALFORD was born in 1810. He was educated at Ilminster Grammar School, Soinerset, and afterwards at Cambridge. In 1835 he became the minister of Wymeswold, Leicestershire. In 1853 he was minister of Quebec Street Chapel, London, and in 1857 he was made Dean of Canterbury. He has published numerous works, both in prose, in poetry, and in Biblical criticism, for which his scholarship eminently qualified him. He died 12th January, 1871. THE CHURCH. On mountain sides, in wooded vales, And by the desert sands. There is it, with its solemn aisles, A heavenly, holy thing; And round its walls lie Christian dead Blessedly slumbering. Though sects and factions rend the world, Peace is its heritage; Unchanged, though empires by it pass, The same from age to age. The hallow'd form our fathers built, That hallow'd form build we; Let not one stone from its own place Removed ever be. Scoff as thou passest, if thou wilt, Thou man that hast no faith; Thou, that no sorrows hast in life, Nor blessedness in death. But we will build, for all thou scoff, And cry, "What waste is this?" The Lord our God hath given us all, And all is therefore His. Clear voices from above sound out Their blessing on the pile; The dead beneath support our hands, And succour us the while. J Born 1810. Died 1871. Yea, when we build the rising walls, Is peace and comfort given! Because the work is not of earth, But hath its end in heaven! Ka 300 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Martin F. Tupper. MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, well known as the author of "Proverbial Philosophy, was born in London in the year 1810. His father was an eminent medical man, to whom a baronetcy was twice offered, first by the Earl of Liverpool, and again by the Duke of Wellington. This popular author was educated at Oxford, and entered the legal profession, but though he was called to the bar, he never practised as a barrister. In 1829 he published "Proverbial Philosophy," and afterwards "Ballads for the Time," "Geraldine," "Lyrics of the Heart and Mind," "Cithera," &c. In 1845 he was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society, and a D.C.L. of Oxford. He married Isabella Davis, and resides on his own property, Albury, near Guildford. THE SABBATH. (A BALLAD FOR THE LABOURER.) Six days in the week do I toil for my bread, And surely should feel like a slave, Except for a Providence fixed overhead That hallowed the duties it gave; I work for my mother, my babes, and my wife, And starving and stern is my toil, For who can tell truly how hard is the life Of a labouring son of the soil? A debt to the doctor, a score at the shop, And plenty of trouble and strife, While back-breaking toil makes me ready to drop, Worn out and aweary of life! Oh, were there no gaps in the month or the year, No comfort, or peace, or repose; Born 1810. How long should I battle with miseries here, How soon be weighed down by my woes! Six days in the week, then, I struggle and strive, And, oh! but the seventh is blest; Then only I seem to be free and alive, My soul and my body at rest: I needn't get up in the cold and the dark, I needn't go work in the rain, On that happy morning I wait till the lark Has trill'd to the sunshine again! Unhurried for once, well shaven and clean, With babes and the mother at meals, I gather what home and its happiness mean, And feel as a gentleman feels: MARTIN F. TUPPER. : 301 Then drest in my best I go blithely to church, And meet my old mates on the way, To gossip awhile in the ivy'd old porch, And hear all the news of the day. And soon as the chimes of the merry bells cease, —Oh, rare is the bell-ringers' din!- We calmly compose us to prayer and to peace, As Jabez is tolling us in; And then in the place where my fathers have pray'd, I 'praise and I pray at my best, And smile as their child when I hope to be laid In the same bit of turf where they rest! For wisely his Reverence tells of the dead As living, and waiting indeed A bright Resurrection, 'twas happily said,- From earth and its misery freed! And then do I know that though poor I am rich, An heir of great glories above, Till it seems like a throne-my old seat in the niche Of the wall of the church that I love! So, praise the Good LORD for his Sabbaths, I say, So kindly reserved for the poor; The wealthy can rest and be taught any day, But we have but one and no more! de Ay,-what were the labouring man without these His Sabbaths of body and mind? A workweary wretch without respite or ease, The curse and reproach of his kind! And don't you be telling me, sages of trade, The seventh's a loss in my gain; I pretty well guess of what stuff you are made, And know what you mean in the main; You mete out the work, and the wages you fix, And care for the make, not the men; For seven you'd pay us the same as for six, And who would be day-winners then? --- No, no, my shrewd masters! thank God that His law-- The Sabbath-is law of the land; Thank God that His wisdom so truly foresaw What mercy so lovingly plann'd: My babes go to school; and my Bible is read; And I walk in my holiday dress; 302 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. $ I 1 And I get better fed; and my bones lie abed,- And my wages are nothing the less! Then praises to God,—and all health to the Queen,— And thanks for the Sabbath, say I! It is, as it shall be, and ever has been, The earthgrubber's glimpse at the sky; The Sabbath is ours, my mates of the field,- A holyday once in the seven: The Sabbath to Mammon we never will yield, It is Poverty's foretaste of Heaven! John S. B. Monsell. JOHN SAMUEL BEWLEY MONSELL was born at Derry, 2nd March, 1811 His father was Archdeacon of Derry. Monsell studied at Trinity College, Dublin, and in 1853 was presented to the vicarage of Egham, Surrey. He is the author of "Parish Musings," "The Beatitudes," "Spiritual Songs," and other works. PARTING. WHEN friend from friend is parting, And in each speaking eye The silent tear is starting, To tell what words deny; K How could we bear the heavy load Of such heart-agony, Could we not cast it all, our God, Our gracious God, on Thee; And feel that Thou kind watch wilt keep When we are far away; That Thou wilt soothe us when we weep, And hear us when we pray. Yet oft these hearts will whisper, That better 'twould betide For trusting Thee alone! And sure Thou wilt draw nearer, Lord, Born 1811. If we were near the friends we love, And watching by their side. But sure Thou wilt love them dearer, Lord, The farther we are gone: Then why be sad, since Thou wilt keep Watch o'er them day by day; Since Thou wilt soothe them when they weep, And hear us when we pray! 1 1J ? JOHN S. B. MONSELL. 303 Oh, for that bright and happy land, Where, far amid the blest, The wicked cease from troubling, and The weary are at rest! Where friends are never parted, Once met around Thy throne; And none are broken-hearted, Since all with Thee are one. Yet oh, till then, watch o'er us keep, While far from Thee away: And soothe us, Lord, oft as we weep, And hear us when we pray! O'ER THE DISTANT MOUNTAINS BREAKING. O'ER the distant mountains breaking, Comes the redd'ning dawn of day, Rise, my soul, from sleep awaking, Rise and sing, and watch and pray: 'Tis thy Saviour On His bright returning way. O Thou long expected! weary, Waits mine anxious soul for Thee; Life is dark, and earth is dreary Where Thy light I do not see; O my Saviour! When wilt Thou return to me? Long, too long, in sin and sadness, Far away from Thee, I pine, When, oh when, shall I the gladness Of Thy Spirit feel in mine? O my Saviour! When shall I be wholly Thine? Nearer is my soul's salvation, Spent the night, the day at hand, Keep me in my lowly station, Watching for Thee, till I stand, O my Saviour! In Thy bright and promised land. 304 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. J With my lamp well trimmed and burning, Swift to hear, and slow to roam, Watching for Thy glad returning To restore me to my home, Come, my Saviour! O my Saviour! quickly come! Charles Mackay, F.D. Born 1312. CHARLES MACKAY, born at Perth, Scotland, in 1812, passed his youth in London and Belgium. In 1834 he published a volume of poems, be- came editor of the Glasgow Argus, then that of the Illustrated Lon- don News, and published popular prose and poetical works. In 1846 the University of Glasgow conferred on him the degree of LL.D. REPENTANCE. By the red lightning rent and riven, And stretch'd along the plain, Can the tall oak extend to heaven Its gay, green boughs again? Or when a star hath lost its track, And faded from on high; Can aught restore the lost one back To glory and the sky? No; the tall oak no more can spread Its green leaves to the blast, Nor can the meteor which hath fled Recall its splendours past. Can man, deep sunk in guilty care, And press'd by human ill, Gain triumph o'er his dark despair, And find a solace still? Yes! He who for our ransom bled Holds back the avenging rod, When meek contrition bows her head, Repenting, to her God: Though dark the sin-though deep the heart • Be sunk in guilt and pain, Yet Mercy can a balm impart, And raise it up again. ། 305 JOHN BETHUNE. THE RETURN. VAINLY, in search of happiness, The soul directs her flight Where some faint beams of earthly hope John Bethune. JOHN BETHUNE, the son of a farm servant, was born in 1812 at the Mount, Monimail, Fifeshire. He was brought up to be a weaver, but a commercial panic in 1825-6 compelled him to abandon the trade and become an outdoor labourer. He and his brother Alex- ander educated themselves to so great an extent, that they were able to write correctly, and publish their literary productions,- "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," 1837, and "Lec- tures on Practical Economy," 1829. John also wrote poetry, some of which was inserted in periodicals. £19 a-year was the utmost that he earned by labouring, so he resolved to write articles and tales for a subsistence, but want of success and the sedentary em- ployment so depressed him, that he prematurely died, 1st Septem- ber, 1839. Begun the general night: Each point which scintillates the gloom Of this low world appears A star of promise; but, alas! It must be quench'd in tears. I've followed these delusive lights Too often and too long, And bless'd the sparkling vanities Whose lustre led me wrong; Like crystal spars at distance seen, They glitter'd on my sight, But they were cold as icicles, And brittle, too, as bright. Yet, like the prodigal, who loved In distant lands to roam, My soul went forth in search of them S Born 1812. Died 1839. Far from its native home; And, like the prodigal, at last It spent its little store To purchase pleasures, which, when touch'd, Shrink, to return no more: And even the husks of happiness, On which the vulgar feed, Seem'd to my famished soul a feast, Though not for me decreed; • 306 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The greedy herd had gulp'd them down, While I stood gazing by, Too proud to share their gluttony, To join their ranks too shy. And, like the lonely prodigal, When all his wealth was gone, My soul now looks for happiness To a Father's love alone: My dreams were false, and I return At last, O Lord! to Thee; Unworthy to be call'd Thy son, Thy servant let me be. Send me abroad where'er Thou wilt, With friends or foes to meet; But let Thy love sustain my heart, Thy grace direct my feet: Let all my pleasures and my hopes From Thee derive their birth, But ne'er permit my heart again To trust its all to earth. The humble and the penitent We know Thou wilt not spurn- Bless me with true humility, And welcome my return: Oh, let Thy cheering promises Shine on my darkness here, And those bright hopes which Thou canst give Still dissipate my fear. M SACRAMENTAL LINES. O LORD! munificent, benign, How many mercies have been mine Since last I met with Thee In that blest ordinance of Thine- The holy feast of bread and wine, Which was enjoyed by me. How many days, in goodness sent, Have been in sickening sadness spent! How many nights have come Which promised rest and sweet content, Yet left behind them when they went Distress, and grief, and gloom! ■ JOHN BETHUNE. 307 How many purposes have fail'd! How many doubts my heart assail'd! And held my spirit fast: How many sins have been bewail'd! How many follies have prevail'd! Since I confess'd the last. But still to Thee my spirit springs, And underneath the sheltering wings A safe asylum seeks: For this memorial sweetly brings Remembrance of Thy sufferings, And all Thy kindness speaks: And, like a little child, I lay My spirit at Thy feet, and say, "Lord, take it-it is Thine: Teach it to trust, to fear, to pray- Feed it with love by night and day, And let Thy will be mine." THE POETICAL PREACHER. ART thou a pilgrim, old and poor, Way-worn upon life's thorny road, Whose limbs must falter hour by hour Beneath affliction's heavy load? To thee the voice of God address'd, Invites to an eternal rest. Or art thou, in life's early stage, Worn down by pain and dire disease, Till all the infirmities of age Cluster around thy trembling knees? Sigh not, nor mourn, for thou art press'd To come, and have eternal rest. Or art thou one whose hopes have been On earthly evanescence built, Whose schemes in disappointment keen Have terminated, and in guilt? With penitential thoughts impress'd, Come, and receive eternal rest. Or art thou mourning o'er the dead- Some dearly-loved and valued friend 303 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. By early death untimely laid Where him thou mayest no more attend? Oh, cease to grieve! God's will is best— Believe, and thou shalt yet have rest. Whate'er thou be, whoe'er thou art, In weariness, and want, and woe; Give to the Lord a humble heart, Ask and believe-He will bestow; For all who mourn, with cares oppress'd, May claim from Him the promis'd rest. Rev. Robert Murray M'Cheyne. {Born 1813. Died ROBERT M. M'CHEYNE was born 21st May, 1813. He attended the High School and afterwards the University of Edinburgh, where he gained a prize for a poem "On the Covenanters." He was ordained a minister of the Church of Scotland at Dundee. He was sent with other clergymen to the Holy Land to inquire into the state of the Jews, and the hymns written by him during this mission tour are most interesting and remarkably beautiful. After a short but use- ful pious life, he died 25th February, 1843. FOUNTAIN OF SILOAM. ISAIAH Viii. 6. BENEATH Moriah's rocky side A gentle fountain springs, Silent and soft its waters glide, Like the peace the Spirit brings. The thirsty Arab stoops to drink Of the cool and quiet wave, And the thirsty spirit stops to think Of Him who came to save. Siloam is the fountain's name, It means "One sent from God;' And thus the holy Saviour's fame It gently spreads abroad. Oh, grant that I, like this sweet well, May Jesus' image bear, And spend my life, my all, to tell How full His mercies are. REV. ROBERT MURRAY M'CHEYNE. 309 ON MUNGO PARK'S FINDING A TUFT OF GREEN MOSS IN THE AFRICAN DESERT. THE sun had reached his mid-day height, And poured down floods of burning light Ôn Afric’s barren land; No cloudy veil obscured the sky, And the hot breeze that struggled by Was filled with glowing sand. No mighty rock upreared its head To bless the wanderer with its shade In all the weary plain; No palm-trees, with refreshing green To glad the dazzled eye, were seen, But one wide sandy main. Dauntless and daring was the mind That left all home-born joys behind These deserts to explore- To trace the mighty Niger's course, And find it bubbling from its source In wilds untrod before. And ah! shall we less daring show, Who nobler ends and motives know Than ever heroes dream—. Who seek to lead the savage mind The precious Fountain-head to find Whence flows salvation's stream? Let peril, nakedness, and sword, Hot barren sands, and despot's word Our burning zeal oppose-- Yet, Martyn-like, we'll lift the voice, Bidding the wilderness rejoice And blossom as the rose. : Sad, faint, and weary, on the sand Our traveller sat him down; his hand Covered his burning head; Above, beneath, behind, around- No resting for the eye he found; All nature seemed as dead. One tiny tuft of moss alone, Mantling with freshest green a stone, Fixed his delighted gaze- 310 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Through bursting tears of joy he smiled, And while he raised the tendril wild, His lips o'erflowed with praise. (6 Oh, shall not He who keeps thee green Here in the waste, unknown, unseen, Thy fellow-exile save? He who commands the dew to feed Thy gentle flower, can surely lead Me from a scorching grave!" The heaven-sent plant new hope inspired- New courage all his bosom fired, And bore him safe along; Till, with the evening's cooling shade, He slept within the verdant glade, Lulled by the negro's song. Thus we in this world's wilderness, Where sin and sorrow, guilt, distress Seem undisturbed to reign, May faint, because we feel alone, With none to strike our favourite tone, And join our homeward strain. Yet often, in the bleakest wild Of this dark world, some heaven-born child, Expectant of the skies, Amid the low and vicious crowd, Or in the dwellings of the proud, Meets our admiring eyes. From gazing on the tender flower, We lift our eyes to Him whose power Hath all its beauty given; Who, in this atmosphere of death, Hath given it life, and form, and breath, And brilliant hues of heaven. Our drooping faith, revived by sight, Anew her pinion plumes for flight, New hope distends the breast; With joy we mount on eagle wing, With bolder tone our anthem sing, And seek the pilgrim's rest. REV. ROBERT MURRAY M'CHEYNE. 311 TO YONDER SIDE. BEHIND the hills of Naphtali The sun went slowly down, Leaving on mountain, tower, and tree A tinge of golden brown. The cooling breath of evening woke The waves of Galilee, Till on the shore the waters broke In softest melody. "Now launch the bark," the Saviour cried (The chosen twelve stood by), "And let us cross to yonder side, Where the hills are steep and high." Gently the bark o'er the water creeps, While the swelling sail they spread, And the weary Saviour gently sleeps With a pillow 'neath his head. On downy bed the world seeks rest— Sleep flies the guilty eye— But he who leans on the Father's breast May sleep when storms are nigh. But soon the lowering sky grew dark O'er Bashan's rocky brow- The storm rushed down upon the bark, And waves dashed o'er the prow. The pale disciples, trembling, spake, While yawned the watery grave, "We perish, Master-Master, wake- Carest thou not to save?" Calmly he rose with sovereign will, And hushed the storm to rest. (6 'Ye waves," he whispered, peace! be still!” They calmed like a pardoned breast. So have I seen a fearful storm O'er wakened sinner roll, Till Jesus' voice and Jesus' form Said, "Peace, thou weary soul." And now He bends His gentle eye His wondering followers o'er; 312 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Why raise this unbelieving cry? I said, To yonder shore.” (6 When first the Saviour wakened me, And showed me why He died, He pointed o'er life's narrow sea, And said, "To yonder side." "I am the ark where Noah dwelt, And heard the deluge roar— No soul can perish that has felt My rest-To yonder shore." Peaceful and calm the tide of life, When first I sailed with thee- My sins forgiven-no inward strife- My breast a glassy sea. But soon the storm of passion raves- My soul is tempest-tossed- Corruptions rise, like angry waves, "Help, Master, I am lost!" "Peace! peace! be still, thou raging breast; My fulness is for thee"- The Saviour speaks, and all is rest, Like the waves of Galilee. And now I feel His holy eye Upbraids my heart of pride- "Why raise this unbelieving cry? I said, To yonder side." : Born 1814. Died 1837. Robert Nicoll. ROBERT NICOLL was born in the farm-house of Little Tully beltane, Auchtergaven, in Perthshire, Scotland, on the 7th January. 1814. His parents were too poor to give him any education beyond that of learning to read and write. He was at a very early age employed in herding cattle; and it was whilst doing this that he acquired the love of the beauties of nature depicted with so much freshness in his poetry. He kept a circulating library at Dundee, and studied so hard, and read so much, that he succeeded in acquiring a consider- able amount of education and a degree of refinement, which can be perceived in his productions. He published a volume of poems in 1835. In 1836 he was engaged to edit the Leeds Times; but he lost his health, and was removed to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, where he died, 9th December, 1837. I 3- f ROBERT NICÒLL. 313 THE HA' BIBLE. CHIEF of the household gods Which hallow Scotland's lowly cottage homes! While looking on thy signs, deep thought upon me comes; With glad yet solemn dreams my heart is stirred, Like childhood when it hears the carol of a bird. The mountains old and hoar, The chainless winds, and streams so pure and free; The God-enamelled flowers, the eternal sea, The eagle floating o'er the mountain's brow, Are teachers all; but, oh, they are not such as thou! How dear thou art to me! Thou art a gift a God of Love might give; For love, and hope, and joy In thy Almighty-written pages live! The slave who reads shall never crouch again, For, mind-inspired by thee, he bursts his feeble chain. God, unto Thee I kneel, And thank Thee! Thou unto my native land- Yea, to the outspread earth- Hast stretched in love Thy everlasting hand, S 1 And Thou hast given earth, and sea, and air, Yea, all that heart can ask of good, and pure, and fair. And, Father, Thou hast spread Before men's eyes this Charter of the Free, That all Thy Book might read, And justice love, and truth, and liberty. The gift was unto man, the Giver God! Thou slave! it stamps thee man; go, spurn thy weary load! Thou doubly-precious Book! Unto thy light what doth not Scotland owe? Thou teachest age to die, And youth in truth unsullied up to grow; In lowly homes a comforter art thou, A sunbeam sent from God, an everlasting bow! O'er thy clear, ample page How many dim and aged eyes have pored; How many hearts o'er thee In silence deep and holy have adored; How many mothers by their infants' bed Thy holy, blessed, pure, child-loving words have read! N 314 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. of And o'er thee soft young hands Have oft in truthful plighted love been joined; And thou to wedded hearts Hast been a bond-an altar of the mind- Above all kingly power or kingly law: May Scotland reverence aye the Bible of the Ha'! Born 1814. Rev. James Hamilton, D.D. {Bied 1867. JAMES HAMILTON was the son of Dr. William Hamilton, minister of Strathblane, in the county of Stirling. James was born at Loan- end, Paisley, on the 27th November, 1814. He was educated at home by a resident tutor until he entered the University of Glasgow in 1823. He published "Life in Earnest," "The Mount of Olives,' several biographies, several volumes of lectures, and numerous most excellent tracts. He was also editor of a magazine entitled Excelsior. He died 24th November, 1867. At his funeral a hymn was sung, translated by himself from the Gerinan, as he had heard it sung at a peasant's funeral in the Black Forest. 1 THE WIDOW'S SON OF NAIN. DEAD, dead! that arm which steered the skiff Through Galilee's white surf; Dead, dead! that foot which chased the deer O'er Tabor's bounding turf. Beneath the rock the shepherd sings, The turtle's in the tree; But neither song nor summer greets The silent land and thee. March, march! the pale procession swings With measured tramp and tread; Woe, woe! yon gaping sepulchre Is calling for the dead. And bitter is the wail that weeps The widow's only joy, And vows to leave her broken heart Beside her gallant boy. Halt, halt! a hand is on the bier, And life stirs in the shroud; Rise, rise! and view the Man Divine Who wakes thee 'midst the crowd! And as the mother clasps her son, In awe-struck ecstasy, · ! F. W. FABER. 315 i > Ĭ Turn thou thine eyes to Him whose word Is immortality. Home, home! to make that mother glad, And recompense her tears; Home, home! to give that Saviour-God This second lease of years. And when, amidst a greater crowd, Thou hear'st that voice again, May rising saints see Jesus in The widow's son of Nain. | F. W. Faber. FREDERICK W. FABER was born in 1815. He was educated at Har- row and at Oxford, and became a clergyman of the Church of England at Elton, in Huntingdonshire; but in 1846 he joined the Roman Catholic Church, and afterwards resided at an oratory in Brompton. Many of his hymns are very beautiful. JESUS IS GOD! THE SOLID EARTH. JESUS is God! the solid earth, The ocean broad and bright, The countless stars, like golden dust, That strew the skies at night; The wheeling storm, the dreadful fire, The pleasant, wholesome air, The summer's sun, the winter's frost, His own creations were. Jesus is God! the glorious bands Of golden angels sing Songs of adoring praise to Him, Their Maker and their King. He was true God in Bethlehem's crib, On Calvary's cross true God; He who in heaven eternal reigned, In time on earth abode. Born 1815. Died 1863, · Jesus is God! there never was A time when He was not; Boundless, eternal, merciful, The Word the Sire begot. Backward our thoughts through ages stretch, Onward through endless bliss; For there are two eternities, And both alike are His! 316 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 Jesus is God! let sorrow come, And pain, and every ill; All are worth while for all are means His glory to fulfil; Worth while a thousand years of life To speak one little word, If by our credo we might own The Godhead of our Lord. Jesus is God! oh, could I now But compass land and sea, To teach and tell this single truth, How happy should I be! Oh, had I but an angel's voice I would proclaim so loud, Jesus, the good, the beautiful, Is everlasting God! Jesus is God! if on the earth This blessed faith decays, More tender must our love become More plentiful our praise. We are not angels, but we may Down in earth's corners kneel, And multiply sweet acts of love, And murmur what we feel. THE SHADOW OF THE ROCK. THE Shadow of the Rock! Stay, Pilgrim, stay! Night treads upon the heels of day; There is no other resting-place this way The Rock is near, The well is clear- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! The desert wide Lies round thee like a trackless tide, In waves of sand forlornly multiplied. The sun is gone, Thou art alone- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! € The Shadow of the Rock! All come alone; F. W. FABER. 317 All, ever since the sun hath shone, Who travelled by this road have come alone. Be of good cheer— A home is here- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Night veils the land; How the palms whisper as they stand! How the well tinkles faintly through the sand! Cool water take Thy thirst to slake- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Abide! Abide! This Rock moves ever at thy side, Pausing to welcome thee at eventide. Ages are laid Beneath its shade- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Always at hand, Unseen it cools the noon-tide land, And quells the fire that flickers in the sand. It comes in sight Only at night- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! 'Mid skies storm-riven It gathers shadows out of heaven, And holds them o'er us all night cool and even. Through the charmed air Dew falls not there- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! To angels' eyes This Rock its shadow multiplies, And at this hour in countless places lies. One Rock, one shade, O'er thousands laid- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! To weary feet, 318 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ! That have been diligent and fleet, The sleep is deeper and the shade more sweet. O weary, rest! Thou art sore pressed— Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! Thy bed is made; Crowds of tired souls like thine are laid This night beneath the self-same placid shade. They who rest here Wake with Heaven near- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock. The Shadow of the Rock! Pilgrim! sleep sound; In night's swift hours with silent bound, The Rock will put thee over leagues of ground, . Gaining more way By night than day- Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! The Shadow of the Rock! One day of pain, Thou scarce wilt hope the Rock to gain, Yet there wilt sleep thy last sleep on the plain, And only wake In Heaven's daybreak— Rest in the Shadow of the Rock! WRITTEN IN A LITTLE LADY'S ALBUM. HEARTS good and true Have wishes few In narrow circles bounded, And hope that lives On what God gives Is Christian hope well founded. Small things are best; Grief and unrest To rank and wealth are given; But little things On little wings Bear little souls to heaven. ! 1 DEAN STANLEY. 319 HEAVEN AND EARTH. THERE are no shadows where there is no sun; There is no beauty where there is no shade; And all things in two lines of glory run, Darkness and light, ebon and gold inlaid. God comes among us through the shroud of air; And His dim track is like the silvery wake Left by your pinnace on the mountain lake, Fading and reappearing here and there. The lamps and veils, through heaven and Earth that move, Go in and out, as jealous of their light, Like sailing stars upon a misty night. Death is the shade of coming life; and Love Yearns for her dear ones in the holy tomb, Because bright things are better seen in gloom. Born 1815. Dean Stanley. A. P. STANLEY, son of the late Bishop of Norwich, was born about 1815. He was educated at Rugby and at Balliol College, Oxford. After having greatly distinguished himself, he was elected a Fellow of University College. His career after this was still marked by the same success in various offices. He was Regius Professor of Ec- clesiastical History at Oxford, Canon of Christ Church, Chaplain to the Bishop of London, and, in 1864, Dean of Westminster. His principal works are "Life of Dr. Arnold," "Sermons and Essays on the Apostolical Ages," "Sinai and Palestine." In 1874 he went to St. Petersburgh to perform the English service at the marriage of the Duke of Edinburgh with the daughter of the Emperor of Russia. HYMN ON THE TRANSFIGURATION. "MASTER, it is good to be High on the mountain here with Thee:" Here, in an ampler, purer air, Above the stir of toil and care Of hearts distraught with doubt and grief, Believing in their unbelief, Calling Thy servants, all in vain, To ease them of their bitter pain. "Master, it is good to be Where rest the souls that talk with Thee: Where stand reveal'd to mortal gaze The great old saints of other days, i 320 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 HEY Who once receiv'd on Horeb's height The eternal laws of truth and right, Or caught the still small whisper, higher Than storm, than earthquake, or than fire. Master, it is good to be With Thee, and with Thy faithful Three," Here, where the apostle's heart of rock Is nerv'd against temptation's shock; Here, where the son of thunder learns The thought that breathes, and word that burns; Here, where on eagle's wings we move With him whose last best creed is love. 'Master, it is good to be SAE Entranced, enwrapt, alone with Thee;" Watching the glistering raiment glow, Whiter than Hermon's whitest snow; The human lineaments that shine Irradiant with a light divine, Till we too change from grace to grace Gazing on that transfigur'd face. "Master, it is good to be In life's worst anguish close to Thee.” Within the overshadowing cloud Which wraps us in its awful shroud; We wist not what to think or say, Our spirits sink in sore dismay; They tell us of the dread "decease," But yet to linger here is peace. "Master, it is good to be Here on the holy mount with Thee:" When, darkling in the depths of night, When, dazzled with excess of light, We bow before the heavenly voice That bids bewilder'd souls rejoice, Though love wax cold, and faith be dim- "This is my Son—Oh, hear ye Him." 1 1 321 FRANCES BROWNE. Frances Browne. FRANCES BROWNE, born in 1816, is the daughter of a postmaster at Stranolar, in Donegal, Ireland. An attack of smallpox deprived her of her eyesight when only eighteen months old; yet, notwithstand- ing this disadvantage, she made, during her youth, rapid progress in the acquisition of knowledge. The first publication of her poetry was in the Irish Penny Journal, in which appeared, in 1840, Songs of our Land.” During the following year she contributed several poetical articles to the Athenæum. She has since published some other volumes of poetry. .. THE JEWISH PILGRIM. ARE these the ancient, holy hills Where angels walked of old? Is this the land our story fills With glory not yet cold? For I have pass'd by many a shrine, O'er many a land and sea- But still, O promised Palestine, My dreams have been of thee! I see thy mountain-cedars green, Thy valleys fresh and fair, With summers bright, as they have been When Israel's home was there; Though o'er thee sword and time have past, And cross and crescent shone, And heavily the chain hath press'd— But thou art still our own! Thine are the wandering race that go Unblest through every land, Whose blood hath stain'd the Polar snow And quench'd the desert sand; And thine the homeless hearts that turn From all earth's shrines to thee, With their lone faith, for ages borne In sleepless memory. Born 1816. For thrones are fall'n, and nations gone Before the march of Time, And where the ocean roll'd alone Are forests in their prime, Since Gentile ploughshares marr'd the brow Of Zion's holy hill;— Where are the Roman eagles now?- Yet Judah wanders still! N* I 322 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And hath she wander'd thus in vain, A pilgrim of the past? No!—long deferr'd her hope hath been— But it shall come at last; A For in her wastes a voice I hear, As from some prophet's urn— It bids the nations build not there, For Jacob shall return! Oh! lost and loved Jerusalem, Thy pilgrim may not stay To see the glad earth's harvests-home In thy redeeming day; But now resign'd, in faith and trust I seek a nameless tomb- At least beneath thy hallow'd dust Oh, give the wanderer room! Philip J. Bailey. PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, a lawyer and a poet, was born in the year 1816. He is the author of various pieces-"The Mystic," "The Age," Angel World," &c.; but his best production is Festus," written at a very early stage of his career, and is much admired. b FROM "FESTUS." TRUE bliss is to be found in holy life; In charity to man; in love to God: * * * * True faith nor biddeth nor abideth form. The bended knee, the eye uplift, is all Which man need render-all which God can bear. What to the faith are forms? They are but like A passing speck; a crow upon the sky. Our proper good we rarely seek or make: Mindless of our immortal powers and their Immortal end, as is the pearl of its worth, The rose its scent, the wave its purity. * * Is heaven a place where pearly streams Glide over silver sand; Like childhood's rosy, dazzling dreams Of some far faery land? Born 1816. ** ELIZA COOK. 323 Is heaven a clime where diamond dews Glitter on fadeless flowers; And mirth and music ring aloud From amaranthine bowers? Ah, no; not such, not such is heaven! Surpassing far all these; Such cannot be the guerdon given Man's wearied soul to please. For saint and sinner here below Such vain to be, have proved: And the pure spirit will despise Whate'er the sense has loved. Eliza Cook. ELIZA COOK was born in Southwark in 1817. She obtained poetical celebrity by contributions which appeared in various periodicals and newspapers. Her poetry was afterwards collected into a vol- ume, which appeared in 1840 in London. Eliza Cook's Journal, es- tablished in September, 1849, appeared for some years. A pension of £100 a-year from the Government was conferred upon her in re- cognition of her literary talents, as some of her poetical pieces have obtained a world-wide celebrity. THY KINGDOM COME. 'Tis human lot to meet and bear The common ills of human life; There's not a breast but hath its share Of bitter pain and vexing strife. The peasant in his lowly shed, The noble 'neath a gilded dome, Each will at some time bow his head, And ask and hope, "Thy kingdom come!" Born 1817. The waves of care may darkly bound And buffet, till, our strength outworn, When some deep sorrow, surely slow, Despoils the cheek and eats the heart, Laying our busy projects low, And bidding all earth's dreams depart— Do we not smile, and calmly turn From the wide world's tumultuous hum, And feel the immortal essence yearn, Rich with the thought, "Thy kingdom come!" 324 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. We stagger as they gather round, All shattered, weak, and tempest-torn: But there's a lighthouse for the soul, That beacons to a stormless home; It safely guides through roughest tides- It shines, it saves! "Thy kingdom come!" To gaze upon the loved in death, To mark the closing, beamless eye, To press dear lips, and find no breath- This, this is life's worst agony! But God, too merciful, too wise To leave the lone one in despair, Whispers, while snatching those we prize, "My kingdom come!-ye'll meet them there!" P TIME. OH! never chide the wing of time, Or say 'tis tardy in its flight! You'll find the days speed quick enough, If you but husband them aright. Thy span of life is waning fast; Beware, unthinking youth, beware; Thy soul's eternity depends Upon the record moments bear! Time is indeed a precious boon, But with the boon a task is given; The heart must learn its duty well, To man on earth, and God in heaven. Take heed, then; play not with thine hours, Beware, unthinking youth, beware! The one who acts the part he ought, Will have but little time to spare. I THANK THEE, GOD! FOR WEAL AND WOE. I THANK Thee, God! for all I've known Of kindly fortune, health and joy; And quite as gratefully I own The bitter drops of life's alloy. F ELIZA COOK. 325 Oh! there was wisdom in the blow That wrung the sad and scalding tear; That laid my dearest idol low, And left my bosom lone and drear. I thank Thee, God! for all of smart That Thou hast sent; for not in vain Has been the heavy, aching heart, The sigh of grief, the throb of pain. What if my cheek had ever kept Its healthful colour, glad and bright? What if my eyes had never wept Throughout a long and sleepless night? Then, then, perchance, my soul had not Remember'd there were paths less fair· And, selfish in my own blest lot, Ne'er strove to soothe another's care. But when the weight of sorrow found My spirit prostrate and resign'd, The anguish of the bleeding wound Taught me to feel for all mankind. Even as from the wounded tree The goodly precious balm will pour; So in the riven heart there'll be Mercy that never flow'd before. "Tis well to learn that sunny hours May quickly change to mournful shade; 'Tis well to prize life's scatter'd flowers, Yet be prepared to see them fade. I thank Thee, God! for weal and woe; And, whatsoe'er the trial be; "Twill serve to wean me from below, And bring my spirit nigher Thee. PRAYER. WHEN watching those we love and prize Till all of life and hope be fled; When we have gazed on sightless eyes, And gently stay'd the falling head: Then what can soothe the stricken heart, What solace overcome despair; pert 326 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. What earthly breathing can impart Such healing balm as lonely prayer? When fears and perils thicken fast, And many dangers gather round; When human aid is vain and past, No mortal refuge to be found; Then can we firmly lean on Heaven, And gather strength to meet and bear: No matter where the storm has driven, A saving anchor lives in prayer. O God! how beautiful the thought, How merciful the bless'd decree, That grace can e'er be found when sought, And nought shut out the soul from Thee. The cell may cramp, the fetters gall, The flame may scorch, the rack may tear; But torture-stake, or prison wall, Can be endured with faith and prayer. In deserts wild, in midnight gloom; In grateful joy, in trying pain; In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb; Oh! when is prayer unheard or vain? The Infinite, the King of kings, Will never need the when or where; He'll ne'er reject the heart that brings The offering of fervent prayer. LET NOT THE SUN GO DOWN UPON YOUR WRATH. "FATHER, forgive us," is our daily prayer, When the worn spirit feels its helpless dearth: Yet, in our lowly greatness, do we dare To seek from Heaven what we refuse on earth. Too often will the bosom, sternly proud, Bear shafts of vengeance on its graveward path; Deaf to the teaching that has cried aloud, "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath." We ask for mercy from the God above, In morning worship and in vesper song; And let us kindly shed the balm of love, To heal and soothe a brother's deed of wrong. ל MRS. EMILY JUDSON. 327 If ye would crush the bitter thorns of strife, And strew the bloom of peace around your path- If ye would drink the sweetest streams of life, "Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.” Were this remember'd, many a human lot Would find more blessings in our home below; The chequer'd world would lose its darkest blot, And mortal record tell much less of woe. The sacred counsels of the Wise impart No holier words in all that language hath; For light divine is kindled where the heart Lets not the sun go down upon its wrath. Mrs. Emily Judson. EMILY CHUBBOCK was born at Morrisville, in the State of New York, in 1817. She was at first a teacher in a school, and afterwards pur- sued a literary career, under the name of "Fanny Forester." She was employed by Dr. Adoniram Judson, a missionary, to write the memoir of his deceased wife. This led to his marriage with Emily Chubbock in 1840. He went with this his third wife to Burmahi, where her husband died. After this she returned to America, where she lived only a few months after her arrival. She died 1st June, 1854. MY MOTHER. BUT, gentle mother, through life's storms I may not lean on thee; For helpless, cowering little forms Cling trustingly to me.-Poor babes! To have no guide but me. With weary foot and broken wing, With bleeding heart and sore, Thy dove looks backward sorrowing, But seeks the ark no more-thy breast Seeks never, never more. Sweet mother, for the exile pray, That loftier faith be given; Her broken reeds all swept away, That she may rest in heaven-her soul Grow strong in Christ and heaven. All fearfully, all tearfully, Alone and sorrowing, My dim eye lifted to the sky, Fast to the cross I cling-O Christ! To Thy dear cross I cling. Born 1817. Died 1854. 328 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Sir Henry W. Baker. SIR HENRY W. BAKER was born in London in 1821. His father was an admiral in the navy, and the second baronet of that name. Sir Henry was educated at Cambridge, and studied for the Church. After obtaining successively the degrees of B.A. and M.A., he was Appointed vicar of Monkland in Herefordshire. A HOME ABOVE. THERE is a blessed home Beyond this land of woe, Where trials never come, Nor tears of sorrow flow; Where faith is lost in sight, And patient hope is crown'd, And everlasting light Its glory throws around. There is a land of peace, Good angels know it well; Glad songs that never cease Within its portals swell; Around its glorious throne Ten thousand saints adore Christ, with the Father One, And Spirit, evermore. Oh, joy all joys beyond, To see the Lamb who died, And count each sacred wound In hands, and feet, and side; To give to Him the praise Of every triumph won; And sing through endless days The great things He hath done. Look up, ye saints of God, Nor fear to tread below • The path your Saviour trod Of daily toil and woe; Wait but a little while In uncomplaining love, His own most gracious smile Shall welcome you above. Born 1821. j D ; I GEORGE G. CAMPBELL OVEREND. 329 George G. Campbell Overend. Born 1823. 1 Died GEORGE G. CAMPBELL OVEREND was born at Abbotsham, in Devon- shire, in September, 1823. He was the son of Captain John Overend, of the Royal Sherwood Foresters. and of Elizabeth Gordon Camp- bell, daughter of Colonel Archibald Campbell, Scots Fusilier Guards. He was the author and translator of various works-"The Perse- cuted Princess," "The Noble Printer," "The Story of Daniel," &c., &c., and also of many hymns, both original and translated from French, German and Latin. He gained the first prize for an essay on "Trial by Jury," which was contested by numerous lawyers and essayists. He married Jane, daughter of Thomas Horsbrugh, of Lathockar, Fifeshire. He died at Edinburgh, 4th December, 1874. SEARCH THE SCRIPTURES. SEARCH the Scriptures for salvation, Christ the Lord has told us so; Every tongue and every nation Should the Holy Bible know. God's message 'tis, of love and life, Sent to a world of sin and strife. Search the Scriptures for salvation, Sweetest comfort ye shall find In your grief and tribulation, Human woes of every kind. Go to Christ, believe and live, He eternal life will give. They shall thirst no more for ever, No more hunger they shall know, Where the mighty heavenly river Of eternal life doth flow. Those who drink thereof, God saith, They shall never taste of death. Christ, that water and that river, Thus the Holy Scriptures say; He, the King of saints for ever, He, the Truth, the Life the Way. When our life-long work is past, He shall judge it at the last. Doubts and fears may cloud our reason Whilst we journey here below, But in the appointed season God has promised we shall know All that seemed so dark and dim; Till then, let us trust in Him. Ф 330 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. } Rev. J. D. Burns. JAMES D. BURNS was born in Edinburgh, 18th February, 1823. He received his early education at Heriot's Hospital, and afterwards attended the High School and University. In 1845 he was ordained as minister of Dunblane, where he laboured beyond his strength, and was obliged in 1847 to go to Madeira for his health. In 1854 he returned to Scotland, and then published his first poem, entitled, "The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems. After having passed a short time in Jersey and at Brighton, Mr. Burns, in 1855, became the minister of a Presbyterian congregation at Hampstead, near London, where he was greatly respected and beloved. He con- tributed to various periodicals, and published "The Heavenly Jerusalem, ""The Evening Hymn," &c. His health again failed, and on this account he went to Mentone, in France, where he died, 27th November, 1864. His body was brought to England, and buried in Highgate Cemetery, 11th December, 1864. He was a man of rare talent, learning, and piety. O TIME OF TRANQUIL JOY! O TIME of tranquil joy and holy feeling! When over earth God's Spirit from above Spreads out His wings of love! { Born 1823. Died 1864. When sacred thoughts, like angels, come appealing To our tent doors; O eve! to earth and heaven The sweetest of the seven! How peaceful are thy skies, thy air is clearer, As on the advent of a gracious time: The sweetness of its prime Blesseth the world, and Eden's days seem nearer: I hear in each faint stirring of the breeze, God's voice among the trees. Oh! while thy hallowed moments are distilling Their fresher influence on my heart like dews, The chamber where I muse Turns to a temple! He, whose converse thrilling Honoured Emmaus, that old eventide, Comes sudden to my side. 'Tis light at evening time when Thou art present; Thy coming to the eleven in that dim room Brightened, O Christ! its gloom: So bless my lonely hour, that memories pleasant Around the time a heavenly gleam may cast, Which many days shall last! Raise each low aim, refine each high emotion, That with more ardent footstep I may press Toward Thy holiness; 7 I FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. 331 And, braced for sacred duty by devotion, Support my cross along that rugged road Which Thou hast sometime trod! I long to see Thee, for my heart is weary: Oh! when, my Lord! in kindness wilt Thou come To call Thy banished home? The scenes are cheerless, and the days are dreary; From sorrow and from sin I would be free, And evermore with Thee! • Even now I see the golden city shining Up the blue depths of that transparent air: How happy all is there! There breaks a day which never knows declining; A Sabbath, through whose circling hours the blest Beneath Thy shadow rest! FAITH, HOPE, AND LOVE AT THE SEPULCHRE. CL 'HE is not here," Love said, while down her face Slowly the large tears of her trouble flow; "They've borne Him hence, and whither who may know?" Then straightway Faith and Hope with rapid pace Came running toward the tomb-a holy race: And Faith did outrun Hope, and, stooping low, Saw the sweet-smelling cerements, pure as snow, Each calmly folded in its proper place, But paused on the threshold gazing. Hope, not grieved At his defeat, soon followed, nor delayed To enter in, and presently was cheered; Faith also entered with him, and believed. Then homeward both returned; but Love there stayed, And wept and waited till the Lord appeared. Francis Turner Palgrave. FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE, the eldest son of Sir Francis Palgrave, was born about the year 1824. After distinguishing himself as a scholar at Oxford, and taking his degree of B.A., he became a Fellow of Exeter College. He has written "Essays on Art," "Idyls and Songs," "Preciosa, a Tale," and many beautiful hymns, a col- lection of which, entitled, "Original Hymns," appeared in 1867. Born 1824. L 332 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + STAR OF MORN AND EVEN. STAR of morn and even, Sun of Heaven's heaven, Saviour, high and dear, Toward us turn Thine ear; Through whate'er may come, Thou canst lead us home.. "L I' Though the gloom be grievous, Those we lean on leave us; Though the coward heart. Quit its proper part; Though the tempter come- Thou wilt lead us home!. Saviour, pure and holy, Lover of the lowly, Sign us with Thy sign, Take our hands in Thine,. Take our hands and come, Lead Thy children home! Star of morn and even, Shine on us from heaven, From Thy glory throne. Hear Thy very own; Lord and Saviour, come; Lead us to our home! + William Whiting. Born 1825, WILLIAM WHITING was born at Kensington, London, in 1825. He has been for a long time the master of Winchester College Chorister School. He has published "Edgar Thorpe; or, The Warfare of Life," Rural Thoughts and Scenes,." &c. PRAYER FOR THOSE AT SEA. ETERNAL Father! strong to save, Whose arm hath bound the restless wave, Who bidst the mighty ocean deep Its own appointed limits keep— Oh! hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea. ľ EDWARD ROBERT LORD LYTTON. 333 O Christ! whose voice the waters heard, And hushed their raging at Thy word, Who walkedst on the foaming deep, And calm amidst its rage didst sleep- Oh! hear us when. we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea. Most Holy Spirit! who didst brood Upon the chaos, dark and rude, And bid its angry tumult cease, And give for wild confusion peace--- Oh! hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea. O Trinity of love and power! Our brethren shield in danger's hour; From rock and tempest, fire and foe, Protect them wheresoe'er they go- Thus evermore shall rise to Thee Glad hymns of praise from land and sea. Edward Robert Lord Lytton. Born 1831. EDWARD ROBERT LORD LYTTON, the son of Sir Edward George Bul- wer Lytton, afterwards Lord Lytton, was bornon the 8th of Novem- ber, 1831. He has published various works in prose and verse under the name of "Owen Meredith." "WHO CAN BY SEARCHING FIND OUT GOD?” "THERE is no God," the fool saith-to his heart, Yet shapes a godhead from his intellect, Is mind than heart less human, that we part Thought from affection, and from mind erect A deity merely intellectual? If God there be, devoid of sympathy For man, he is not man's divinity. A God unloving were no God at all. This felt, I ask not, "What is God?" but, Are my relations with Him?" This alone Concerns me now; since, if I know this not, Tho' I should know the sources of the sun, Or what within the hot heart of the earth Lulls the soft spirit of the fire; altho' The mandate of the thunder I should know To me my knowledge would be nothing worth. "What $ 334 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. What message, or what messenger to man? Whereby shall revelation reach the soul? For who, by searching, finds out God? How can My utmost steps, unguided, gain the goal Of necessary knowledge? It is clear I cannot reach the gates of heaven, and knock And enter tho' I stood upon the rock, Like Moses, God must speak ere I can hear, • And touch me ere I feel Him. He must come To me (I cannot join Him in the clouds); Stand at the dim doors of my mortal home; Lift the low latch of life; and enter, bow'd Unto this earthly roof; and sit within The circle of the senses; at the hearth Of the affections; be my guest on earth, Loving my love, and sorrowing in my sin. * * * Our nature is not one with the divine. Not so. The Man-God dies; and by His death Doth with His own immortal life combine The spirit pining in this mortal breath. Who from Himself Himself did alienate, That He, returning to Himself, might pave A pathway hence, to heaven from the grave, For man to follow-through the heavenly gate. Wert Thou, O Christ! not ignorant of grief? A man of sorrows? Not for sorrow's sake (Lord, I believe help Thou mine unbelief!) : Beneath the thorns did Thy pure forehead ache: But that in sorrow only, unto sorrow, Can comfort come; in manhood only, man Perceive man's destiny. In Nature's plan Our path is over midnight to to-morrow. And so the Prince of Life, in dying, gave Undying life to mortals. Once He stood Among His fellows on this side the grave, A man, perceptible to flesh and blood: Now, taken from our sight, He dwells no less Within our mortal memory and thought, The mystery of all He was and wrought Is made a part of general consciousness. And in this consciousness I reach repose. A ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. 335 \ 1 Adelaide Anne Proctor. ba ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR, the daughter of Bryan Waller Proctor, was born in 1835. She published Lyrics and Legends " and other poems. She died 2d February, 1864. THE WAY IS LONG AND DREARY. THE way is long and dreary, The path is bleak and bare; Our feet are worn and weary, But we will not despair. More heavy was Thy burthen, More desolate Thy way; O Lamb of God, who takest The sin of the world away, Have mercy on us! The snows lie thick around us, In the dark and gloomy night; And the tempest wails above us, And the stars have hid their light. But blacker was the darkness Round Calvary's Cross that day O Lamb of God, who takest The sin of the world away, Have mercy on us! Our hearts are faint with sorrow, Heavy and sad to bear; For we dread the bitter morrow, But we will not despair. Thou knowest all our anguish, And Thou wilt bid it cease. O Lamb of God! who takest The sin of the world away, Give us Thy peace! MAXIMUS. Born 1935. Died 1864. MANY, if God should make them kings, Might not disgrace the throne He gave; How few who could as well fulfil The holier office of a slave. • 336 GEMS FROM THE SACRED FOETS. I hold him great who, for love's sake, Can give with generous, earnest will; Yet he who take's for love's sweet sake, I think I hold more generous still. I prize the instinct that can turn From vain pretence to proud disdain; Yet more I prize a simple heart Paying credulity with pain. I bow before the noble mind That freely some great wrong forgives; Yet nobler is the one forgiven, Who bears that burden well, and lives. It may be hard to gain, and still To keep a lowly, steadfast heart; Yet he who loses has to fill A harder and a truer part. Glorious is it to wear the crown Of a deserved and pure success;- He who knows how to fail has won A crown whose lustre is not less. / Great may he be who can command And rule with just and tender sway; Yet is diviner wisdom taught Better by him who can obey. Blessed are those who die for God, And earn the martyr's crown of light— Yet he who lives for God may be A greater conqueror in His sight. EVENING HYMN. THE shadows of the evening hours Fall from the darkening sky; Upon the fragrance of the flowers The dews of evening lie. Before Thy throne, O Lord of Heaven! We kneel at close of day; Look on Thy children from on high, And hear us while we pray. A 1 پل ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. 337 The sorrows of Thy servants, Lord, Oh! do not Thou despise; But let the incense of our prayers Before Thy mercy rise; The brightness of the coming night. Upon the darkness rolls: With hopes of future glory chase The shadows on our souls.. O Slowly the rays of daylight fade; So fade within our heart The hopes in earthly love and joy, That one by one depart: Slowly the bright stars, one by one, Within the heavens shine;- Give us, O Lord! fresh hopes in heaven, And trust in things divine. Let peace, O Lord! Thy peace, O God! Upon our souls descend; From midnight fears and perils, Thou Our trembling hearts defend; Give us a respite from our toil, Calm and subdue our woes; Through the long day we suffer, Lord, Oh! give us now repose! PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 'I Do not ask, O Lord! that life may be A pleasant road; I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me I do not ask I know too Aught of its load; that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet; well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet. For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead: Lead me aright— Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed- Through Peace to Light. I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst shed Full radiance here; 338 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. £ Give but a ray of Peace, that I may tread, Without a fear. I do not ask my cross to understand, My way to see,— Better in darkness just to feel Thy Hand, And follow Thee. Joy is like restless day, but Peace Divine Like quiet night. Lead me, O Lord! till perfect Day shall shine, Through Peace to Light. Richard Huie. RICHARD HUIE was born at Aberdeen in 1795. He was educated at the High School and University of Edinburgh. He studied for the medical profession both in Edinburgh and London, and after practising for a short time in Dundee, he settled in Edinburgh, and became distinguished in his profession. He compiled th "Family Hymn-Book," in which are some hymns written by him- self. THE DYING CHRISTIAN. My body wastes, my strength delays, My check is sunk and pale; My feeble flutt'ring pulse betrays How fast my spirits fail. The garden spreads its ev'ry charm To tempt me forth again; But friendship's kind encircling arm Assists my steps in vain. In vain the sun ascends the sky, Or darkness vails the lawn: By day, for evening's close I sigh; By night, for morning's dawn. Each waking act a burden seems To nature's sinking powers; And fancy's wild and fever'd dreams Disturb my sleeping hours. Come, then, my soul! since human skill Disowns all hope to save, My thoughts let death and judgment fill, And realms beyond the grave; And while my friends with doubt and fear, My fading members see, Let this dear truth my bosom cheer, That Jesus died for me! BENJAMIN GOUGH. 339 Jesus, my Prophet, Priest, and King! In death's cold arms has lain; Jesus, who blunts the monster's sting, Shall raise my dust again. "Tis sweet to feed upon His grace, Who reigns on Zion Hill; But oh! to see Him face to face, It must be sweeter still! My soaring spirit heav'nward tends, Ev'n now its porch I view; Adieu, my dear desponding friends! And thou, vain world, adieu! The faith that Christ is Lord on high A blest assurance gives; Shall ransom'd sinner fear to die While his Redeemer lives? / Benjamin Gough. BENJAMIN GOUGH was born at Southborough, Kent, in 1805. He has published "Kentish Lyrics,' ""An Indian Tale, and other Poems," &c. AWAKE! AWAKE! O ZION! AWAKE! awake! O Zion! Put on thy strength divine, Thy garments bright in beauty, The bridal dress be thine: Jerusalem the holy, To purity restor'd; Meek bride, all fair and lovely, Go forth to meet thy Lord. From henceforth pure and spotless, All glorious within, Prepared to meet the Bridegroom, And cleansed from every sin; With love and wonder smitten, And bowed in guileless shame, Upon thy heart be written The new mysterious name. Jerusalem the holy, I light and peace behold; i 340 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Her glowing altar flaming, Her candlesticks of gold, The heavenly Bridegroom's dwelling, The place of David's throne; Her solemn anthems swelling, Her pavement precious stone. Jerusalem victorious In triumph o'er her foes; Mount Zion, great and glorious, Thy gates no more shall close; Earth's millions shall assemble Around thine open door, While hell and Satan tremble, And earth and heaven adore. The Lamb who bore our sorrows Comes down to earth again; No Sufferer now, but Victor, For evermore to reign. To reign in every nation, To rule in every zone; O world-wide coronation! In every heart a throne. Awake! awake! O Zion! Thy bridal day draws nigh, The day of signs and wonders, And marvels from on high; The sun uprises slowly, But keep thou watch and ward; Fair bride, all pure and lowly, Go forth to meet thy Lord. { Julia Anne Elliott. JULIA ANNE ELLIOTT, the daughter of John Marshall, of Hallsteads, and wife of the Rev. H. V. Elliott, was the author of many beauti- ful hymns, some of which were published in a collection made by her husband in 1835, entitled, "Psalms and Hymns for Public Wor- ship." She died on the 3rd of November, 1841. HAIL! THOU BRIGHT AND SACRED MORN. HAIL! thou bright and sacred morn, Risen with gladness in thy beams! Light, which not of earth is born, From thy dawn in glory streams: 1 JULIA ANNE ELLIOTT. 341 Airs of Heaven are breath'd around, And each place is holy ground. Sad and weary were our way, Fainting oft beneath our load, But for thee, thou blessed day, Resting-place on life's rough road! Here flows forth the streams of grace, Strenghten'd hence we run our race. Great Creator! wno this day From Thy perfect work didst rest; By the souls that own Thy sway. Hallow'd be its hours and blest; Cares of earth aside be thrown, This day giv'n to Heaven alone! Saviour! who this day didst break The dark prison of the tomb, Bid my slumbering soul awake, Shine through all its sin and gloom; Let me from my bonds set free, Rise from sin, and live to Thee! Blessed Spirit! Comforter! Sent this day from Christ on high; Lord, on me Thy gifts confer, Cleanse, illumine, sanctify! All Thine influence shed abroad, Lead me to the truth of God! Soon, too soon, the sweet repose Of this day of God will cease; Soon this glimpse of Heaven will close, Vanish soon the hours of peace; Soon return the toil, the strife, All the weariness of life. But the rest which yet remains For Thy people, Lord, above, Knows nor change, nor fears, nor pains, Endless as their Saviour's love; Oh! may every Sabbath here Bring us to that rest more near! 342 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. } Sarah F. Adams. Sarah FlowER ADAMS left England for the United States of Amer- ica soon after the publication of her beautiful hymn, “Nearer, my God, to Thee," in Mr. W. Johnson Fox's collection of "Hymns and Anthems," London. She was a musical composer, and the writer of some roetical pieces, reviews, and of several works, afterwards published in a collected form, under the title of "Adoration, Aspi- ration, and Belief." She died in 1848. NEARER TO THEE. NEARER, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee; E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Though like a wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness comes over me, My rest a stone, Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! There let my way appear Steps unto heav'n, All that Thou sendest me In mercy giv'n; Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Then with my waking thoughts Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! And when on joyful wing, Cleaving the sky; Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! : 1 | ! : : : i : : :. : ANNE HOULDITCH. 343 THY WILL BE DONE! HE sendeth sun, He sendeth shower; Alike they're needful for the flower; And joys and tears alike are sent To give the soul fit nourishment: As comes to me, or cloud, or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done! Can loving children e'er reprove With murmurs whom they trust and love? Creator! I would ever be · A trusting, loving child to Thee: As comes to me or cloud or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done! Oh! ne'er will I at life repine! Enough that Thou hast made it mine; When falls the shadow cold of death, I yet will sing with parting breath: As comes to me or shade or sun, Father, Thy will, not mine, be done! Anne Boulditch or Shepherd. ANNE HOULDITCH was born at Cowes, Isle of Wight. Her father. the Rev. H. Houlditch, was the minister of Speen, Berkshire. She married a Mr. Shepherd. She wrote several religious books, “Ellen Seymour," &c., and also a hymn-book, entitled, "Hymns adapted to the Comprehension of Young Minds. She died at Blackheath, Kent, in 1857. AROUND THE THRONE OF GOD IN HEAVEN. AROUND the throne of God in heaven Thousands of children stand; Children whose sins are all forgiven, A holy, happy band, Singing Glory, glory, glory. What brought them to that world above, That heaven, so bright and fair, Where all is peace, and joy, and love? How came those children there, Singing Glory, glory, glory. Because the Saviour shed His blood To wash away their sin; P 344 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Bathed in that pure and precious flood, Behold them white and clean, Singing Glory, glory, glory. On earth they sought their Saviour's grace, On earth they loved His name; So now they see His blessed face, And stand before the Lamb, Singing Glory, glory, glory. James Elwin Millard, D.D. JAMES ELWIN MILLARD, was educated at Oxford; and after graduat- ing there, and being ordained, was appointed curate of Bradfield, Berkshire, in 1846. He was made vicar of Basingstoke, Hampshire, and is the author of several works, both in prose and verse. HYMN. GOD eternal! Lord of all! Lowly at thy feet we fall: All the earth doth worship Thee; We amidst the throng would be. All the holy angels cry, Hail! Thrice Holy, God Most High! Lord of all the heavenly powers, Be the same loud anthem ours! Glorified apostles raise Night and day continual praise: Hast Thou not a mission too For Thy children here to do? With Thy prophets' goodly line We in mystic bond combine; For Thou hast to babes revealed Things that to the wise were sealed. Martyrs, in a noble host, Of Thy cross are heard to boast; Since so bright the crown they wear, Early we Thy cross would bear. All Thy Church in heaven and earth, Jesus! hail Thy spotless birth; Own the God who all has made, And the Spirit's soothing aid. f THOMAS TOKE LYNCH. Offspring of a virgin's womb! Slain, and Victor o'er the tomb! Seated on the judgment-throne, Number us among Thine own! Day by day we magnify Thee, And would evermore be nigh Thee: Keep us from the tempter's snare; Spare Thy people! Jesus, spare! Thomas Toke Lynch. THOMAS TOKE LYNCH is the minister of Mornington Congregational Church, Hampstead Road. He is the author of "Essays on some of the Forms of Literature," "Lectures in Aid of Self-Improve- ment, ” “ The Rivulet," &c. His hymns have been much admired. PRAYER TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. GRACIOUS Spirit! dwell with me: I myself would gracious be, And with words that help and heal Would Thy life in mine reveal; And with actions bold and meek Would for Christ my Saviour speak. Truthful Spirit, dwell with me: I myself would truthful be, And with wisdom, kind and clear, Let Thy life in mine appear; And with actions brotherly Speak my Lord's sincerity, 0* Tender Spirit! dwell with me: I myself would tender be; Shut my heart up like a flower At temptation's darksome hour; Open it when shines the Sun, And His love by fragrance own. Silent Spirit! dwell with me: I myself would quiet be; Quiet as the growing blade Which through earth its way has made; Silently, like morning light, Putting mists and chills to flight. 345 + 346 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Mighty Spirit! dwell with me: I myself would mighty be; Mighty, so as to prevail Where unaided man must fail; Ever by a mighty hope Pressing on and bearing up. Holy Spirit! dwell with me; I myself would holy be; Separate from sin, I would Choose and cherish all things good; And, whatever I can be, Give to Him who gave me Thee. Cecil Frances Alexander. CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER, daughter of Major Humphreys, of Stra- bane, Ireland. In 1850 she married the Rev. W. Alexander, now Bishop of Derry. She has published numerous books, chiefly po- etry. Of one of these, "Hymns for Little Children," about a quarter of a million copies have been sold. She has also written for The Dublin University Magazine and The Contemporary Review. THE ROSEATE HUES OF EARLY DAWN. THE roseate hues of early dawn, The brightness of the day, The crimson of the sunset sky, How fast they fade away! Oh! for the pearly gates of heaven! Oh! for the golden floor! Oh! for the Sun of Righteousness That setteth nevermore! The highest hopes we cherish here, How fast they tire and faint! How many a spot defiles the robe That wraps an earthly saint! Oh! for a heart that never sins! Oh! for a soul wash'd white! Oh! for a voice to praise our King, Nor weary day or night! Her faith is ours, and heavenly hope, And grace to lead us higher: But there are perfectness and peace Beyond our best desire. I CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. 347 Oh! by Thy love and anguish, Lord! Oh! by Thy life laid down! Oh! that we fall not from Thy grace, Nor cast away our crown! WHEN JESUS CAME TO EARTH OF OLD. WHEN Jesus came to earth of old, He came in weakness and in woe; He wore no form of angel mould, But took our nature, poor and low. But, when He cometh back once more, There shall be set the great white throne, And earth and heaven shall flee before The face of Him that sits thereon. O Son of God! in glory crowned, The Judge ordained of quick and dead! O Son of man! so pitying found, For all the tears Thy people shed! Be with us in this darkened place,- This weary, restless, dangerous night; And teach, oh, teach us, by Thy grace, To struggle onward into light! M And since in God's recording book Our sins are written, every one,- The crime, the wrath, the wandering look The good we knew, and left undone. Lord, ere the last dread trump be heard, And ere before Thy face we stand, Look Thou on each accusing word, And blot it with Thy bleeding hand. And by the love that brought Thee here, And by the cross, and by the grave, Give perfect love for conscious fear, And in the day of judgment save. And lead us on while here we stray, And make us love our heavenly home, Till from our hearts we love to say, "Even so, Lord Jesus, quickly come." 348 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. TOUCHED WITH A FEELING OF OUR INFIRMITIES. WHEN, wounded sore, the stricken soul Lies bleeding and unbound, One only hand, a piercèd hand, Can salve the sinner's wound. When sorrow swells the laden breast, And tears of anguish flow, One only heart, a broken heart, Can feel the sinner's woe. When penitence has wept in vain Over some foul dark spot, One only stream, a streain of blood, Can wash away the spot. 'Tis Jesus' blood that washes white, His hand that brings relief; His heart that's touched with all our joys, And feeleth for our grief. Lift up Thy bleeding hand, O Lord! Unseal that cleansing tide; We have no shelter from our sin But in Thy wounded side. DAY BY DAY WE MAGNIFY THEE. WITH laud and loud thanksgiving, Thee, Saviour, we adore, The dead, who now art living, And shall live evermore! Set in the eternal city At God's right hand above, The Infinite in pity, The Measureless in love. For Thee the myrrh and spices, And the fine linen's fold; But not for Thee suffices The ointment and the gold; Things nobler still and fairer, O Saviour! shall be Thine; Man's heart hath offerings rarer, Sweet sound, and song divine. RICHARD F. LITTLEDALE, LL.D. D.C.L. And prayer shall grow intenser, And love and faith more strong, As swings the golden censer, As swells the glorious song, Up through the minster arches, Up to the skies star-sown, Where planets in their marches Have music of their own. Till, wafted by devotion, Our human voices call, Across the crystal ocean, Across the jasper wall, Unto the city golden, Where Christ is on His Throne, Where sweeter harps are holden, And better hymns are known; And blend their measure lowly With that eternal lay, The "Holy, holy, holy!" That rises night and day; And that great psalm expressing, While heaven's far echoes ring, Salvation, glory, blessing, And honour to our King!" 349 Richard F. Littledale, LL.D., D.C.E. RICHARD FREDERICK LITTLEDALE, an eminent scholar and author, was born in Dublin, September, 1833. After graduating at Oxford, he became curate of St. Matthias, in Thorpe Hamlet, and afterwards of St. Mary, London. Besides his prose works, he has written many hymns, and is well known as the editor and principal contributor to "The People's Hymnal. "1 THE FIGHT IS O'ER, THE CROWN IS WON. THE fight is o'er, the crown is won, The crown prepared for faith and love; And though Thy Martha's task be done, Thy Mary's part shall live above: Where sitting ever at His feet Who gave thee here His grace and might, His fruit shall to thy taste be sweet, His shadows clothe thee with delight. B 350 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. He who was dead and is alive, Himself shall pay thy loving toil, And set thee with the virgins five Who with their lamps have taken oil. O daughter! hearken, bow thine ear! Forget thy dwelling-place below; And in the love that knows no fear Unto the King's own palace go. Within the secret chambers pass Where He Himself is drawing thee, To see no more as in a glass, But face to face eternally. To see the golden sceptre's sheen, To hear the Monarch's voice divine Speak, "What is thy request, O Queen? The half of all My realm is thine." Then rest in peace until the day; The shades of night will pass ere long, And thou shalt wake to sunlight's ray, And hear the Lamb's glad marriage song. HYMN OF PRAISE. O JESUS CHRIST! the loving, My darkened heart illume With Thine own radiant glory, Which shineth through the gloom. Shine on till every shadow For ever flees away, O burning Flame of mercy! O everlasting Day! O Source of quenchless fervour! Set Thou my heart aflame, That it may glow with longing For Thy most blessèd name. Till every earthly foulness Be purged and disappear, Removed for ever from me By Thee, O Bridegroom dear! } MRS. EMMA TOKE. 351 f To Thee, O truest Bridegroom! My soul in thought I raise; To Thee, my heart's Beloved! I sing my hymn of praise. Oh! let my inmost being Be ever merged in Thine! Make Thou my heart Thy dwelling, O Jesus Christ divine! That every thought of evil Thy presence forth may chase, And only Thou, my Saviour, Fill that abiding-place. So let it find, dear Master, In Thee alone its rest; So let it seek Thee, Jesus, And gaining Thee, be blest. Mrs. Emma Toke. MRS. TOKE is the wife of the Rev. Nicholas Toke, rector of Goding- ton, Ashford, Kent. Her hymns have been published by the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge. THOU ART GONE UP ON HIGH. THOU art gone up on high To mansions in the skies, And round Thy throne unceasingly The songs of praise arise. But we are lingering here, With sin and care oppress'd; Lord! send Thy promised Comforter, And lead us to Thy rest! Thou art gone up on high: But Thou didst first come down, Through earth's most bitter agony To pass unto Thy crown: And girt with griefs and fears Our onward course must be; But only let that path of tears Lead us, at last, to Thee! 352 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Thou art gone up on high: But Thou shalt come again, With all the bright ones of the sky Attendant in Thy train. Oh! by Thy saving power, So make us live and die, That we may stand, in that dread hour, At Thy right hand on high! The Rev. Frederick George Lee. THE REV. F. G. LEE is vicar of All Saints, Lambeth. He studied at Oxford, and. was Newdigate prizeman in 1854. He has written The Martyrs of Vienne and Lyons," "Our Village and its Story, "Petrovilla," "Lays of the Church," and several volumes of ser- mons and lectures. THE DEATH OF ST. ALBAN. LAUD the grace of God victorious, Sing a triumph o'er the foe; Tell of him, a martyr glorious, For the changeless truth laid low; Faithful servant, valiant soldier, Whom all lands and ages know. Valiant soldier! noble martyr! First of Britain's sons to die; Pagan ire and cries withstanding By the grace that fell from high, By the strength of Him protected Who in strength and power was nigh. Craggy way, and steep and narrow, Dark and drear the path of blood; Cruel foes were pressing round him As he touched the Jordan's flood, Yet he fought, a soldier valiant, And the enemy withstood. Patient, humble, like his Master, He resigned a spirit calm; Sheathed a sword no longer needed, And took up an endless psalm: Crowned with coronal unfading, Now he bears a martyr's palm. 19 # HENRY GEORGE TOMKINS. 353 7 Laud and honor to the Father, To the Son who reigns on high; With the Holy Ghost proceeding Forth from each eternally, Be salvation and dominion, Equal might and majesty! Henry George Tomkins. HENRY GEORGE TOMKINS was educated at Trinity College, Cam- bridge, and became curate of Kegworth in 1857. He is now vicar of Branscombe, Sidmouth. He has contributed numerous poems and hymns to various collections of sacred poetry. OCCUPY TILL I COME. WORK while it is called to-day, Watch and pray! With both thine hands right earnestly, As in the sight of God most high, Thy calling ply. Watch! it is the Master calls thee; Pray! it is His ear that hears; Up! shake off thy chilly fears! Mindful that whate'er befalls thee Leaves thee farther on thy way; Watch and pray. Watch! for demons haunt around thee; Sin and harm beset thy path; Yet be sure that nothing hath Power to hinder or confound thee, So thou faithfully alway Watch and pray. Pray! lest watching make thee weary; Praying thou shalt never fail; Though the night be long and dreary, Though the dawn be faint and pale, Brightens fast the perfect day; Watch and pray. 354 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ! 1 The Rev. Henry Collins. THE REV. HENRY COLLINS was educated at Oxford, and took his de- gree in the year 1854, and was ordained a minister of the English Church, but afterwards became a Roman Catholic. The hymn given below was first published in "Hymns for Schools and Mis- sions.' JESUS. JESUS, meek and lowly, Saviour, pure and holy, On Thy love relying, Hear me humbly crying. Prince of life and power, My salvation's tower, On the cross I view Thee, Calling sinners to Thee. There behold me gazing At the sight amazing; Bending low before Thee, Helpless, I adore Thee. 99 By Thy red wounds streaming, With Thy life-blood gleaming, Blood for sinners flowing, Pardon free bestowing. By that fount of blessing Thy dear love expressing, All my aching sadness Turn Thou into gladness. Lord in mercy guide me, Be Thou e'er beside me; In Thy ways direct me, 'Neath Thy wings protect me. Reb. James Gabh, B.A. THE REV. JAMES GABB, B.A., was curate of Barton-le-Street, and is now chaplain at Castle Howard. He is the author of "Hymns and Songs of Pilgrim Life." PUBLIC WORSHIP. LORD, in Thy courts we stand, Intent to worship Thee; Here lift the supplicating hand, Here bend the adoring knee. REV. JAMES GABB, B. A. 355 To draw us near, Unveil Thy face, Reveal Thy grace, And bless us here! For while we pray we sin, Our praises are defiled; Thoughts of the world intrude within The soul, by sense beguiled. To draw us near, Unveil Thy face, Reveal Thy grace, And bless us here! We listen to Thy Word, Thy counsels and commands, And know what pleasure they afford The heart that understands. To draw us near, Unveil Thy face, Reveal Thy grace, And bless us here! We share the Sacred Feast, And, weary, we recline Once more upon Thy loving breast, And feel a joy divine. To us draw near, Unveil Thy face, Reveal Thy grace, And bless us here! The height of heavenly thought Our sacred portion is, While here the inward fire is wrought To ecstacy of bliss. To us draw near, Unveil Thy face, Reveal Thy grace, And bless us here! And bless us when we part: Daily in us renew The lowly, faithful, loving heart, That longs Thself to view, To us draw near, Unveil Thy face, Reveal Thy grace, Thou Saviour dear! 356 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Mrs. Charles. ELIZABETH RUNDLE is the daughter of John Rundle, Esq., late M.P. for Tavistock, Devonshire, where she was born. She was married to Mr. Andrew Paton Charles. She is the author of the "Chroni- cles of the Schonberg Cotta Family,' "The Draytons and Dave- nants," and other tales. She has also published a book entitled, "The Voice of Christian Life in Song." AT THE FOOT OF THE CROSS. NEVER farther than Thy cross, Never higher than Thy feet; Here earth's precious things seem dross, Here earth's bitter things grow sweet. Gazing thus, our sin we see Learn Thy love while gazing thus; Sin which laid the cross on Thee, Love which bore the cross for us. Here we learn to serve and give, And, rejoicing, self deny; Here we gather love to live, Here we gather faith to die. Symbols of our liberty And our service here unite; Captives, by Thy cross set free, Soldiers of Thy cross, we fight. Pressing onwards as we can, Still to this our hearts must tend; When our earliest hopes began, Then our last aspirings end. Till amid the hosts of light, We, in Thee redeemed complete, Through Thy cross made pure and white, Cast our crowns before Thy feet. 7 COME, AND SEE. MASTER, where abidest Thou? Lamb of God, 'tis Thee we seek; For the wants which press us now Other aid is all too weak, Canst Thou take our sins away? MRS. CHARLES. 357 May we find repose in Thee? From the gracious lips to-day, As of old, breathes, "Come, and see." Master, where abidest Thou? We would leave the past behind; We would scale the mountain's brow, Learning more Thy heavenly mind. Still, a look is all our lore, The transforming look to Thee: From the living Truth once more Breathes the answer, 66 Come, and see." Master, where abidest Thou? How shall we Thine image best Bear in light upon our brow, Stamp in love upon our breast? Still, a look is all our might; Looking draws the heart to Thee, Sends us from the absorbing sight With the message, ، ، Come, and see." Master, where abidest Thou? All the springs of life are low, Sin and grief our spirits bow, And we wait Thy call to go. From the depths of happy rest, Where the just abide with Thee, From the Voice which makes them blest Falls the summons, "Come, and see. Christian, tell it to thy brother, From life's dawning to its end; Every hand may clasp another, And the loneliest bring a friend; Till the veil is drawn aside, And from where her home shall be Bursts upon the enfranchised Bride The triumphant, "Come, and see!" "" www 358 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Anna Shipton. ANNA SHIPTON is the authoress of "Precious Gems for the Saviour's Diadem," published in 1863, The Brook in the Way," "Original Hymns and Poems," "The Cottage on the Rock," and other books. THE VIGIL. FATHER, my cup is full! My trembling soul I raise; Oh! save me in this solemn hour, Thy might and love to praise. $ Father, my cup is full! But One hath drunk before, And for our sins Thy face was hid, When the bitter draught ran o'er. Father, my cup is full! But Thou dost bid me drink; I know Thy love the chalice mixed, And yet I faint-I shrink. Alone He drank the cup, The holy sinless One, That not one soul on earth again Should drain the dregs alone. Father, forsake me not! O! Christ, I look to Thee; And by Thy midnight agony, Do Thou remember me. Gerard Moultrie. GERARD MOULTRIE is the son of the Rev. John Moultrie. He was educated at Oxford, and was ordained in 1852. In 1864, he became the incumbent of Barrow-Gurney, Bristol, and was appointed vicar of South Leigh, near Oxford, in 1868. He is the author of "Hymus and Lyrics," and has edited various other volumes. He is one of the editors of "The People's Hymnal," in which several of his hymns are published. BROTHER, NOW THY TOILS ARE O'ER. BROTHER, now thy toils are o’er, Fought the battle won the crown, On life's rough and stormy shore, Thou hast laid thy burden down, Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. GERARD MOULTRIE. 359 Through death's valley, dim and dark, Jesus guide thee in the gloom, Show thee where His footprints mark Tracts of glory through the tomb. Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. Angels bear thee to the land Where the towers of Zion rise; Safely lead thee by the hand To the fields of paradise. Grant him. Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. White-robed at the golden gate Of the New Jerusalem, May the host of martyrs wait, Give thee part and lot with them. Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. Choirs of angels over us Bear Christ's weak and trembling lamb, Give thee peace with Lazarus In the breast of Abraham! Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. Rest in peace: the gates of hell Touch thee not till He shall come For the souls He loves so well, Dear Lord of the heavenly home! Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. Earth to earth, and dust to dust, Clay we give to kindred clay, In the sure and certain trust Of the resurrection day. Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. Christ the Sower, sows thee here; When the eternal day shall dawn, He will gather in the ear On that resurrection morn. Grant him, Lord, eternal rest With the spirits of the blest. 1 360 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Miss M. A. Stodart. MISS M. A. STODART is a modern writer of pieces of poetry, published in various periodicals. She has also written the following works: "Hints on Reading," London, 1839; "Scriptural Poems for Children." 1840; "Every-Day Duties," 1840; "National Ballads," 1841; "Female Writers," 1842; "Principles of Education," 1844. TRUE JOY. You ask me for gladness, For music, and mirth; But my harp thrills with sadness To strains sprung from earth. Shall I sing of earth's pleasure? 'Tis passing away; Or of music's light measure? How vain is the lay! Shall I chaunt beauty's splendour? I muse on the tomb. Shall I praise earthly grandeur? 'Tis silence and gloom. The flowers ye are wreathing Are fading and frail; And the songs ye are breathing, They sound like a wail. One note, while I'm singing, Peals sad on mine ear; And its deep tones are ringing, "True joy lies not here.' But I know where high gladness Pours forth her rich stream, Where joy is not madness, And life is no dream. SUCCESS IS FROM THE LORD. HE stands, a stripling slight and small Against that man of might; Yet calm and tranquil is his brow, And firm his heart for fight. Why should he shrink from giant-strength! God's Word is sure and tried; Why should he fear what men can do? The Lord is on his side. REV. FREDERICK WHITFIELD. 361 His brothers' scorn he hath withstood, The fear of doubting king, And there, defenceless and unarmed, He stands with stone and sling. Goliath's brow on him is bent With bitter scoffing word; But David fears not sword nor spear- His trust is in the Lord. 'Tis done! one stone has laid him low, The giant's on the ground; And gladdening shouts from Israel's camp Re-echo wild around. Their youthful champion they praise- The faithful and the brave; And David feels with silent joy, The Lord is strong to save. And I, to war with mighty foes, A youthful soldier stand; Jesus, be with me in the fight, Stretch forth Thy helping hand; The devil, world, and flesh are joined In all their might and pride; But wherefore should I turn away If Thou art on my side? Rev. Frederick Whitfield. THE REV. FREDERICK WHITFIELD was educated at the University of Dublin, and was for some time a curate in Yorkshire, and afterwards the minister of Kirkby-Ravensworth. He is the author of numerous works "Gleanings from Scripture," "The Christian Casket," in prose and verse, "Voices from the Valley," "Sacred Poems and Prose," and many others. THERE'S NOUGHT ON EARTH TO REST UPON. THERE's nought on earth to rest upon, All things are changing here, P The smiles of joy we gaze upon, The friends we count most dear: One Friend alone is changeless, The One too oft forgot, Whose love hath stood for ages past- Our Jesus changeth not. --3- 362 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The sweetest flower on earth That sheds its fragrance round, Ere evening comes has withered, And lies upon the ground. The dark and dreary desert Has only one green spot, 'Tis found in living pastures— Our Jesus changeth not. Clouds soon o'ercast our summer sky, So beautiful, so bright, And while we still admire it, It darkens into night: One sky alone is cloudless, There darkness enters not, 'Tis found alone with Jesus- And Jesus changeth not. E'en friendship's smile avails not To cheer us here below, For smiles are all deceitful, They quickly ebb and flow: One smile alone can gladden, Whate'er the pilgrim's lot, It is the smile of Jesus- For Jesus changeth not. And thus our bark moves onward, O'er life's tempestuous sea, While death's unerring hand Is stamp'd on all we see: But faith has found a living One, Where hope deceiveth not, Our life is hid with Jesus- And Jesus changeth not. There's nought on earth to rest upon, All things are changing here, The smiles of joy we gaze upon, The friends we count most dear: One Friend alone is changeless, The One too oft forgot, Whose love hath stood for ages past- Our Jesus changeth not. 1 1 REV. FREDERICK WHITFIELD. 363 Mat THERE IS A NAME I LOVE TO HEAR. THERE is a name I love to hear, I love to speak its worth; It sounds like music in mine ear, The sweetest name on earth. It tells me of a Saviour's love Who died to set me free; It tells me of His precious blood, The sinner's perfect plea. It tells me of a Father's smile, Beaming upon his child; It cheers me through this "little while," Through desert, waste, and wild. It tells me what my Father hath In store for ev'ry day, And, though I tread a darksome path, Yields sunshine all the way. It tells of One whose loving heart Can feel my deepest woe, Who in my sorrow bears a part That none can bear below. It bids my trembling heart rejoice, It dries each rising tear, It tells me, in "a still small voice," To trust and never fear. Jesus! the name I love so well, The name I love to hear! No saint on earth its worth can tell, No heart conceive how dear. This name shall shed its fragrance still Along this thorny road, Shall sweetly smooth the rugged hill That leads me up to God. And there with all the blood-bought throng, From sin and sorrow free, I'll sing the new eternal song Of Jesus' love for me. 4364 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. J SAW THE CROSS OF JESUS. I SAW the cross of Jesus When burden'd with my sin; I sought the cross of Jesus To give me peace within: I brought my sin to Jesus; He cleans'd it in His blood; And in the cross of Jesus I found my peace with God. I love the cross of Jesus, It tells me what I am: A vile and guilty creature, Saved only through the Lamb; No righteousness, no merit, No beauty can I plead; Yet in the cross I glory, My title there I read. I clasp the cross of Jesus In ev'ry trying hour, My sure and certain refuge, My never-failing tower. In ev'ry fear and conflict, I more than conqueror am; Living, I'm safe, or dying, Through Christ the risen Lamb. Sweet is the cross of Jesus! There let my weary heart Still rest in perfect peace, Till life itself depart. And then in strains of glory I'll sing Thy wond'rous power, Where sin can never enter, And death is known no more. Reb. Thomas Dabis. THE REV. THOMAS DAVIS, incumbent of Roundhay, Yorkshire, is the author of hymns, first published in two volumes, entitled, "Songs for the suffering," and "The Family Hymnal," 1859-60. WHY COMES THIS FRAGRANCE? WHY comes this fragrance on the summer breeze, The blended tribute of ten thousand flowers, REV. THOMAS DAVIS. 365 To me, a frequent wanderer 'mid the trees That form these gay, though solitary bowers? One answer is around, beneath, above; The echo of the voice, that God is Love! Why bursts such melody from tree and bush, The overflowing of each songster's heart So filling mine, that it can scarcely hush Awhile to listen, but would take its part? 'Tis but one song I hear where'er I rove, Though countless be the notes, that God is Love! Why leaps the streamlet down the mountain's side, Hastening so swiftly to the vale beneath, To cheer the shepherd's thirsty flock, or glide Where the hot sun has left a faded wreath, Or, rippling, aid the music of the grove? Its own glad voice replies, that God is Love! In starry heavens at the midnight hour, In ever-varying hues at morning's dawn, In the fair bow athwart the falling shower, In forest, river, lake, rock, hill, and lawn, One truth is written: all conspire to prove, What grace of old reveal'd, that God is Love! Nor less this pulse of health, far-glancing eye, And heart so moved with beauty, perfume, song, This sprit, soaring through a gorgeous sky, Or diving ocean's coral caves among, Fleeter than darting fish or startled dove: All, all declare the same, that God is Love! Is it a fallen world on which I gaze? Am I as deeply fallen as the rest, Yet joys partaking, past my utmost praise, Instead of wandering forlorn, unblest? It is as if an unseen spirit strove To grave upon my heart that God is Love! Yet wouldst thou see, my soul, this truth display'd In characters which wondering angels read, And read, adoring; go, imploring aid To gaze with faith, behold the Saviour bleed! Thy God in human form! Oh, what can prove, If this suffice thee not, that God is Love! Cling to His cross; and let thy ceaseless prayer Be, that thy grasp may fail not! and, ere long, 366 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Thou shalt ascend to that fair temple, where In strains ecstatic, an innumerous throng Of saints and seraphs, round the throne above Proclaim for evermore that God is Love! Ada Cambridge. ADA CAMBRIDGE is the author of "Hyms on the Litany," "Hymns on the Holy Communion," published in 1866, and a tale entitled, "The Two Surplices." THE TEMPLE OF CHRIST. On the dark threshold of His dwelling-place The Master stands; And hark! He knocks all gently at the door, As he has-oh! so often-knocked before; His voice is raised to plead With those His love has freed From woe eternal and death's iron bands. How shall He find His temple-home prepared When He comes in? That Light of light, with purity divine, Must it upon a soul's pollution shine? Is it in ruins there- Once in His sight so fair? Will it be choked with noisome weeds within? O Lord of life! if it indeed be so, Then grant, we pray, Thine aid Divine its beauty to restore! Let it be cold and dark and foul no more, But build its altar up: Pour out the brimming cup Of Thine own love, to cleanse each stain away. Ah! as within this great cathedral church The sunbeams shine On pure and perfect beauty, may the light Of heavenly grace and pardon, soft and bright, Shine upon hearts made fair By daily work and prayer- Meet for Thy presence and Thy love divine. MATTHEW BRIDGES. 367 Matthew Bridges. "" MATTHEW BRIDGES is the author of many beautiful hymns, publisk ed in various collections. He has also written "Jerusalem Regained, "Babbicombe; or, Visions of Memory, with other Poems," "Popu- lar Ancient and Modern Histories," and many other works. CROWN HIM WITH MANY CROWNS. CROWN Him with many crowns, The Lamb upon His throne; Hark! how the heavenly anthem drowns All music but its own. Awake, my soul, and sing Of Him who died for thee; And hail Him as thy matchless King Through all eternity. Crown Him the Virgin's Son! The God incarnate born, Whose arm those crimsom trophies won Which now His brow adorn. Fruit of the mystic rose, As of that rose the stem; The root whence mercy ever flows, The Babe of Bethlehem. Crown Him the Lord of Love: Behold His hands and side! Those wounds, yet visible above, In beauty glorified. No angel in the sky Can fully bear that sight, But downward bends his wondering eye At mysteries so bright. Crown Him the Lord of Peace, Whose power a sceptre sways In heaven and earth, that wars may cease, And all be prayer and praise. His reign shall know no end; And round His pierced feet Fair flowers of paradise extend Their fragrance, ever sweet. 368 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. i ¡ I Crown Him the Lord of Years, The Potentate of time, Creator of the rolling spheres, Ineffably sublime; Glassed in a sea of light, Whose everlasting waves Reflect His form-the Infinite! Who lives, and loves, and saves. Crown Him the Lord of Heaven! One with the Father known, And the blesst Spirit, through Him given From yonder triune throne! All hail, Redeemer, hail! For Thou hast died for me: Thy praise and glory shall not fail Throughout eternity. Rev. John Chandler. THE REV. JOHN CHANDLER, a student of Corpus Christi College, Ox- ford, was ordained in the Church of England in 1831. He is vicar of Witley, Surrey. He has written "Prayer and Meditations from the Writings of the Divines of the Anglican Church," "Hymns of the Primitive Church," numerous sermons, &c. THE CORNER-STONE. CHRIST is our Corner-stone, On Him alone we build; With His true saints alone The courts of heaven are filled. On His great love Our hopes we place Of present grace, And joys above. Oh! then, with hymns of praise These hallowed courts shall ring; Our voices we will raise ܂ The Three in One to sing; And thus proclaim, In joyful song, Both loud and long, That glorious Name. JANE C. B. SIMPSON. 369 } Here, gracious God, do Thou For evermore draw nigh; Accept each faithful vow, Ahd mark each suppliant sigh; In copious shower, On all who pray, Each holy day, Thy blessings pour. P* Here may we gain from Heaven, The grace which we implore; And may that grace, once given, Be with us evermore, Until that day When all the blest To endless rest Are called away. Jane C. B. Simpson. JANE CROSS BELL, the daughter of James Bell, Esq., advocate, was born in Glasgow. She wrote in the Edinburgh Literary Journal, of which her brother, Henry Glassford Bell, was the editor. Her name became Simpson by marriage. She is the author of "Piety of Daily Life," "April Hours," "Woman's History," &c., &c. THE MOURNER. Down to dust when thou wast hurried, Early friend, in being's bloom, One was left behind who buried All her heart's love in thy tomb Fairer form than thine was never Lowly laid in grassy bed; Is its beauty past for ever? Do I live, and art thou fled? Other love hath sought to woo me From the memory of thine own; But its echo must pursue me, Deathless still, though thou art gone. Truer faith than thine was never Poured like dew on mortal head; Is its ardour quenched for ever? Do I live, and art thou fled? ! 370 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Yes; from earth, and all its gladness, Thou art past, and no return; Yet my soul, though sick with sadness, Mourns not as the hopeless mourn. Holier trust than thine hath never Showered its peace on dying bed; Faith, whose fruit is joy forever? Sinless, pure, where thou art fled. Though thy form to dust is given, Yet thou liv'st in glory free; And my spirit lifts to heaven All the love it bore for thee. Oh! that it may fail me never, Till I mingle with the dead: Blessed hope! to dwell forever In that land where thou art filed! TO A YOUNG FRIEND. On! remember, my friend, though the earth may be bright, Time drives on its years with untameable flight, And the deeper its spell round the spirit is cast, The darker the struggle to leave it at last. Remember that God hath revealed, of His love, That there is but one heaven-His temple above; And this is the bliss at which mortals should aim- To walk in His presence, and honour His name. Alas! that so many, and thou with the rest, Shouldst dream in this world to be perfectly blest; With never one thought of His goodness and power, Whose hand gives the sunshine, and sends down the shower! Oh! pause but an hour in thy careless career, And let Wisdom but once breathe her words in thine ear; Let Religion but show thee one glimpse of her light, And the joys that now charm thee will fade into night. Let the Spirit Divine shed His beams on thy mind, And scatter the shadows thy vision that blind; Let God be revealed in His justice and truth, And thy soul as a fountain polluted from youth: REV. JOHN ROBERT MACDUFF, D.D. 371 1 In amaze, as if waked to new life, thou wilt start, For all things will seem changed to thy fast-changing heart; And solitude then with delight will be sought, As the handmaid of knowledge, the sister of thought! Then the laws thou hast broken, most holy and wise, In the mirror of conscience against thee will rise; And doubts may assail thee, of vengeance and doom Laid in wait to o'erwhelm thee when pass'd through the tomb! But just in a moment, when full in thy sight, Thy sin and God's justice stand awfully bright, And in fear and despondence thou gazest around, Unknowing whence pardon and peace may be found,— Oh! then let His mercy, who died in our stead, And bore all the curse of our guilt on His head, The Holy, the Just One, rush clear on thy mind, Till there lurk not a shadow of doubting behind: Thou wilt feel all the depths of thy spirit to move, As thou ponderest the weight of thy Saviour's love; Thy heart will be melted, thy tears will flow free, And the dew of repentance fall gently on thee! Oh! happiest moment of all thou hast past, When thy soul to earth's vanity wakens at last! And thou feel'st that its pleasures and aims are but dust, When heaven is thy home, and Jehovah thy trust! Reb. John Robert Macduff, D.D. JOHN ROBERT MACDUFF is a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, and also a well-known author. Many thousands of his works have been sold. He was educated at Edinburgh University, and was first ordained a clergyman to the parish of Kettins, in Forfarshire. He afterwards removed to St. Madoes, Perthshire, and from that to Sandyford, Glasgow. GRACE AND PEACE. WHEN far from the hearts where our fondest hopes centre, Denied for a time their loved presence to share, In spirit we meet, when the closet we enter, And hold sweet communion together in prayer. 372 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 Oh! fondly I think, as night's curtains surround them, The Shepherd of Israel tenderly keeps The angels of light are cncamping around them, They are watched by the eye that ne'er slumbers nor sleeps. When the voice of the morning once more shall awake them, And summon them forth to the calls of the day, I will think of that God who will never forsake them, The Friend ever near though all else be away. Then why should one thought of anxiety seize us, Though distance divide us from those whom we love? They rest in the covenant mercy of Jesus, Their prayers meet with ours in the mansions above. Oh! sweet bond of friendship, whate'er may betide us, Though on life's stormy billows our barks may be driven ! Though distance, or trial, or death may divide us, Eternal reunion awaits us in heaven! JESUS, MY SAVIOUR, LOOK ON ME! JESUS, my Saviour, look on me! For I am weary and oppressed; I come to cast my soul on Thee; Thou art my Rest. Look down on me, for I am weak; I feel the toilsome journey's length; Thine aid omnipotent I seek— Thou art my Strength. I am bewildered on my way; Dark and tempestuous is the night: Oh! shed Thou forth some cheering ray- Thou art my Light. I hear the storms around me rise; But when I dread th' impending shock, My spirit to her Refuge flies- Thou art my Rock. When the accuser flings his darts, I look to Thee-my terrors cease; Thy cross a hiding-place imparts- Thou art my Peace. SARAH MILES. 373 Standing alone on Jordan's brink, In that tremendous, latest strife, Thou wilt not suffer me to sink- Thou art my Life. Thou wilt my ev'ry want supply, E'en to the end, whate'er befall; Through life, in death, eternally, Thou art my All. Sarah Miles. SARAH MILES is an American authoress. Her maiden name was Sarah Appleton. Her husband was a schoolmaster in Boston. THOU, WHO DIDST STOOP BELOW. THOU, who didst stoop below To drain the cup of woe, And wear the form of frail mortality, Thy blessed labours done, Thy crown of victory won, Hast passed from earth, passed to Thy home on high. It was no path of flowers Through this dark world of ours, Beloved of the Father, Thou didst tread; And shall we in dismay Shrink from the narrow way When clouds and darkness are around it spread? O Thou who art our life! Be with us through the strife! Thine own meek head by rudest storms was bowed; Raise Thou our eyes above, To see a Father's love Beam like a bow of promise through the cloud. E'en through the awful gloom Which hovers o'er the tomb, That light of love our guiding star shall be: Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy way to tread, Friend! Guardian! Saviour! which doth lead to Thee. 374 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. The Rev. Henry Downton. THE REV. HENRY DOWNTON was educated at Cambridge, and was first ordained in 1843. He became the minister of St.John's, Chatham, and afterwards went to be the British chaplain at Geneva. HARP, AWAKE ! HARP, awake! tell out the story Of our love, and joy, and praise; Lute, awake! awake our glory, Join a thankful song to raise! Join we, brethren faithful-hearted, Lift the solemn voice again O'er another year departed Of our threescore years and ten. Lo! a theme for deepest sadness In ourselves with sin defiled; Lo! a theme for holiest gladness In our Father reconciled! In the dust we bend before Thee, Lord of sinless hosts above! Yet in lowliest joy adore Thee, God of mercy, grace, and love! Gracious Saviour! Thou hast lengthened And hast blest our mortal span, And in our weak hearts hast strengthened What Thy grace alone began. Still, when danger shall betide us, Be Thy warning whisper heard; Keep us at Thy feet, and guide us By Thy Spirit and Thy Word! Let Thy favour and Thy blessing Crown the year we now begin; Let us all, Thy strength possessing, Grow in grace, and vanquish sin! Storms are round us, hearts are quailing, Signs in heaven, and earth, and sea; But, when heaven and earth are failing, Saviour, we will trust in Thee! ANNA LAETITIA WARING. 375 Anna Laetitia Waring. ANNA LAETITIA WARING, of whom nothing is known, is the author of a volume entitled, "Hymns and Meditations," published in 1850. The following piece, taken from this volume, will be known wherever English hymns circulate. MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND. FATHER, I know that all my life Is portioned out for me, And the changes that are sure to come I do not fear to see; But I ask Thee for a patient mind, Intent on pleasing Thee. I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, Through constant watching wise, To meet the glad with joyful smiles, And wipe the weeping eyes; And a heart at leisure from itself, To soothe and sympathise. I would not have the restless will That hurries to and fro, Seeking for some great thing to do, Or secret thing to know; I would be treated as a child, And guided where I go. Wherever in the world I am, In whatsoe'er estate, I have a fellowship with hearts To keep and cultivate, And a work of lowly love to do For the lord on whom I wait. So I ask Thee for the daily strength, To none that ask denied, And a mind to blend with outward life While keeping at Thy side; Content to fill a little space, If Thou be glorified. And if some things I do not ask, In my cup of blessing be, I would have my spirit filled the more With grateful love to Thee; } 3 376 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And careful-less to serve Thee much, Than to please Thee perfectly. There are briars besetting every path, That call for patient care; There is a cross in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer; But the lowly heart that leans on Thee Is happy anywhere. In a service which Thy will appoints, There are no bonds for me; For my inmost heart is taught "the truth," That makes Thy children "free," And a life of self-renouncing love Is a life of liberty. Rev. C. H. Spurgeon. CHARLES HADDON SPURGEON was born at Kelvedon, Essex, 19th June, 1834. He was educated at Colchester, and afterwards at Maidstone. His first sermon was preached at the age of sixteen, when he was usher in a school. He was one of the lay preachers connected with a chapel at Teversham, near Cambridge. He was then called the "Boy Preacher." In 1854 he commenced his regular ministry in London, and is now by far the most popular preacher of the day. SWEETLY THE HOLY HYMN. SWEETLY the holy hymn Breaks on the morning air; Before the world with smoke is dim We meet to offer prayer. While flowers are wet with dews, Dew of our souls descend; Ere yet the sun the day renews; O Lord! Thy Spirit send. Upon the battle-field Before the fight begins, We seek, O Lord! Thy sheltering shield, To guard us from our sins. Ere yet our vessel sails Upon the stream of day, We plead, O Lord! for heavenly gales To speed us on our way. 1 30 MISCELLANEOUS. 377 On the lone mountain side, Before the morning's light The Man of Sorrows wept and cried, And rose refresh'd with might. Oh! hear us, then, for we Are very weak and frail, We make the Saviour's name our plea, And surely must prevail. Miscellaneous. COME UNTO ME, HARK! the voice of Jesus calling, "Come, thou laden, come to Me; I have rest and peace to offer; Rest, poor laboring one, for thee; Take salvation, Take it now, and happy be.” Yes, though high in heavenly glory, Still the Saviour calls to thee; Faith can hear his gracious accents- "Come, thou laden, come to Me; Take salvation, Take it now, and happy be." Soon that voice will cease its calling, Now it speaks, and speaks to thee; Sinner, heed the gracious message, To the blood for refuge flee; Take salvation, Take it now, and happy be. Life is found alone in Jesus, Only there 'tis offered thee- Offer'd without price or money, 'Tis the gift of God sent free; Take salvation, Take it now, and happy be. A. MIDLANE, Ф 378 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. OH! FOR THE ROBES OF WHITENESS. Он! for the robes of whiteness! Oh! for the tearless eyes! Oh! for the glorious brightness Of the unclouded skies! Oh! for the no more weeping, Within that land of love, The endless joy of keeping The bridal feast above! Oh! for the bliss of flying, My risen Lord to meet! Oh! for the rest of lying For ever at His feet! Oh! for the hour of seeing My Saviour face to face! The hope of ever being In that sweet meeting-place! Jesus! thou King of Glory, I soon shall dwell with Thee; I soon shall sing the story Of Thy great love to me. Meanwhile, my thoughts shall enter E'en now before Thy throne, That all my love may centre In Thee, and Thee alone. C. L. SMITH. THE CHOICE OF THE CHRISTIAN HEROES. It was the hour of evening prayer, It was the holy Sabbath night, Sunset was glowing in the air, Placid, and calm, and bright; When fierce Saladin did call To his side his warriors all; And in proud array they wound their way Up green Tiberia's height. With fettered hand and weary soul Each Christian captive followed on, j 1 1 MISCELLANEOUS. 379 Submissive to that base control, Till the fair hill was won. Oh! what depth of fire supprest Must have burned in every breast! For they were the knights of a thousand fights, Of the Temple and St. John. They stood and held their very breath, With rising heart and filling eye, For the blue sea of Gennesareth Beneath their feet did lie; Yon hills are guardians of the shore Where oft their Saviour trod before; And their hands are bound, and the holy ground Is the prey of Moslemrie? And, lo! it is the very hour When, on their far, their Christian shore, Those they love best from hall and bower Wend to the church's door: Full many a heart is lifting prayer For them, the lonely captives there. The old knights frown and the young look down, For their eyes are running o'er. Stately and sad, an old knight spake: Why, tyrants, have ye brought us here? Say, did ye wish to see them break The hearts that cannot fear? Know, our God will give us might Even to look upon this sight. My brethren, dry each drooping eye, The foe beholds your tear!" The Moslem chieftain answered him: (( Captives, look round ye, as ye stand! Look, ere the twilight closeth dim Upon this lovely land: See how the cloud, yon hills enfold, Turning their purple into gold; For the sun's last light makes all things bright, Save you, the captive band. "Is not the earth around ye fair? And do your hearts desire to die, Nor breathe once more the gladsome air, When morning paints the sky? 380 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. A precious thing is the light of day, And life should not be flung away. Say, would ye be on the green earth free? Pine ye for liberty? "Free shall ye be by a sultan's word, A word that ne'er was broken yet, Take ye but Allah for your Lord, And bow to Mahomet: Your trusty swords I will restore, Your heads shall wear the helm once more; By the Moslem band who rule this land, Ye shall be as brethren met. "Refuse-yon scimitars are keen; A stern and speedy death is near!" Full awful were those words, I ween: They thrilled against the ear. What did that true band reply? Every knight kneeled down to die, For they looked on the sea of Galilee; And one word they answered-" Here? " 22 Here, should the brave deny their God? Here, should the true forsake their faith? Here, where the living footsteps trod Of Him they owned in death? Here, where the silent earth and sca Bear witness to the Deity?" There was not a heart would from Christ depart By blue Gennesareth! So one by one they kneeled and died, That band of heroes and of saints; And the deep, deep stain of a crimson tide The hill's lone greenness taints. The hurrying work of death was done Ere in the pure wave sank the sun; And the twilight air was full of prayer, But not of weak complaints. Oh! many tears, ye brave and true, Oh! many tears for those were shed, Whose corpses by the waters blue Lay piled-unhonoured dead! Shrined in many a bleeding heart, Never did their names depart; MISCELLANEOUS. 381 + 1 And heaven's own light for many a night Played round each sleeping head. But a purer light than that whose ray Around their tombless corpses shone Was kindled in hearts far away By the deed which they had done! And, if the warriors' tempted faith Grew feeble in the hour of death, "Remember," they cried, "how the templars died, And the true knights of St. John!" NO MORE SEA. FORTH, unrestrained the tempest rush'd And toss'd the billows mountain high; The clouds, surcharg'd with thunder, flash'd, And darkness veil'd the mid-day sky. The sails were reef'd to scarce a span, Lash'd was the steersman to the helm, Our vessel bounded like a swan O'er waves that threaten'd to o'erwhelm. At last the sails were torn in shreds, The masts went crashing by the board; The thund'ring waves swept o'er our heads- We, helpless, cried unto the Lord. We sunk-the waters clos'd around, Life pass'd before me like a dream; I slept the sleep of death profound, And woke in this celestial beam. Transported to this peaceful strand, By angel convoy gliding near; I gaz'd upon the glorious land, And, wond'ring, found no sea was here! No sea, in tempest's fury toss'd, To fill maternal breasts with fears, Make orphans weep their fathers lost, And widows melt in bitter tears. No sea, with proud and powerful wave, To battle with the shatter'd bark, And o'er the vanquish'd sailor rave, Deep-sepulchr'd in cavern dark. 382 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ***WANA ل 1 No sea forth foaming all its shame, Emblem of guilt with conscience sear'd; A spirit of polluted name Ne'er on this holy hill appear'd. No sea-vast waste without a path― To separate the ransom'd race; No hostile fleets, with thund'ring wrath, Cut short the sailor's day of grace. No sea to bring the costly stores That lux'ry asks from foreign plain; Or nourish by her sandy shores The pearl for folly's glitt'ring train. No sea from which the scaly brood In evil net was often swept; Man asks no more the sea for food- His huuger lies where last he slept. T No sea, beneath exhaling beams, 1 To swell the cloud with genial rain; Man needs not here the murmuring streams To fertilise the smiling plain. No sea to bear in tainted ships The fetter'd captive o'er the wave; For Jesus spoke, with gracious lips, Redemption for the meanest slave. No sea, with constant ebb and flow, To picture sin-disorder'd things; Though lull'd in summer's warmest glow, It heaved beneath the halcyon's wings. No sea-when guilty earth was fir'd, And heaven recoil'd with awful sound, To feed the flame the waves conspir'd, Then melted, and no more were found. Seamen! the Bible-course pursue, And Jesus' saving grace implore, That you may make, with bearings true, The land where sea is found no more. REV. JOHN LONGMUIR. ! MISCELLANEOUS. 383 THE SPIRIT'S WORK. In various ways we cannot scan God deals with human hearts, Breaks into some, and through that breach, like His own lightning, darts; Through suffering or through terror takes rebellious wills by storm, And shows His love for them at times in stern and awful form. But silently, by slow degrees, like dew at evening hour, He steals into more gentle souls with sweet resistless power. Some souls when they begin to feel the weight of that great love Find that no earthly loveliness their sympathy can move. While others in created scenes with rapture see God's hand • Imprinting beauty on the face of sky, and sea, and land. One saint will walk the livelong day by Nemi's crystal main, And of the glorious scene at eve no memory retain; Another loves to gaze on flowers, and scents the sweetest rose, And straightway, crying, "God is good," in ecstasy she goes. Oh! there are endless means and ways, some stormy and some sweet, Through which God's guiding hand conducts His favoured children's feet; Thorns are in all, but some have few to tread down as they go, And every shrub or tree they pass its blossoms o'er them throw. The bleeding feet, the aching brow, the desert's scorching air, The tempter's lures, the inward strife, they are not doomed to share. Which are most blest? We dare not say. God has a work for each, A path, a purpose, and an end that to His feet will reach. LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON. 384 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. + 1 REPENTANCE AND FAITH. THERE a was ship, one eve autumnal, onward Steered o'er an ocean lake; Steered by some strong hand ever as if sunward: Behind, an angry wake; Before, there stretched a sea that grew intenser, With silver-fire far spread, Up to a hill mist-gloried, like a censer, With smoke encompassed; It seemed as if two seas met brink to brink, A silver flood beyond a lake of ink. There was a soul that eve autumnal sailing Beyond the earth's dark bars, Toward the land of sunsets never paling, Toward Heaven's sea of stars: Behind, there was a wake of billows tossing; Before, a glory lay. O happy soul! with all sail set, just crossing Into the Far-away; The gloom and gleam, the calmness and the strife, Were death before thee, and behind thee life. And as that ship went up the waters stately, Upon her topmasts tall I saw two sails, whereof the one was greatly Dark, as a funeral pall. But oh! the next's pure whiteness who shall utter? Like a shell-snowy strand, Or when a sunbeam falleth through the shutter On a dead baby's hand; But both alike across the surging sea Helped to the haven where the bark would be. And as that soul went onward, sweetly speeding Unto its home and light, Repentance made it sorrowful exceeding, Faith made it wondrous bright; Repentance, dark with shadowy recollections And longings unsufficed, Faith, white and pure with sunniest affections Full from the face of Christ: But both across the sun-besilvered tide Helped to the haven where the heart would ride. REV. W. ALEXANDER, D.D. MISCELLANEOUS. 385 • WE LOOKED FOR HAPPINESS AND PEACE, We looked for happiness and peace, But no enjoyment came; We hoped that sickness soon would cease, And health return again. Night went and came, and, day by day, Hope, like the sunbeam's flick'ring ray, That struggles through fast-fleeting cloud, Whose black'ning columns thick enshroud The fulgence of his mid-day beam, Slow faded from our happy dream; And we resigned her case to God, And prayed that He woud spare From the inflictions of His rod, Those who so helpless were. We sat by her couch, and anxious toiled To soothe her dying pain, And wept as she moaned and murmured wild, But tears were spent in vain. As pales the cheek of summer flower In sunny grot and leafy bower, As shed the skies their frosty blight, O'er blushing buds of promise bright, The blighting hand of death o'erswept That lovely being as she slept In fading beauty; and the breast Heaved a faint parting sigh O'er this world's fleeting happiness, In that last agony. Great God of our fathers! leave us not 'Neath Thine afflicting hand To mourn, as if our deserted lot No blessing could command. As dew-drops on the parchèd flower, Or sunlight through the shady bower, Or rainbow on the dark cloud's rim, Or moonlight on the waters dim, Send Thy peace on our troubled heart To soothe the wound of death's fell dart, And bid us hope, when life is o'er And glory has been won, We'll meet again, to part no more, With that angelic one. : G. M. BELL. 386 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ; SELF-EXAMINATION. WHEN night draws down the curtain of repose, And spreads her couch, the weary limbs to rest, Ere yet her soothing spells mine eyelids close, Let me unfold the tablets of my breast; And on its page, by conscience traced, to read Th' unflatt'ring records of the vanished day, Each thought of sin, each idle word and deed- Alas! how dense-how dark the long array! ""Tis but one day," the worlding whispers here:- And what is time, in its uncounted age, Since first it woke upon our infant sphere, To run untired its restless pilgrimage? 'Tis made of minutes, and ere one can fly, Eternity may hang upon its wing;- Come, then, sweet contemplation, here draw nigh, Lean o'er my couch, and heavenly wisdom bring. How hast thou spent the moments that are past? Thus she inquires, and conscience, trembling, hears; Hast thou, in every doubt and trial, cast On One who loves thee all thy faithless fears? Hast thou possessed Him in each breathless thought, In all thy ways His sovereign grace confessed, Thy heart entire before His footstool brought, For all thou hast, His wond'rous mercy blest? Say, hast thou lived but for this world alone, Where pleasure's streams the. taint of sin contain, That, like the water, turning all to stone, Harden the heart, and conscience sighs in vain? And hast thou wept thy weakness in the dust, And moral leprosy that haunts the mind? Through the fierce crowd of each opposing lust, Pressed on, thy Saviour's willing power to find? Hast thou by faith His robe of righteousness Grasped with the heart thy nakedness to hide? If so-disease has fled, and He will bless, Freely forgive, and never, never chide! Thus commune on thy bed, and praise the Lord, Who called thee out of darkness unto light; Mourn each unwilling sin, and trust His word, Walking in love and faith, and not by sight. MISCELLANEOUS. 387 GOD IS LOVE. WITH doubts, and cares, and fears opprest, Man's wayward thoughts desponding rove; Where shall the troubled soul find rest? Oh! fly to God, for God is love. When bowed beneath afflictions sent, Thy frequent wanderings to reprove, Hail them as Heaven's kind mercies, meant For thy soul's good, for God is Love. In Jesus, hear His mercy speak; Hear Him who reigns in heaven above; From heaven He came the lost to seek; Jesus is God, and God is love. Trust, trust in Him--for you He died; By works of love thy faith approve; So shall thy soul in peace abide, And know, and feel that God is love. Thus may I live, thus let me die, That when the summons calls "Remove!" K My soul, redeemed, to heaven may fly, To sing with saints-Our God is love. ECHO! LORD TEIGNMOUTH. I STOOD on the banks of a swift-flowing river, While I mark'd its clear current roll speedily past, It seemed to my fancy for ever repeating That the dearest enjoyment of life would not last. Oh! tell me, I said, rapid stream of the valley, That bear'st in thy course the blue waters away, Can the joys of life's morning awake but to vanish, Can the feelings of love be all doom'd to decay? An Echo repeated-"All doom'd to decay." Flow on in thy course, rapid stream of the valley, Since the pleasures of life we so quickly resign, My heart shall rejoice in the wild scenes of nature And friendship's delights, while they yet may be mine. Must all the sweet charms of mortality perish, And friendship's endearments-ah! will they not stay? < 73 *388 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ¦ The simple enchantments of soft-blooming nature, And the pleasures of mind-must they too fade away? The Echo slow answered-"They too fade away." Then where, I exclaimed, is there hope for the mourner, A balm for his sorrow, a smile for his grief? If beautiful scenes like the present shall vanish, Where, where shall we seek for a certain relief? Oh! fly, said my soul, to the feet of thy Saviour, Believe in His mercy, for pardon now pray; With Him there is fulness of joy and salvation, Thy gladness shall live, and shall never decay! The Echo said sweetly-"Shall never decay." THE PILGRIM'S HOME. THERE are climates of sunshine, of beauty and gladness, Where roses are flourishing all the year long; Their bowers are despoiled not by wintery sadness, And their echoes reply to the nightingale's song: But coldly the Briton regards their temptations, Condemned from his friends and his kindred to roam, He looks on the brightness of lovelier nations, But his heart and his wishes still turn to his home. Oh! why is this duteous and home-loving feeling So seldom displayed by the pilgrim of life? While faith to his mind a bright scene is revealing, He toils through a world of sin, sorrow, and strife: Yet, lured by the paltry attractions around him, Too oft he forgets the pure pleasure to come, And wildly foregoes for the toys that surround him His hopes of a lasting, a glorious home. Not such is the Christian-devoted, believing, Through storm and through sunshine his trust shall abide: The way that he wends may be dark or deceiving, But heaven is his shrine, and the Lord is his guide. And when death's warning angel around him shall hover, He dreads not the mandate that bids him to come, It tell that his toils and temptations are over- 'Tis the voice of his Father: it calls to his Home. MISCELLANEOUS. 380 EVENING PRAYER. FATHER! by Thy love and power Comes again the evening hour: Light has vanished, labours cease, Weary creatures rest in peace. Thou whose genial dews distil On the lowliest weed that grows; Father! guard our couch from ill, Lull Thy children to repose. We to Thee ourselves resign, Let our latest thoughts be Thine. Saviour! to Thy Father bear This, our feeble evening prayer; Thou hast seen how oft to-day We, like sheep, have gone astray; Worldly thoughts, and thoughts of pride, Wishes to Thy cross untrue, Secret faults, and undescried, Meet Thy spirit-piercing view. Blessed Saviour! yet through Thee, Pray that these may pardoned be. Holy Spirit! breath of balm! Fall on us in evening's calm: Yet awhile, before we sleep, We, with Thee, will vigils keep; Lead us on our sins to muse; Give us truest penitence, Then the love of God infuse, Breathing humble confidence; Melt our spirits, mould our will, Soften, strengthen, comfort still! Blessed Trinity! be near Through the hours of darkness drear; When the help of man is far, Ye more clearly present are. Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Watch o'er our defenceless head; Let your angels' guardian host Keep all evil from our bed, Till the flood of morning rays Wake us to a song of praise. 390 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. THE LAMB IS THE LIGHT THEREOF.` THE fairest light that ever shone In summer skies, The purest rays that ever flashed On mortal eyes, Shall be but as the dead of night To that eternal, glorious light That shall be given To those who, for a little space, Have bravely run the Christian race, And entered Heav'n. Sometimes a gleam of that pure light Is found below, In humble hearts that on their way With patience go. It makes those hearts with rapture bound, And, though the scene be dark around, It cheers them on, Augments and brightens day by day, And still emits a purer ray, Till life is done. That spotless sun, which ever lights Heaven's peaceful clime, Which no mutation knows, nor shade Of night or time, Is but the reflex of His love Who, slain for us, now reigns above, Our Saviour-God: And, while on high His glory's shed, He guides the pilgrim feet that tread Where once Hc trod. 3 "HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP." I TREAD the churchyard path alone, Unseen, to shed the gushing tear; read, on many a mouldering stone, Fond record of the good and dear: My soul is well-nigh faint, with fear, Where doubting Mary went to weep; And yet, what sweet repose is here! "He giveth His beloved sleep." ... MISCELLANEOUS. 391 The world has but a feverish rest, To weary pilgrims sometimes given, When pleasure's cup has lost its zest, And glory's hard-earn'd crown is riven: Here-softer than the dews of even Fall peaceful on the slumbering deep, Asleep to earth-awake to Heaven- "He giveth His beloved sleep." Yes, on the grave's kind pillow rise No carking care, no dream of woe: On earth we close our aching eyes, And heaven-ward all our visions grow. The airs of Eden round us blow, And in their balm our slumbers steep: God calls his chosen home; for so "He giveth His beloved sleep.' 19. Oh! vainly would the human voice, In this dull world of sin and folly, Tell how the sainted dead rejoice In those high realms, where joy is holy; Where no dim shade of melancholy Beclouds the rest which angels keep; Where, peace and bliss united wholly, "He giveth His beloved sleep." If on that brow, so fair, so young, Affliction trace an early furrow; If hope's too dear, delusive tongue Hath broke its promise of to-morrow, Seek not the world, again to borrow The deathful fruit its votaries reap, Man gives his loved ones pain and sorrow: "God giveth His beloved sleep." THE DESPISER. 'LORD, how could I despise Thee! I knew Thee Lord of all, And every night and morning (( Before thee I did fall, Rendering Thee thanks and praises, And asking Thee to bless: When did I e'er despise Thee, The Lord our righteousness! ! : * 392 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. "I knew Thee, yes, I knew Thee, And much Thy name I prized: Thou knowest, Lord, Most Holy, I never thee despised". But his voice, faltered, trembled, And tears his eyes did fill; For another voice spoke to him, And his own sad voice was still. W "Hast thou not dealt unkindly, And looked down in scorn and pride Upon thy lowlier brother, Walking meekly at thy side? I sent him to thee often, And your roads together lay; I sent him to thee weeping, And he, weeping, came away. His heart was faint within him- He lacked a guiding friend; And I blessed thee and enriched thee, Even for that blessed end: I sent him, but ye scorned him— I sent him in My name; But he evermore returned More mournful than he came." Sad thoughts are these, beloved, A death-bed to surround; And I write them for your warning While youth and health abound, That His loving words ye ponder, Whose face ye soon shall see: "If ye did it to My brethren, Ye did it unto Me." CAROLINE J. YORKE. STANZAS. By revelation's sacred beam One blissful truth is taught, Which oft hath lightened poet's dream, And cheered his waking thought; And oh! 'mid all our care and woe, 'Tis sweet to think, to feel, to know, bán đ f 3 MISCELLANEOUS. 393 That there are sinless spirits of heaven, To whom the charge of man is given. Servants of God! whose joy was heard Till heaven's high concave rung, When earth from chaos first was rear'd, And on her centre hung; Although exalted far above All human thought in blissful love, Ye still may feel man's hopes and fears While journeying through this vale of tears. 'Twas yours to sing Messiah's birth, Redemption's wondrous plan; Glory to God, and peace on earth, And mercy unto man. "" And still your joyous anthems rise, And long re-echo through the skies, When one poor sinner turns away From paths of darkness unto day. And 'tis my creed, some chosen bands Unseen among us move, To execute the high commands Of mercy and of love; To shield in peril's threatening hour, To hover round the midnight bower, And guard us in our lone repose, From earthly and infernal foes. In that dread scene of joy and fear When man resigns his breath, It may be yours to linger near, And smooth the bed of death; And when the mortal conflict's o'er, When sin and pain are felt no more, To speed the soul's triumphant flight To regions of eternal light. There, while she shares the bliss unknown To mortal ear or eye, And pays glad homage at the throne Of majesty on high, How sweet 'twill be, a thought to cast On dangers feared and sorrows past, And hold high converse with the Powers Who aided in those darkened hours! Q* 1 394 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Perchance the sullen sceptic sneers At thoughts so fair and bright; And let him-wrapt in doubts and fears, 'Mid error's fearful night. I would not change the wildest dream, Illumed by truth's celestial beam, For all the joys that e'er were found, Or hoped for, on unhallowed ground. MISS M. A. STODART. "AT EVENING TIME IT SHALL BE LIGHT." PAUSE, Christian pilgrim, journeying on Through life's long day of toil and pain; Here is a staff to lean upon, 3 And rest thy trembling, wearied frame; "Twill prove thy comfort, thy delight- "At evening time it shall be light." Thy morning may be overcast— Clouds may obscure the brightest sky; The gath'ring storm may burst at last- But, oh! take courage, God is nigh, His promise puts all fears to flight- "At evening time it shall be light.' "" No mid-day's sun may gild thy path, To cheer thee in thy journeying home; Yet still rely on precious faith- In Jesus Christ, and Him alone. Then is His promise thy delight— "At evening time it shall be light." Now thou art near thy journey's end; A few more hours thy labour's done; Oh! tarry not; ere long thou'lt find The battle fought, the victory won; Christian, thy prospects then are bright, "At evening time it shall be light." Dread not the valley thou must pass; Fear not, the conflict soon is o'er: Trust Him, He's faithful to the last, He'll lead thee to the happy shore; And thou shalt find, O welcome sight! "At evening time it shall be light." } MISCELLANEOUS. 395 + Christian, now thy race is run- Thy heavenly Father's call'd thee home; There thou shalt shine fair as the sun, — In the presence of the uncreated One. No morning cloud, nor sable night, "But dwell in everlasting light." F. TURNER. LINES ON THE COLISEUM. I HAIL thy desolation, blood-stained pile! 'Tis as it should be! 'Mid the prostrate halls Of justice and of piety-where senates once Gave peace to nations, or the white-robed choirs Chanted hosannas to the King of kings- There let the stranger ruminate, there weep For time's insatiate ravages. But here, Where earth is rank with carnage, blood of man Wasted in hideous revelry by man; While coward wealth and bloated power looked on, And congregated myriads yelled applause In frantic exultation; e'en the maid, With lip disparted and suspended breath, Gasping in curious earnestness, surveyed The writhe of mortal agony-shall we weep? Weep-that the tide of time hath swept them hence, And left their mansions desolate-their halls Of murd'rous triumph silent, echoless, As their own graves?-that rapine's felon hand Hath rent thy pond'rous architrave, and dislodged Thy deep imbedded cornice, and unlocked Thine adamantine vault's gigantic mass? -Yet thou art beauteous! From thine every part A thousand dreams of ages passed away Crowd on the eye of fancy-from the arch, Tier above tier in long succession piled, Through which the azure canopy of heaven Beams in unclouded brilliance, to the vault Black in its dense profundity of shade: Whilst o'er thy mould'ring galleries, straggling wild, The tangled foliage, nature's mantle, veils In graceful negligence the guilty scene. Be ever thus, proud fabric! With that brow Of shattered grandeur still to after ages 396 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. 1 (More eloquent than all the lore of schools) Whisper of man's mortality. And thou, Stranger! if well attuned thy thoughts, receive The solemn lesson! turn thee from the scene Of pagan godliness to man redeemed— To man o'er death victorious, led from earth By perfect holiness and Christian love! REV. DR SHUTTLEWORTH. RUTH'S CHOICE. "ENTREAT me not. Let Orpah go, If Moab still has charms for her: No more my native land I know, Or love the paths which cause to err. A hand she does not-cannot see, Still waves me on to follow thee. (6 Entreat me not. Whate'er the road Thou choosest, there I too shall tread; And wheresoe'er thou mak'st abode, There also shall I rest my head. For thee I henceforth all resign- Thy people and thy God are mine. "Entreat me not. When life shall fail, And thou, my mother, com'st to die, With thee I'll face the shadow'd vale, And where thou'rt buried, I shall lie. My leading-stars-thy God and thou- Not even death shall part us now!" Daughter of Moab, nobly done! On, onward to the promis'd land! There shines of righteousness the sun; There dwell of saints the chosen band; On milk and honey shalt thou fare, And Israel's God adopt thee there. No more the widow's moan shall rend Thy bosom, wailing for the dead; New joys shall on thy steps attend, New virgins deck thy bridal-bed; A num'rous offspring round thee bloom, And monarchs issue from thy womb. ! MISCELLANEOUS. 397 More favour'd still, the promis'd seed Thy life-blood in His veins shall feel He, who for sinful man shall bleed, And Satan crush beneath His heel. Such honour on thy name shall rest, And unborn millions call thee blest! THE IDOLATRY OF THE HEART. THINK not because thou dost not bow Within some pagan fane, And breathest not a senseless vow To idols dead and vain; Because thou dost not bid the "stone" 66 Awake," and be thy "fear," Idolatry thou hast not known, Nor hast an idol near. What though thou hast not raised thine eye The glorious sun to praise, Nor marked the silvery moon on high With adoration's gaze; Though thou in superstition's rite Hast never taken part, Still may there be the gloom of night And idols in thine heart. If thou in gold hast put thy trust, And loved the shining pelf, Then a mere slave to sordid dust, Thou hast betrayed thyself, And made an idol doubtlessly, Enshrin'd within thy soul; Mammon has been set up in thee, And holds thee in control. Art thou a mother! E'en thy child May be a curse to thee, And all thy mother's love, beguil'd, A stumbling-block may be: If but that gentle babe, thy bliss, Take more than lawful part Of what is due to heaven, it is An idol in thy heart. 398 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Or be it pleasure that prevails, With all a syren's smiles, To lead thee on through flowery vales With soft seductive wiles, That is thy idol and thy bane: Forsake the witching sin, And turn to Him whose love should reign First and supreme within. Talk not of pagan deities, Or gods of wood and stone: Full many a passion worse than these Their willing votaries own; Ambition, power, whatever tells With all the tempter's art, Dethrones the Infinite, and dwells An idol in the heart. SLEEPING IN JESUS. ASLEEP in Jesus! Blessed sleep! From which none ever wakes to weep; A calm and undisturbed repose, Unbroken by the last of foes! Asleep in Jesus! Oh! how sweet To be for such a slumber meet; With holy confidence to sing, That death has lost his venomed sting. Asleep in Jesus! Peaceful rest! Whose waking is supremely blest; No fear, no woe, shall dim that hour That manifests the Saviour's power. Asleep in Jesus! Oh! for me May such a blissful refuge be; Securely shall my ashes lie, Waiting the summons from on high. 6 Asleep in Jesus! Time nor space Debars this precious "hiding-place;" On Indian plains or Lapland snows, Believers find the same repose. 1 MISCELLANEOUS. 399 T Asleep in Jesus! Far from thee. Thy kindred and their graves may be; But thine is still a blessed sleep, From which none ever wakes to weep. THE PALM TREE. THY lofty shade is o'er the lonely streams That through Judea's sunlit valleys flow; Thy form is mirror'd in the fountain-gleams, As lofty and as bright as long ago. MRS. MACKAY. And still thy graceful leaves are gently stirr'd By the soft breeze, beside the laughing waters, As when at eve the voice of song was heard, And 'neath thee passed light steps of Israel's daugh- ters. Thy stately form still towers in Lebanon- Still waves on Sinai's steep and frowning side, As when upon its glowing top there shone Glory resplendent men could not abide. E'en now, perchance, by thy tall trunk is sitting Some outcast wanderer of the Promised Land, Across whose mournful breast is dimly flitting Remembrance of the glorious and the grand. PAIN. Once more before his view the temple shines, A "mount of snow" upon the sacred hill; And on his cheek there plays, as day declines, The cool breeze wandering from Siloa's rill. REV. A. R. BONAR. JESUS, Saviour, sympathise With Thy servant's agonies; In Thy lifetime Thou hast known Racking pains that made Thee moan- Pain of body, grief of mind, Shame and suffering combined. With Thy sanctifying hand Touch me gently, and command 400 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Some soft drops of dewy balm To be shed with potent charm; Comfort was to Thee imparted, Comfort Thou the broken-hearted. Pain! what power within thee lies, Mystery of mysteries! That the holy and the just, Even Christ our Saviour, must, Ere He gain full power to bless, Taste thee in thy bitterness? Not alone the token thou Of an angry Father's brow; Rather of His willingness To renew, receive, and bless: Welcome, then, be thou to me, In thy sharpest agony. Only in that solemn hour Let me feel, O God of power! That Thy gentle hand alone Gives the pain that makes me moan, High experience let me gain, Fortitude in suffering pain. THE DEATH BED. WE watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing, soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed;-she had Another morn than ours. THOMAS HOOD. ! 1: : · } MISCELLANEOUS. 401 PUBLIC WORSHIP. HARK! in that strain, majestic, loud, and long, Sweet voices mingle: woman, man, and child Send up to God on high their matin song, Mixed with young men and tender maidens mild. Let senseless Atheists, in their frenzy wild, Against religion their reproaches shower: That virtue, bantered, slandered, and reviled, Hath balm inestimable in her power, Which they shall want in vain in their dark dying hour. The sacred service finished, to their home The glad and grateful worshippers depart, And there refer to that mysterious Tome That speaks so plain to every human heart: Man's friend it is, his counsellor, his chart; His beacon bright on life's tempestuous sea; His shield to blunt earth's else destroying dart; The key that sets his captive spirit free; His guide most sure and true to blessed eternity. JOSEPH JAMES, ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold:- Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, P What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head, And, with a look inade of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. LEIGH HUNT. 402 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. J THE WIDOW. THE heaviest wave on life's dark sea, Poor mourner, has passed over thee! Go to thy lonely dwelling-place, Go seek that kind, familiar face; Bereaved and desolate art thou, Where is thy wonted welcome now? Weep in thine agony, weep on, The treasure of thy heart is gone; Ah! thou wilt weep, yet not repine, Though words of fondness once were thine, Though of thine earthly stay bereft, Thou hast one hope, one solace left; Bright rays upon thy gloom are cast, The bitterness of death is past. ANNA H. POTTS. MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS. 'Tis night, and silence reigns around, Life's troubled billows sunk to rest, The storm subsided into calm, And man with grateful quiet blest. I gaze around; nor form of life, Nor thing of motion meets mine eye, Nor murmuring voices stir the air, Nor lightsome laugh, nor sorrowing sigh. Yet am I not alone; my soul With yon pale moon, each solemn star, Mysterious converse seems to hold, For holy faith brings nigh the far. Not all alone; for hosts unseen Around, the saints their vigils keep; And angel-sentinels all night Watch o'er my wakening and my sleep. Indeed, not all alone. Then yield, My spirit, to no vain alarms: Above, is sheltering Deity; Beneath, "the everlasting arms.” J. A. F. MISCELLANEOUS. 403 MORNING HYMN. Now that the sun is gleaming bright, Implore we, bending low, That He, the uncreated light, May guide us as we go. No sinful word, nor deed of wrong, Nor thoughts that idly rove, But simple truth be on our tongue, And in our hearts be love. And while the hours in order flow, O God! securely fence Our gates, beleaguer'd by the foe, The gate of every sense. And grant that to thine honour, Lord, Our daily toil may tend, That we begin it at Thy word, And in thy favour end. EVENING HYMN. THOU, O God! this day has spared us- Wearied, we lie down to rest; Through the silent watches guard us— Let no foe our sleep molest. Lord! do Thou our guardian be; Sweet it is to trust in Thee. App Pilgrims here on earth, and strangers, All we have Thy hand bestows; Keep us, Lord! this night from dangers, In Thy love may we repose; And when life's short day is past, Rest with Thee in heaven at last. BEAR THY BROTHER'S BURDEN. Is thy cruse of comfort wasting? Rise and share it with another, And through all the years of famine It shall serve thee and thy brother: + 404 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Love Divine will fill thy storehouse, Or thy handful still renew; Scanty fare for one will often Make a royal feast for two. For the heart grows rich in giving; All its wealth is living grain; Seeds, which mildew in the garner, Scattered, fill with gold the plain. Is thy burden hard and heavy? Do thy steps drag wearily? Help to bear thy brother's burden; God will bear both it and thee. Numb and weary on the mountains, Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow? Chafe that frozen form beside thee, And together both shall glow. Art thou stricken in life's battle? Many wounded round thee moan; Lavish on their wounds thy balsams, And that balm shall heal thine own. Is the heart a well left empty? None but God its void can fill; Nothing but a ceaseless fountain Can its ceaseless longings still. Is the heart a living power? Self-entwined, its strength sinks low; It can only live in loving, And by serving love will grow. ALL WORK IS HOLY. WORK while life is given; Faint not, although 'tis hard; Work is the will of Heaven, And peace is the reward! All work is holy. What though thy lot be hidden, And proud ones pass thee by? Feel duty as God-bidden, Act as beneath His eye! For work is holy. + 4 MISCELLANEOUS. 405 Cleave to thy humble place, Ennoble it with thy zeal; Work with a manful grace, Make fruitless cumberers feel That work is holy. Scorn nought as plain or mean; All with thy worth impress? That all where thou hast been May day by day confess That work is holy. Work while life is given, Nor shrink though hardship scars; True suffering fits for Heaven, There SIN alone debars! For work is holy. Angels' ears now listen Thy earth-spurned, plaintive tale; Angels' eyes shall glisten, While they thy scars unveil! For work is holy. They'll know these are the proof That thou hast striven well; Nor idly stood aloof, While other brave ones fell; For work is holy. Work while life is given; Pine not, although 'tis hard; Work is the will of Heaven, And peace is the reward! All work is holy. LET ME GO. LET me go!The day is breaking, Morning bursts upon mine eye, Death this mortal frame is shaking- But the soul can never die! Let me go! The day-star, beaming, Gilds the radiant realms above; Its full glory on me streaming. Lights me to that land of love! f 3 406 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. Let me go!-My warfare's ended; Night's dark shades have passed away; All in view is glory splendid, Boundless and eternal day! Let me go!-My Master's chariot Waits in state to bear me homc- Purchase of His grace and merit,- Alleluia! Lord, I come! Now I am Thine, and Thine for ever, While eternal ages roll; Sense and sin no more shall sever Thy blest presence from my soul! Now, amid the sacred splendour Of the glorious hosts above, Everlasting praise I'll render To that God, whose name is Love! HEAVENLY SERVICE. I As not, Lord, for crown or victor's palm; Enough for me, After life's storms, the sunshine and the calm Of rest with Thee. MARY PYPER. Nor yet such rest I ask, as idlesse sweet Of passive joy: But I will crave, ambitious at Thy feet, Some high employ- Some part to fill, some sphere or place to fìt In Thy great rule,- To learn or teach, to order or submit, As in Thy school: ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ 1 Whether, with powers all new, and senses strange, Fresh truths I scan; Or, with the old, refined, in higher range, Soar, where I ran. When Thou didst visit us, Thou didst not choose Life's easier lot; How should I, then, that portion, Lord, refuse, Thou, here, didst not? H " MISCELLANEOUS. 407 } Thy house is large; not for Thy guests one room Dost Thou reserve: Nor is the banquet all—that light were gloom, Might we not serve. So many worlds I view, such realms and spaces, There needs must be Some room and use for all our powers and graces, In just degree. This life is much too short, for Thy great love Amends to make; Late we begin, and still ourselves reprove For some mistake. Our earth hangs heavy about us, clogs and clings Whate'er we try; Some hot desire or passion melts our wings, If once we fly. So that our time is all contained with tears For fault and loss; Repentance and amendment, all our years, Leave work but dross. But when we leave behind us all this clay, These mists and fears, And soar into the unobstructed day, Beyond the spheres; That will be work indeed if Thou assign To each his station, Unerring and unending as the line Of Thy creation. C. L. FORD. DOUBT NOT, FEAR NOT. ONWARD, onward, doubt not, fear not, Nerve with faith thy fainting soul! Though as yet the end appear not, Thou shalt surely reach the goal: Though, as on thy sleepless pillow Memory scans the fearful past, Round thee breaks the yawning billow, Howls above the whirlwind's blast; 408 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. ► Though thou knowest that to-morrow Is with sorer trial fraught, Pregnant with severer sorrow Than the sorrowing past has brought; Though the storm, in bursting o'er thʊe, Spread destruction's bolts around, Some most dear struck down before thee, Dearer friends shall yet be found. He whose angel stood beside thee, He whom darkness cannot shroud, He who sware to keep and guide thee When the tempest raged aloud— Height nor depth His love can sever, Heaven nor hell His covenant vow; Hath thy Saviour failed thee ever? Will He, can He, fail thee now? Nay, for to the Eternal City As thou drawest daily nigh, Greater love, and grace, and pity, Issue forth from God most high. Messages of peace shall greet thee, Angels' feet thy path attend; Yea, Himself shall come to meet thee, And conduct thee to the end. "LET US NOT SLEEP AS DO OTHERS." SLEEP not, soldier of the cross! Foes are lurking all around; Look not here to find repose: This is but thy battle-ground. Up! and take thy shield and sword; Up! it is the call of Heaven: Shrink not, faithless, from thy Lord; Nobly strive as He hath striven. Break through all the force of ill; Tread the might of passion down- Struggling onward, onward still, To the conquering Saviour's crown! 1 MISCELLANEOUS. 409 i K K Through the midst of toil and pain, Let this thought ne'er leave thy breast- Every triumph thou dost gain Makes more sweet thy coming rest. "HEAR MY PRAYER, O GOD!” GREAT God! hear Thou my prayer, Thy righteous wrath forbear; My pride is bowed beneath Thy chastening rod; Behold with pitying eye My ceaseless agony— Though great my sin, forsake me not, O God! Oh! let Thy grace impart Strength to a contrite heart; Bleeding and faint, it sinks beneath its load; Trembling, and sore dismayed, I call on Thee for aid- Incline Thine ear unto my prayer, O God! Let not Thine anger burn Till dust to dust return; W. GASKELL. Look down in mercy from Thy dread abode; Dispel the clouds that roll Like billows o'er my soul, Scatter the darkness with Thy light, O God! R Teach me no more to stray From Thine appointed way; Fain would I journey in the narrow road; I But snares beset me round, T M And deadly fears abound- Then hear me, aid me, strengthen me, O God! T. WESTWOOD. THE YEAR JUST GONE. HARK! how the solemn midnight bell, From yonder turret lone, Proclaims, with loud and startling knell, Another year is gone! ¦ / • 1 410 GEMS FROM THE SACRED POETS. And shall we drain the wassail-cup, Or raise the song of glee, As swiftly, surely, winding up Our thread of life we see? No! if, in youth's unthinking day, Ere care had marked the brow, We trifled months and years away, Let us be wiser now; And, conscious of the mighty debt We to our Maker owe, No longer struggle to forget We reap that which we sow. No! let us seek, with holy dread, Through His exalted Son, A pardon for the year that's fled, And grace for that begun— Grace to improve the little hour For peace and safety given; Grace to resist temptation's power, And tread the path to heaven. THE WANDERER'S RETURN. THE wanderer no more will roam, The lost one to the fold hath come, The prodigal is welcomed home, O Lamb of God! in Thee. Though clothed with shame, by sin defiled, The Father hath embraced his child, And I am pardoned, reconciled, O Lamb of God! in Thee. It is the Father's joy to bless; His love provides for me a dress, A robe of spotless righteousness, O Lamb of God! in Thee. Now shall my famished soul be fed; A feast of love for me is spread; I feed upon the children's bread; O Lamb of God! in Thee. MISCELLANEOUS. 411 Yea, in the fulness of His grace, He puts me in the children's place, Where I may gaze upon His face, O Lamb of God! in Thee. I cannot half His love express; Yet, Lord, with joy my lips confess This blessed portion I possess, O Lamb of God! in Thee. And when I in Thy likeness shine, The glory and the praise be Thine, That everlasting joy is mine, O Lamb of God! in Thee. JUST AS THOU ART. JUST as thou art-without one trace Of love, or joy, or inward grace, Or meetness for the heavenly place, O guilty sinner! come. Thy sins I bore on Calvary's tree, The stripes, thy due, were laid on Me, That peace and pardon might be free— O wretched sinner! come. Come, leave thy burden at the cross; Count all thy gains but empty dross; My grace repays all earthly loss- O needy sinner! come. Come, hither bring thy boding fears, Thy aching heart, thy bursting tears; 'Tis mercy's voice salutes thine ears; O trembling sinner! come. "The Spirit and the bride say, Come!” Rejoicing saints re-echo, "Come!" Who faints, who thirsts, who will, may come- Thy Saviour bids thee come! THE END. ! : Show 1 > 11 0 ! }} 1 } } } 1 1 "2 1 SUT RTREK UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN 3 9015 00576 1260 SO THE GAME SU م ال عالی ده