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 V 
 
A QUIET MIND. 
 
 When all is done and said, 
 
 In the end thus shall you find, 
 
 He most of all doth bathe in bliss, 
 That hath a quiet Mind : 
 
A QUIET MIND. 
 
 And, clear from worldly cares, 
 
 To deem can be content 
 The sweetest time in all his life 
 
 In thinking to be spent. 
 
 The body subject is 
 
 To fickle Fortune's power, 
 And to a million of mishaps. 
 
 Is casual every hour : 
 And Death in time doth change 
 
 It to a clod of clay ; 
 Whenas the Mind, which is divine, 
 
 Runs never to decay. 
 
 Companion none is like 
 
 Unto the Mind alone ; 
 For many have been harm'd by speech, 
 
 Through thinking, few or none. 
 Fear oftentimes restraineth words. 
 
 But makes not thoughts to cease ; 
 And he speaks best, that hath the skill 
 
 When for to hold his peace. 
 
 Our wealth leaves us at death ; 
 
 Our kinsmen at the grave ; 
 But virtues of the Mind unto 
 
 The heavens with us we have. 
 Wherefore, for virtue's sake, 
 
 I can be well content 
 The sweetest time in all my life. 
 
 To deem in thinking spent. 
 
 The Paradise of Dainty Devices. 
 
b ^ 
 
THE LENT JEWELS.— P. 346. 
 
ENGLISH 
 
 SACEED POETRY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 SIXTEENTH, SEVENTEENTH, EIGHTEENTH, AND 
 NINETEENTH CENTUEIES. 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED 
 BY ROBEET ARIS WILLMOTT, M.A. 
 
 INCUMBENT OF BEAR WOOD. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 HOLMAN HUNT, J. D. WATSON, JOHN GILBERT, J. WOLF, ETC. 
 
 ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 ROUTLEDGE, WARNE, & ROUTLEDGE, FARRINGDON STREET. 
 
 NEW YOEK : 56, WALKER STREET. 
 
 MDCCCLXIII. 
 
LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOU, 
 BREAD STREET HI 1. 1.. 
 

 PREFACE, 
 
 My late friend Me. James Montgomery observed after 
 quoting some lines from King's memorial of his wife, 
 that he did not dare to offer a comment on the old- 
 fashioned couplets, lest he should disturb the sanctity and 
 repose which they were calculated to inspire. I share the 
 apprehension. Our old Poems leave on the mind the 
 same impression as our old Sermons. They are alike 
 distinguished by intensity of purpose and naturalness of 
 sentiment. We do not pray, was the complaint of 
 Coleridge, with that entire, unsuspecting, childlike truth- 
 fulness which shines so beautifully in Jeremy Taylor and 
 Andrews. And surely our praise and thankfulness rarely 
 swell with the fervour and exultation which inflame the 
 songs of Crashaw and Herbert. Nor is the elevation of 
 thought, so conspicuous in our elder literature, commonly 
 noticeable in the modern. Along the high argument of 
 Spenser the spiritual ear is braced, as the traveller loses 
 his deafness on the top of the Pyramid. 
 
 M545844: 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A remembrance of our Worthies is not unneedful ; the 
 grey fathers of learning and imagination recede every day 
 further from the eye. Science has a phrase — acoustic 
 shadow — which is significant and suggestive. In a great 
 city you may hear the chime of bells in one street, and 
 lose it in the next ; the buildings bury the sound 
 Application of the comparison is easy: our times do 
 not favour the diffusion of solemn, thoughtful strains ; 
 frequent obstacles come between the music and the 
 hearers. The chime is broken by the objects that intercept 
 it. The old is scattered by the new. 
 
 The parallel between our Poets and Preachers might be 
 pleasantly enlarged. What Butler said of Donne is true 
 of the lighter fancies of his and the succeeding age. The 
 poem, like the discourse, is often a voluntary, without any 
 particular design of air ; the composer changes the key at 
 will ; whereas, in some of our finest modern works, is traced 
 a regular and consecutive advance in the order of the lines, 
 causing the effect, according to its degree, which is felt in an 
 oratorio of Handel, The labour, which modern writers 
 bestow on the expression of thought, was lavished by their 
 ancestors on the thoughts themselves. Style is contrasted 
 with conception ; the armour with the giant who wears it. 
 Indeed, the weight of sense and the gathered richness of 
 illustration are distinguishing features of the seventeenth 
 century, in prose, and verse. You must work a poem, as you 
 work a problem. In a foreign language, the case of Michael 
 
 vi 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Angelo may recur to the memory, and exemplify the 
 remark. Wordsworth, who translated Ariosto at the 
 rate of a hundred lines in the day, was only able to 
 finish one out of the fifteen sonnets which he attempted, 
 and he frankly confessed that the others "were too 
 much for him." 
 
 Of course, harshness of diction is the frequent and 
 inevitable companion of compression. The line of beauty 
 is broken under the screw. The stream runs sluggishly 
 with the gold that enriches it. Compensation is given 
 in vigour: you miss grace, and find strength. Cowper 
 considered the result satisfactory, and playfully illustrated 
 a critic's treatment of a poem, by the homely image of 
 a cook fastening the legs of a dead turkey to a post, 
 and drawing out all its sinews. The robust roughness 
 of versification has a charm. In an organ the quality of 
 tone chiefly depends on the material of the pipes. The 
 ear is conscious of a soothing, plaintive softness in the 
 hard and knotty rhymes of Henry Vaughan, which it 
 does not recognise in smoother words. Without believing 
 a poem, like a Cremona, to be absolutely improved by its 
 years, I think that it frequently gains beauty from them. 
 The tint that mellows glass is the effect of time. 
 
 I had inserted ampler specimens of our elder verse, but 
 circumstances made their erasure necessary. The specimens 
 of old poetry should be printed without alteration; these 
 medals ought to appear with their rust. 
 
 vii 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Coleridge failed to embody in type his notion of a 
 Poetical Filter, which he proposed to construct on the 
 principle of omitting from pieces of lyrical poetry those 
 parts, in which the bad taste of the author, or the fashion 
 of the age, prevailed over his genius. Doubtless, a large 
 number of exquisite wholes might, as Coleridge affirmed, 
 be made by such a process. But the picture is injured 
 by the partial cleaning. And even the faults of the poem 
 may sometimes heighten the beauties. The wall of the 
 old church is never improved by sweeping away the moss 
 and weather-stains. The result would be similar in poetry. 
 Lovely lines are connected by a discordant stanza. The 
 contrast cannot be avoided. You must have lead-work in 
 the painted window. 
 
 In perusing this Volume I would ask the reader to 
 remember the remark of Dean Alford, which Mr. 
 Wordsworth quoted with much approval : — I mean 
 the distinction drawn between, religion in poetry, and 
 versified religion. The poet does not display all the 
 varied influences which his own heart recognises, but 
 only those which he considers himself able, as an artist, 
 to set forth with advantage. Sometimes this exhibition is 
 made indirectly, and, as it were, unconsciously. Thomson's 
 "Hymn" is one example. Gray's "Elegy" is a second 
 Pope's "Messiah" is a third. 
 
 Devotional poetry, though represented in the following 
 pages, does not occupy a prominent place. A picture- 
 
 viii 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 book addresses the heart through the eye. Piety must be 
 shown in action. But wheresoever truth and beauty of 
 heart are shaped into language, there the very essence 
 of Sa*cred Poetry will be found. A grand Hymn of 
 Spenser yields it, or a devout lay of Procter; just 
 as the corn-field offers a sacrifice to God in its thousand 
 sheaves, and the violet breathes it under the hedge. 
 
 Of the Poems in the Volume I may not speak. Most 
 of them are their own panegyrists. Some will be new 
 to the reader, and perhaps familiar names may afford 
 unexpected gratification. How little is Prior valued for 
 his serious rhymes ! Yet Beattie said that much of his 
 " Solomon " " is real poetry," and the admiration of Eogers 
 is recorded. A few poems by American authors merit the 
 warmest praise. I will only add that the "Elegy" of 
 Gray is printed from the fac-simile of the original 
 manuscript, furnished by Mr. Mathias. 
 
 St. Catherine's, 
 
 Septemba- 3, 1861. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. ^"^^ 
 
 THE WATCHING OF PROVIDENCE . . . 143 
 
 CONSOLATION 145 
 
 HENRY ALFORD. 
 
 A TRUANT HOUR 318 
 
 THE LITTLE MOURNER 320 
 
 LAST WORDS 323 
 
 HOW WE BURIED HIM 325 
 
 ANNA L. BARBAULD. 
 
 ALL NATIONS CALLED TO WORSHIP GOD . 202 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 THE HERMIT 188 
 
 ROBERT BLAIR. 
 
 THE OLD CHURCH IN A STORM .... 158 
 
 ROBERT BLOOM FIELD. 
 
 MOONLIGHT 257 
 
 CAROLINE BOWLES. 
 
 THE LAST JOURNEY 283 
 
 NICHOLAS BRETON. 
 
 A SIGH 16 
 
 LORD BROOKE. 
 
 TRUE USE OF KNOWIJEDGE 40 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 WISDOM UNAPPLIED 329 
 
 THE WEAKEST THING 332 
 
 MICHAEL BRUCE. 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN SPRING 194 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS .... 358 
 
 THE PAST 359 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. ^''^' 
 
 SCENE IN A SCOTTISH COTTAGE .... 213 
 WINTER — A DIRGR 216 
 
 JOHN BYROM. 
 
 ENTHUSIASM DEFINED 155 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB , , 251 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 THE RAINBOW 246 
 
 THE LAST MAN 248 
 
 EDMUND CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 THE CHARM OF SYMPATHY 197 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 THE RESIGNATION 189 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE 
 
 OF CHAMOUNI 232 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 THE GARDEN 117 
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 THE PEACE COMING ON THE EARTH . . 169 
 
 GEORGE CRABBE. 
 
 REMORSE UNSANCTIFIED 204 
 
 THE NURSING FRIEND 206 
 
 A LESSON 207 
 
 THE LOST WIFE 208 
 
 THE VILI^GE MOTHER FORSAKEN ... 209 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF TRIBULATION ... 211 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 
 A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY 113 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 ROBERT POLLOK. 
 
 DAWN OP HOPE AND PEACE ON THE DARK 
 
 SOUL 225 
 
 ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 THE MESSIAH 152 
 
 MATTHEW PRIOR. 
 
 LIl'E EXAMINED 136 
 
 THE PRAYER OF SOLOMON AND THE A NSWER 1 38 
 
 ADELAIDE PROCTER. 
 
 ONE BY ONE 307 
 
 NOW 308 
 
 FRIEND SORROW 309 
 
 EVENING HYMN 310 
 
 FRANCIS QUARLES. 
 
 THE ONLY ONE 70 
 
 THE MAGNETIC NEEDLE 73 
 
 GOD HIDING HIS FACE 74 
 
 THE DAYS ARE FEW 76 
 
 FLIGHT OF A SINNER 78 
 
 WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 THE LIE 4 
 
 AN ASPIRATION 5 
 
 GEORGE SANDYS. 
 
 A MEMORIAL OF MERCIES PAST .... 46 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 
 
 THE DIRGE OF THE FAMOUS 26 
 
 WOLSEY'S WARNING 28 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY. 
 
 THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE .... 93 
 
 CAROLINE SOUTHEY. 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE . . . 286 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 HYMN TO THE PENATES 238 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 HEAVENLY LOVE 8 
 
 JOSHUA SYLVESTER. 
 
 PRAISE OF COUNTRY LIFE 19 
 
 Page. 
 
 JANE TAYLOR. 
 
 THE TRUE INQUIRY 256 
 
 JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 CHRIST COMING AGAIN IN TRIUMPH . . 102 
 
 OF HEAVEN 103 
 
 A PRAYER FOR CHARITY 104 
 
 FAITHFUL TEATE. 
 
 HOPE 131 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 THE DEAD MAN OF BETHANY .... SOS 
 
 MARY AT THE TABLE 305 
 
 THE heart's WITNESS TO GOD .... 306 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 A HYMN 162 
 
 MARY TIGHE. 
 
 THE LILY 260 
 
 FROM TOTTLE'S MISCELLANY. 
 
 THE MEAN ESTATE THE HAPPIEST ... 17 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 COUPLETS 342 
 
 THE BANQUET 343 
 
 THE LENT JEWELS 346 
 
 PRAYER 347 
 
 THOMAS TUSSER. 
 
 TIME AND THE YEAR 1 
 
 POSIES FOR THINE OWN BED-CHAMBER . 2 
 
 UNCERTAIN. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF PHILIP SIDNEY ..... 38 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES 326 
 
 HENRY VAUGHAN. 
 
 THE RING 105 
 
 BLESSED BE THY WILL 108 
 
 THE DEPARTED 109 
 
 THE BIRD Ill 
 
 SIDNEY WALKER. 
 
 REST 269 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 EDMUND WA.LLER. 
 
 DIVINE liOVE 
 
 THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE . , 
 WRITTEN IN DUGDALE'3 MONASTICON 
 
 Page 
 
 191 
 
 ISAAC WATTS. 
 
 THE PROMISED LAND 146 
 
 WESLEY. 
 
 A COVERT FROM THE STORM 186 
 
 KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT 220 
 
 TO THE HERB ROSEMARY 222 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK 371 
 
 MY PSALM 375 
 
 HELEN MAELA WILLIAMS. 
 
 HABITUAL DEVOTION 264 
 
 ISAAC WILLIAMS. 
 
 THE WAY TO THE CHAPTER-HOUSE . . 297 
 
 AUTUMNAL SEED-VESSELS 300 
 
 THE ANGEL OF MARRIAGE 300 
 
 Page 
 
 ARIS WILLMOTT. 
 
 A BALLAD WITH A MORAL 381 
 
 SATURDAY EVENING 38 
 
 THE LAST OF SEVEN 383 
 
 THE GOLDEN BOUGH 384 
 
 A CHILD IN PRAYER 386 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 THE CHURCHYARD OF THE VILLAGE . , 266 
 
 ANNE, COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA. 
 
 THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN .... 141 
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 life's journey 60 
 
 the light of virtue 62 
 
 in prison ! 63 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 PLACES OF WORSHIP 235 
 
 CATECHISING 236 
 
 NEW CHURCHYARD 237 
 
 OLD ABBEYS 237 
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. 
 
 A HYMN TO MY GOD 22 
 
 ON THE SUDDEN FALL OF A GREAT MAN 23 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG. 
 
 TIME COMING AND GONE 148 
 
 god's argument WITH JOB 149 
 
 XV 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS, 
 
 ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL. 
 
 SUBJECT. DRAWN BY PAGE 
 
 Frontispiece — The Lent Jewels . . . . TF. Holman Hunt 
 
 Time and the Year J.D. Watson 1 
 
 A Quiet Mind H. S. Marks ..... 6 
 
 The Mean Estate the Happiest . . . . J. D. Watson 17 
 
 Praise op Country Life Harrison Weir .... 19 
 
 A Hymn to my God , C. Keene 22 
 
 The Dirge of the Famous H. S. Marks 26 
 
 Vanity or Learning . . . J. D. Watson 30 
 
 Search after God : — 
 
 From the towering eagle to the wren .... J". Wolf 35 
 
 A Dream H. H. Armstead .... 49 
 
 Decay of Earthly Pomp : — 
 
 There now the hart, fearlesa of greyhound, feeds ; 
 
 And loving pelican in safety breeds ;..../. Wolf 53 
 
 Life's Journey Frederick Sandys ... 60 
 
 \s Prison H. H. Armstead .... 63 
 
 The Only One— The Earth Harrison Weir .... 78 
 
 „ The Air Harrison Weir .... 79 
 
 „ The Sea Harrison Weir .... 79 
 
 Employment J.D. Watson ... .81 
 
 The Pilgrimage J.D. Watson 86 
 
 The Quip J.D. Watson 91 
 
 XVI 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 SUBJECT. DllAWN BY PAGE 
 
 The Exalting of the Humble W.P. Burton .... 98 
 
 The Ring:— 
 
 The fearful miser on a heap of rust 
 
 Sate pining all his life there, H. S, MarTcs 105 
 
 The Bied : — 
 
 Chirping their solemn matins on each tree ; . . /. Wolf . . . . . . Ill 
 
 The Garden : — 
 
 The birds that dance from bough to bough . . J. Wolf 119 
 
 Contentment C. Keene 133 
 
 The Atheist and the Acorn E. S. Marks 141 
 
 The "Watching of Providence G. E. Andrews .... 143 
 
 God's Argument with Job : — 
 
 Whenpain'dwithhunger, the wild raven's brood J. Wolf 149 
 
 The Old Church in a Storm ....... S. Read 158 
 
 A Hymn.— Spring /. Gilbert 163 
 
 „ Summer /. Gilbert 162 
 
 „ Autumn /. Gilbert 163 
 
 Winter /. Gilbert 163 
 
 A Hymn : — 
 
 The thunder rolls ; . . . 
 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn . /. Gilbert 165 
 
 A Hymn. — Tailpiece /. Gilbert 167 
 
 Elegy in a Country Churchyard : — 
 
 The lowing Herd wind slowly o'er the Lea . . J. D. Watson 173 
 
 Or drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds . . J.B.Watson. .... 174 
 
 Or climb his Knees the envied Kiss to share . /. B. Watson 175 
 
 Oft did the Harvest to their Sickle yield . . . J. B. Watson 176 
 
 How jocund did they drive their Team afield ! . J. B. Watson 177 
 
 The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave . . J.B.Watson 178 
 
 The little Tyrant of his Fields withstood . . . J. B. Watson 179 
 
 Or heap the Shrine of Luxury and Pride . . . J. B. Watson 180 
 
 Muttering his wayward Fancies, would he rove . J.B.Watson 183 
 
 The Epitaph — Here rests his Head upon the Lap 
 
 of Earth J.B.Watson 183 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 SUBJECT. DEAWN BT PAGE 
 
 Inscription in a Hermitage ff. S. Marks 191 
 
 Elegy Written in Spring /. Slie^h 194; 
 
 Ode Written in a Visit to the Country 
 
 IN Autumn /. Slie^k 196 
 
 The Two Weavers H. S. Marks 199 
 
 The Nursing Friend Frederick Walker ... 206 
 
 Scene in a Scottish Cottage J. JD. Watson 313 
 
 An Autumn Sabbath Walk J.B. Watson 317 
 
 Sunday in the Fields J. D. Watson 333 
 
 Dawn of Hope and Peace on the Dark Soul /. B. Watson 335 
 
 Places of Worship J. D. Watson 335 
 
 Thou art, God:- 
 
 When Day, with farewell beam S. Read 343 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib . . . . F. B. Pickersgill, R.A. . 251 
 
 Moonlight J, J). Watson 257 
 
 A Lament Frederick Walker . . . 363 
 
 The Churchyard or the Village . . . . W. P. Burton .... 366 
 
 A Father Reading the Bible H. S. Marks 375 
 
 Evening Prayer at a Girls' School ... 7. Gilbert 277 
 
 To A Child Embracing his Mother . . . J. D. Watson 280 
 
 The Landing oe the Primrose /. Gilbert 286 
 
 Bereavement J. D. Watson 291 
 
 Children's Thankfulness J. B. Watson 294 
 
 The Way to the Chapter House . . . . W. P. Burton .... 297 
 
 The Dead Man or Bethany H. H. Armstead .... 803 
 
 Evening Hymn H. E. Armstead .... 310 
 
 A Mother's Grief J. B. Watson 313 
 
 A Truant Hour J". Wolf 318 
 
 The Little Mourner Frederick Sandys . . . 321 
 
 Last Words J.B. Watson 333 
 
 Wisdom Unapplied : — 
 
 And screamed the thunder back aloud. 
 
 And faced the lightning from the cloud ... J. Wolf 329 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 SUBJECT. DBAWK BT P461 
 
 The Weakest Thing :— 
 
 The cloud, a little wind can move 
 
 Where'er it listeth ^'- P- BuHon .... 332 
 
 A Father's Lament F. Stnallfield 338 
 
 The Death of the Flowers W.P. Burton .... 358 
 
 Tuesday in Whitsun-Week : — 
 
 Summer blooms with glorious promise . . . J. Sliegh 368 
 
 The Autumn Evening W.P. Burton .... 376 
 
 The Last of Seven JI>- Watson 383 
 
 A Child in Prayer Frederick Walker ... 386 
 
TIME AND THE YEAR 
 
 God, to Thy doings, a time there is sent, 
 Which endeth with time that in doing is spent 
 For time is itself, but a time for a time, 
 Forgotten full soon, as the tune of a chime. 
 
 1 B 
 
TIME AND THE YEAR. 
 
 In Spring-time we rear, we do sow, and we plant; 
 In Summer get victuals, lest after we want; 
 In Harvest we carry in corn, and the fruit, 
 In Winter to spend, as we need of each suit. 
 
 The 3^ear I compare, as I find for a truth, 
 The Spring unto Childhood, the Summer to Youth, 
 The Harvest to Manhood, the Winter to Age, 
 All quickly forgot, as a play on a stage. 
 
 Time past is forgotten, ere men be aware ; 
 Time present is thought on, with wonderful care ; 
 Time coming is feared, and therefore we save, 
 Yet oft ere it come we be gone to the grave. 
 
 The lands and the riches that here we possess, 
 Be none of our own, if a God we profess ; 
 But lent us of Him, as His talent of gold, 
 Which being demanded, who can it withhold 1 
 
 Thomas Tusser. 
 
 POSIES FOE THINE OWN BED-CHAMBER 
 
 What wisdom more, what better life, than pleaseth God to send? 
 What worldly goods, what longer use, than pleaseth God to lend? 
 
 What better fare, than well content, agreeing with thy wealth, 
 What better guest than trusty friend in sickness and in health? 
 
 What better bed than Conscience good, to pass the night with sleep, 
 What better work, than daily care, from sin thyself to keep? 
 
 What better thought than think on God, and daily Him to serve, 
 What better gift than to the poor, that ready be to sterve? 
 
 What greater praise of God and man, than mercy for to shew. 
 Who merciless shall mercy find, that mercy shews to few? 
 
 What worse despair, than loth to die, for fear to go to hell? 
 
 What greater faith than trust in God, through Christ in heaven to dwell ? 
 
 Same. 
 2 
 
REMEMBER. 
 
 To die, dame Nature did man frame ; 
 
 Death is a thing most perfect save : 
 We ought not IS'ature's works to blame ; 
 
 She made no thing still to endure. 
 That law she made when we were born, 
 
 That hence we should return again : 
 To render right we must not scorn ; 
 
 Death is due debt; it is no pain. 
 
 Death hath in all the earth a right ; 
 
 His power is great, it stretcheth far; 
 No lord, no prince, can 'scape his might ; 
 
 No creature can his duty bar. 
 The wise, the just, the strong, the high. 
 
 The chaste, the meek, the free of heart. 
 The rich, the poor, — who can deny 1 — 
 
 Have yielded all unto his dart. 
 
 Seeing no man then can Death 'scape. 
 
 Nor hire him hence for any gain, 
 We ought not fear his carrion shape; 
 
 He only brings ill men to pain. 
 If thou have led thy life aright. 
 
 Death is the end of misery ; 
 If thou in God hast thy delight, 
 
 Thou diest to live eternally. 
 
 Each wight, therefore, while he lives here, 
 
 Let him think on his dying day ; 
 In midst of wealth, in midst of cheer, 
 
 Let him account he must away. 
 This thought makes man to God a friend; 
 
 This thought doth banish pride and sin ; 
 This thought doth bring a man in th' end 
 
 Where he of Death the field shall win. 
 
 Thomas Marshall. 
 
THE LIE. 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest, upon a thankless arrant ; 
 
 Fear not to touch the best; — the truth shall be thy warrant; 
 
 Go, since thou needs must die, and give the world the lie. 
 
 Say to the Court, it glows and shines like rotten wood ; 
 Say to 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 manage the Estate, 
 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 wants 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; 
 Tell Wisdom she entangles herself in over-wiseness ; 
 And when they do reply, straight give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell Physick 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. 
 
 4 
 
THE LIE. 
 
 Tell Fortune of her blindness ; tell Mature of decay : 
 Tell Friendship of unkindness ; tell Justice of delay : 
 And if they will reply, then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell Faith it's 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, — 
 Stab at thee he that will, no stab the soul can kill 
 
 Walter Raleigh. 
 
 AN ASPIRATION. 
 
 Rise, O my Soul, with thy desires to Heaven, 
 
 And with divinest contemplations use 
 Thy time, where time's eternity is given, 
 
 And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse; 
 But down in darkness let them lie ; 
 So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die ! 
 
 And thou, my Soul, inspired with holy flame, 
 
 View and review with most regardful eye 
 That holy Cross, whence thy Salvation came. 
 On which thy Saviour and thy sin did die ! 
 For in that sacred object is much pleasure. 
 And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure. 
 
 To Thee, Jesu ! I direct my eyes, 
 
 To Thee my hands, to Thee my humble knees; 
 To Thee my heart shall offer sacrifice ; 
 
 To Thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees; 
 To Thee myself, — myself and all I give; 
 To Thee I die ; to Thee I only live ! 
 
 Raleigh. 
 5 
 
A QUIET MIND. 
 
 When all is done and said, 
 
 In the end thus shall you find, 
 
 He most of all doth bathe in bliss, 
 That hath a quiet Mind : 
 6 
 
A QUIET MIND. 
 
 And, clear from worldly cares, 
 
 To deem can be content 
 The sweetest time in all his life 
 
 In thinking to be spent. 
 
 The body subject is 
 
 To fickle Fortune's power, 
 And to a million of mishaps. 
 
 Is casual every hour : 
 And Death in time doth change 
 
 It to a clod of clay ; 
 Whenas the Mind, which is divine. 
 
 Runs never to decay. 
 
 Companion none is like 
 
 Unto the Mind alone ; 
 For many have been harm'd by speech. 
 
 Through thinking, few or none. 
 Fear oftentimes restraineth words, 
 
 But makes not thoughts to cease ; 
 And he speaks best, that hath the skill 
 
 When for to hold his peace. 
 
 Our wealth leaves us at death ; 
 
 Our kinsmen at the grave; 
 But virtues of the Mind unto 
 
 The heavens with us we have. 
 AVherefore, for virtue's sake, 
 
 I can be well content 
 The sweetest time in all my life. 
 
 To deem in thinking spent. 
 
 The Paradise of Dainty Devices. 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 Before this World's great frame, in which all things 
 Are now contain' d, found any being place, 
 Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings 
 About that mighty bound which doth embrace 
 The rolling spheres, and parts their hours by space, 
 That high Eternal Power, which now doth move 
 In all these things, mov'd in itself by love. 
 
 It lov'd itself, because itself was fair ; 
 
 (For fair is love ;) and of itself begot 
 
 Like to itself His eldest Son and Heir, 
 
 Eternal, pure, and void of sinful blot. 
 
 The firstling of His joy, in whom no jot 
 
 Of love's dislike or pride w^as to be found, 
 
 Whom He therefore with equal honour crown' d. 
 
 With Him He reigned before all time prescribed. 
 In endless glory and immortal might 
 Together with that third from them derived. 
 Most wise, most holy, most Almighty Spright ! 
 Whose kingdom's throne no thoughts of earthly wight 
 Can comprehend, much less my trembling verse 
 With equal words can hope it to rehearse. 
 
 Yet, most blessed Spirit ! pure lamp of light. 
 Eternal spring of grace and wisdom true. 
 Vouchsafe to shed into my barren spright 
 Some little drop of Thy celestial dew. 
 That may my rhymes with sweet infuse embrew, 
 And give me words equal unto my thought 
 To tell the marvels by Thy mercy wrought. 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 Yet being pregnant still with powerful grace, 
 
 And full of fruitful love, that loves to get 
 
 Things like Himself, and to enlarge his race, 
 
 His second brood, though not of power so great, 
 
 Yet full of beauty, next He did beget, 
 
 An infinite increase of Angels bright 
 
 All glistring glorious in their Maker's light. 
 
 To them the heavens' illimitable night 
 
 (Not this round heaven, which we from hence behold, 
 
 Adorn'd with thousand lamps of burning light. 
 
 And with ten thousand gems of shining gold,) 
 
 He gave as their inheritance to hold. 
 
 That they might serve Him in eternal bliss^ 
 
 And be partakers of those joys of His. 
 
 There they in their trinal 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 own dread presence to attend. 
 Where they behold the glory of His light, 
 And carol hymns of love both day and night. 
 
 Both day and night is unto them all one ; 
 For He His beams doth unto them extend. 
 That darkness there appeareth never none ; 
 Ne hath their day, ne hath their bliss, an end. 
 But there their termless time in pleasure spend ; 
 Nor ever should their happiness decay, 
 Had they not dared their Lord to disobey. 
 
 But pride, impatient of long resting peace. 
 Did puff 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. 
 9 c 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 IV Almighty, seeing their so bold assaj, 
 Kindled the flame of His consuming ire 
 And with His only breath them blew away 
 From heaven's height, to which they did aspire, 
 To deepest hell, and lake of damned fire, 
 Where they in darkness and dread horror dwell, 
 Hating the happy light from which they fell. 
 
 So that next offspring of the Maker's love, 
 
 ]N'ext to Himself in glorious degree, 
 
 Degenering to hate, fell from above 
 
 Through pride (for pride and love may ill agree) 
 
 And now of sin to all ensample be : 
 
 How then can sinful flesh itself assure, 
 
 Sith purest angels fell to be impure 1 
 
 But that Eternal Fount of love and grace, 
 
 Still flowing forth His goodness unto all, 
 
 Now seeing left a waste and empty place 
 
 In His wide palace, through those angels' fall, 
 
 Cast to supply the same, and to enstall 
 
 A new unknowen colony therein, 
 
 Whose root from earth's base groundwork should begin. 
 
 Therefore of clay, base, vile, and next to nought. 
 Yet form'd by wondrous skill, and, by His might. 
 According to a heavenly pattern wrought, 
 Which He liad fashion'd in His Avise foresight. 
 He man did make, and breathed a living spright 
 Into his face, most beautiful and fair, 
 Endued with wisdom's riches, heavenly rare. 
 
 Such He him made, that he resemble might 
 Himself, as mortal thing immortal could : 
 Him to be lord of every living wight 
 He made by love out of His own like mould, 
 In whom He might His mighty self behold; 
 For love doth love the thing beloved to see, 
 That like itself in lovely shape may be. 
 10 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 But man, forgetful of his Maker's grace 
 No less than angels, whom he did ensue, ^ 
 Fell from the hope of promised heavenly place 
 Into the mouth of Death, to sinners due. 
 And all his offspring into thraldom threw 
 Where they for ever should in bonds remain, 
 Of never dead yet ever-dying pain. 
 
 Till that great Lord of Love, which him at first 
 
 Made of mere love and after liked well, 
 
 Seeing him lie like creature long accurst 
 
 In that deep horror of despaired hell, 
 
 Him, wretch, in dole would let no longer dwell, 
 
 But cast out of that bondage to redeem 
 
 And pay the price, all were his debt extreme. 
 
 Out of the bosom of eternal bliss 
 
 In which He reigned with His glorious Sire 
 
 He down descended, like a most demisse 
 
 And abject thrall, in flesh's frail attire 
 
 That He for him might pay sin's deadly hire, 
 
 And him restore unto that happy state 
 
 In which he stood before his hapless fate. 
 
 In flesh at first the guilt conmiitted was, 
 Therefore in flesh it must be satisfied ; 
 'Not spirit, nor angel, though they man surpass. 
 Could make amends to God for man's misguide, 
 But only man himself, whose self did elide : 
 So taking flesh of sacred Virgin's womb. 
 For man's dear sake He did a man become. 
 
 And that most blessed body, which was bom 
 Without all blemish or reproachful blame, 
 He freely gave to be both rent and torn 
 Of cruel hands, who with despightful shame 
 Eeviling Him, that them most vile became. 
 At length Him nailed on a gallow-tree. 
 And slew the just by most unjust decree. 
 11 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 blessed Well of Love ! Flower of Grace ! 
 
 glorious Morning Star ! Lamp of Light ! 
 
 Most lively image of Thy Father's face, 
 
 Eternal King of Glory, Lord of Might, 
 
 Meek Lamb of God, before all worlds beliight,^ 
 
 How can we Thee requite for all this good? 
 
 Or what can prize that Thy most precious blood 1 
 
 Yet nought Thou ask'st in lieu of all this love, 
 
 But love of us for guerdon of Thy pain ; 
 
 Ay me ! What can us less than that behove ? 
 
 Had He required life of us again, 
 
 Had it been wrong to ask His own with gain? 
 
 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, 
 
 Eree that was thrall, and blessed that was bann'd ; ^ 
 
 Ne ought demands but that we loving be, 
 
 As He Himself hath loved us aforehand, 
 
 And bound thereto with an eternal band. 
 
 Him first to love that was so dearly bought, 
 
 And next our brethren, to His image wrought. 
 
 Him first to love great right and reason is, 
 Who first to us our life and being gave, 
 And after, when we fared had amiss, 
 Us wretches from the second death did save ; 
 And last, the food of life, which now we have, 
 Even He Himself, in His dear Sacrament, 
 To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent. 
 
 Then next, to love our brethren that were made 
 Of that self mould, and that self Maker's hand. 
 That we, and to the same again shall fade. 
 Where they shall have like heritage of land. 
 However here on higher steps we stand, 
 Which also were with self-same price redeemed, 
 That we, however of us light esteemed. 
 12 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 And were they not, yet sith that loving Lord 
 
 Commanded us to love them for His sake. 
 
 Even for His sake, and for His sacred word 
 
 Which in His last behest He to us sj^ake, 
 
 We should them love, and with their needs partake. 
 
 Knowing that whatsoe'er to them we give, 
 
 We give to Him by whom we all do live. 
 
 Such mercy He by His most holy reed* 
 Unto us taught, and, to approve it true, 
 Ensampled it by His most righteous deed. 
 Showing us mercy (miserable crew !) 
 That we the like should to the wretches shew. 
 And love our brethren, thereby to approve 
 How much Himself that loved us we love. 
 
 Then rouse thyself, O earth ! out of thy soil 
 In which thou walloAvest like to filthy swine. 
 And dost thy mind in dirty pleasures moil, 
 Unmindful of that dearest Lord of thine ; 
 Lift up to Him thy heavy-clouded eyne 
 That thou this sovreign bounty maist behold. 
 And read through love His mercies manifold. 
 
 Begin from first where He encradled was 
 On simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay. 
 Between the toilful ox and humble ass. 
 And in what rags, and in how base array. 
 The glory of our heavenly riches lay, 
 Wlien Him the silly shepherds came to see. 
 Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. 
 
 From thence read on the story of His life. 
 His humble carriage. His unfaulty ways, 
 His canker'd foes. His fights. His toils, His strif(», 
 His pains. His poverty, His sharp assays. 
 Through which He passed His miserable days. 
 Offending none, and doing good to all. 
 Yet being malic'd both of great and small. 
 13 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 And look, at last, how of most wretched wights 
 
 He taken was, betray' d, and false accused; 
 
 How with most scornful taunts and fell despights 
 
 He was revil'd, disgrac'd, and foul abus'd ; 
 
 How scourg'd, how crown' d, how buffeted, how bruis'd. 
 
 And lastly, how 'twixt robbers crucified, 
 
 With bitter wounds through hands, through feet, and side ! 
 
 Then let thy flinty heart, that feels no pain, 
 
 Empierced be with pitiful remorse. 
 
 And let thy bowels bleed in every vein 
 
 At sight of His most sacred heavenly corse, 
 
 So torn and mangled with malicious force ; 
 
 And let thy soul, whose sins His sorrows wrought 
 
 Melt into tears, and groan in grievdd thought. 
 
 With sense whereof, whilst so thy soften' d spirit 
 Is inly toucht, and humbl'd with meek zeal 
 Through meditation of His endless merit, 
 Lift up thy mind to th' Author of thy weal, 
 And to His sovereign mercy do appeal ; 
 Learn Him to love that loved thee so dear. 
 And in thy breast His blessed image bear. 
 
 With all thy heart, with all thy soul and mind, 
 Thou must Him love, and His behests embrace ; 
 All other loves wdth which the world doth blind 
 Weak fancies, and stir up affections base, 
 Thou must renounce and utterly displace. 
 And give thyself unto Him full and free. 
 That full and freely gave Himself to thee. 
 
 Then shalt thou feel thy spirit so possest. 
 And ravisht with devouring great desire 
 Of His dear Self, that shall thy feeble breast 
 Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire 
 With burning zeal, through every part entire, 
 That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight. 
 But in His sweet and amiable sight. 
 
 14 
 
HEAVENLY LOVE. 
 
 Thenceforth all World's desire will in thee die, 
 And all Earth's glory, on which men do gaze, 
 Seem dirt and dross in thy pure-sighted eye, 
 Compared to that celestial beauty's blaze. 
 Whose glorious beams all fleshly sense doth daze 
 With admiration of their passing light, 
 Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright. 
 
 Then shall thy ravisht soul inspired be 
 With heavenly thoughts, far above human skill. 
 And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see 
 The idea of His pure glory present still 
 Before thy face, that all thy spirit shall fill 
 With sweet enragement of celestial love, 
 Kindled through sight of those fair things above. 
 
 Edmund Spenser. 
 
 A CAUTION. 
 
 Why fearest thou thy outward foe, 
 
 When thou thyseK thy harm dost feed ? 
 
 Of grief, or hurt, or pain, or woe. 
 Within each thing is sown the seed. 
 
 The knotty oak, and wainscot old. 
 Within doth eat the silly worm ; 
 
 E'en so, a mind in envy roll'd 
 Always within itself doth bum. 
 
 Thus everything that Nature wrought 
 Within itself his hurt doth bear : 
 
 No outward harm need to be sought 
 'V\niere enemies be within so near. 
 
 15 
 
A SIGH. 
 
 Where all day long in helpless caues, 
 
 All hopeless of relief, 
 I wish for night, I might not see 
 
 The objects of my grief. 
 
 And when night comes, woes keep my wits 
 
 In such a waking vein. 
 That I could wish, though to my grief, 
 
 That it were day again. 
 
 My sun is turn'd into a shade. 
 
 Or else mine eyes are blind, 
 That Sorrow's cloud makes all seem dark 
 
 That comes into my mind; 
 
 My youth to age ; or else because 
 
 My comforts are so cold, 
 My sorrow makes me in conceit 
 
 To be decrepit, old, — 
 
 My hopes to fears ; or else because 
 
 My fortunes are forlorn. 
 My fancy makes me make myself 
 
 Unto myself a scorn. 
 
 Nicholas Jireton. 
 

 THE MEAN ESTATE THE HAPPIEST. 
 
 If right be ract and overrun, 
 
 And power take part with open wrong, 
 If fear by force do yield too soon. 
 
 The lack is like to last too long. 
 
 If God for good shall be unplaced. 
 If right for riches lose his shape, 
 
 If world for wisdom be embraced, 
 
 The guess is great much hurt mayhap. 
 17 
 
THE MEAN ESTATE THE HAPPIEST. 
 
 Among good things I prove and find 
 The quiet life doth most abound, 
 
 And sure to the contented mind 
 There is no riches may be found. 
 
 For riches hates to be content, 
 
 Eule is enemy to quietness, 
 Power is most unpatient, 
 
 And seldom likes to live in peace. 
 
 I heard a herdsman once compare 
 That quiet nights he had more slept, 
 
 And had more merry days to spare, 
 Than he who owned the beast he kept. 
 
 I would not have it thought hereby, 
 The dolphin swim I mean to teach, 
 
 'Nov yet to learn the falcon fly, 
 I row not so far past my reach. 
 
 But as my part above the rest, 
 Is well to wish and well to will. 
 
 So till my breath do fail my breast, 
 I will not cease to wish you still. 
 
 From ToUle's Miscellany/. 
 
 18 
 
PEAISE OF COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 HOW I grieve, dear Earth ! that, given to gays, 
 Most of our wits contemn thee now-a-days ; 
 And noblest hearts proudly abandon quite 
 The study of herbs, and Country-life's delight ! — 
 19 
 
PRAISE OF COUKTRY LIFE. 
 
 thrice, thrice happy he, wlio shuns the cares 
 Of city-troubles, and of state affairs ; — 
 And serving Ceres, tills with his own team, 
 His own free land, left by his friends to him ! 
 
 Never fell Envy's poisonous heads do hiss 
 
 To gnaw his heart ! nor vulture Avarice ; 
 
 His field's bounds bound his thoughts ; he never sups 
 
 For nectar, poison niixt in silver cups : — 
 
 His hands his bowl, better than plate or glass, 
 The silver brook his sweetest hypocrass. 
 Milk, cheese, and frait, fruits of his own endeavour, 
 Drest without dressing, hath he ready ever. 
 
 No fained chiding, no soul-jarring noise 
 
 Break his cool brain, or interrupt his joys, • 
 
 But cheerful birds, chirping him sweet good-morrows, 
 
 With nature's music do beguile his sorrows : 
 
 Teaching the fragrant forests day by day, 
 
 The diapason of their heavenly lay, 
 
 And leading all his life at home in peace, 
 
 Always in sight of his own smoke ; no seas, 
 
 No other seas he knows, nor other torrent. 
 
 Than that which waters with his silver current 
 
 His native meadows ; and that very earth 
 
 Shall give him burial, which first gave him birth. 
 
 To summon timely sleep, he doth not need 
 -^thiop's cold rush, nor drowsy poppy-seed, 
 But on green carpets, thrumm'd with mossy beaver, 
 Fringing the round skirts of his winding river, 
 The stream's mild murmur, as it gently gushes. 
 His healthy limbs in quiet slumber hushes. 
 
 Drum, fife and trumpet, with their loud alarms 
 Make him not start out of his sleep to arms ; 
 20 
 
PRAISE OF COUNTRY LIFE. 
 
 The crested cock sings his proud note to him, 
 Limits his rest, and makes him stir betime 
 To walk the mountains, or the flowery meads, 
 Impearl'd with tears that sweet Aurora sheds ; 
 And the open sky, where at full breath he lives, 
 Still keeps him sound, and still new stomach gives ; 
 And Death, dread servant of the eternal Judge, 
 Comes very late to his sole-seated lodge. 
 
 His wretched years in Princes' courts he spends not, 
 His thralled mind on great men's wills depends not, 
 But all self-private, serving God, he writes 
 Fearless, and sings but what his heart indites. 
 
 Let me, good Lord ! among the Great unkenn'd, 
 My rest of days in the calm country end ; 
 My company, pure thoughts to work Thy will ; 
 My court, a cottage on a lowly hill. 
 
 Joshua Sylvester. 
 
 21 
 
u,a^A 
 
 A HYMN TO MY GOD. 
 
 IN A NIGHT OF MY LATE SICKNESS. 
 
 Oh Thou great Power ! in whom I move, 
 For whom I live, to whom I die. 
 Behold me through Thy beams of Love, 
 Whilst on this Couch of Tears I lie ; 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 By Thy Christ's blood, the Bath of Sin. 
 22 
 
A HYMN TO MY GOD. 
 
 ^o hallo w'd Oils, no grains I need, 
 
 Ko rags of Saints, no purging Fire, 
 
 One rosy drop from David's seed, 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench Thine ire, 
 precious Ransom ! which once paid, 
 That Consummatum est was said ; 
 
 Ajid said by Him that said no more, 
 But seal'd it with His Sacred Breath, — 
 Thou, then, that hast dispong'd my score. 
 And dying wast the death of Death, 
 Be to me now, on Thee I call. 
 My LIFE, my strength, my joy, my all ! 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 OX THE SUDDEN FALL OF A GREAT MAK 
 
 Dazzled thus with height of place, 
 Whilst our hopes our wits beguile, 
 No man marks the narrow space 
 'Twixt the Prison and a Smile. 
 
 Then, since Fortune's favours fade. 
 You that in her arms do sleep. 
 Learn to swim, and not to wade; 
 For the hearts of Kings are deep. 
 
 But if Greatness be so blind 
 As to trust in Towers of Air, 
 Let it be with Goodness lin'd, 
 That at least the Fall be Mr. 
 
 Then, though dark'ned, you shall say, 
 When Friends fail, and Princes frown, 
 Virtue is the roughest way. 
 But proves at night a Bed of Down. 
 
 WoUon. 
 
THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 But let it now sufficient be, that I 
 The last scene of his act of life bewray, 
 AVhich gives th' applause to all, doth glorify 
 The work; for 'tis the evening crowns the day. 
 This action of our death especially 
 Shows all a man. Here only is he found. 
 With what munition he did fortify 
 His heart ; how good his furniture hath been. 
 And this did he perform in gallant wise : 
 In this did he confirm his worthiness. 
 For on the morrow, after the surprise 
 That sickness made on him with fierce access, 
 He told his faithful friend, whom he held dear, 
 (And whose great worth was worthy so to be,) 
 " How that he knew these hot diseases were 
 Of that contagious force, as he did see 
 That men were over-tumbl'd suddenly ; 
 And therefore did desire to set a course 
 And order t' his affairs as speedily 
 As might be, ere his sickness should grow worse. 
 And as for death," said he, " I do not wey ; 
 I am resolv'd and ready in this case. 
 It cannot come t' affright me any way ; 
 Let it look never with so grim a face : 
 And I will meet it smiling ; for I know 
 How vain a thing all this world's glory is." 
 And herein did he keep his word : Did show 
 Indeed, as he had promised in this. 
 For sickness never heard him groan at all, 
 Nor with a sigh consent to show his pain ; 
 24 
 
THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 Which, howsoever, being tyrannical, 
 He sweetly made it look ; and did retain 
 A lovely count'nance of his being well, 
 And so would ever make his tongue to tell. 
 
 Although the fervour of extremity, 
 
 Which often doth throw those defences down, 
 
 Which in our health wall in infirmity. 
 
 Might open lay more than we would have known ; 
 
 Yet did no idle word in him bewray 
 
 Any one piece of iN'ature ill set in ; 
 
 Those lightnesses that anything will say, 
 
 Could say no ill of what they knew within. 
 
 Such a sure lock of silent modesty 
 
 Was set in life upon that noble heart, 
 
 As if no anguish nor extremity 
 
 Could open it, t' impair that worthy part ; 
 
 For having dedicated still the same . 
 
 Unto devotion, and to sacred skill. 
 
 That furnish perfect held ; that blessed flame 
 
 Continued to the last in fervour still. 
 
 And when his spirit and tongue no longer could 
 
 Do any certain services beside, 
 
 Ev'n at the point of parting they unfold. 
 
 With fervent zeal, how only he rely'd 
 
 Upon the merits of the precious death 
 
 Of his Eedeemer ; and with rapt desires 
 
 Th' appeals to grace, his soul delivereth 
 
 Into the hand of mercy, and expires. 
 
 Thus did that Worthy, who most virtuously, 
 
 Most mildly liv'd, most sweet and mildly die. 
 
 Samttel Daniel. 
 
 25 
 
THE DIRGE OF THE FAMOUS. 
 
 Fear no more the heat o^ the sun, 
 
 Nor the furious winter's rages ; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done, 
 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages : 
 Golden lads and girls all must, 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 26 
 
THE DIRGE OF THE FAMOUS. 
 
 Fear no more the frown o' the great, 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
 To thee the reed is as the ouk : 
 
 The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the lightning-flash, 
 
 Xor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
 Fear not slander, censure rash, 
 Thou hast finish' d joy and moan. 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 No exorciser harm thee ! 
 
 Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! 
 Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
 Nothing ill come near thee ! 
 Quiet consummation have. 
 And renowned be tby grave. 
 
 William ShaJcesperc. 
 
WOLSEY'S WARNINa. 
 
 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. 
 
 Let's dry our tears : 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, though thy master miss'd it. 
 
 Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me. 
 
 Cromwell, 1 charge thee, fling away ambition ; 
 
 By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then. 
 
 The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? 
 
 Love thyself : cherish those hearts that wait 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, Cromwell, 
 
 Thou fall'st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king ; 
 
 And, — prithee, 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. Cromwell, Cromwell ! 
 
 Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal 
 
 I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age 
 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 Shahespere. 
 28 
 
THIRTEENTH PSALM. 
 
 Lord, how long, how long wilt Thou 
 Quite forget, and quite neglect mel 
 
 How long, with a frowning brow, 
 
 Wilt Thou from Thy sight reject me 1 
 
 How long shall I seek a way 
 
 Forth this maze of thoughts perplexed, 
 Where my griev'd mind, night and day. 
 
 Is with thinking tired and vexed? 
 
 How long shaU my scornful foe. 
 On my fall his greatness placing, 
 
 Build upon my overthrow. 
 
 And be graced by my disgracing 1 
 
 Hear, Lord and God, my cries; 
 
 Mark my foe's unjust abusing ; 
 And illuminate mine eyes. 
 
 Heavenly beams in them infusing. 
 
 Lest my woes, too great to bear, 
 
 And too infinite to number. 
 Rock me soon, 'twixt hope and fear. 
 
 Into Death's eternal slumber. 
 
 These black clouds will over-blow ; 
 
 Sunshine shall have his returning; 
 And my grief-dull'd heart, I know. 
 
 Into joy shall change his mourning. 
 
 Francis Davison. 
 
VANITY OF LEAENING. 
 
 And yet, alas ! when all our lamps are biirn'd, 
 Our bodies wasted and our spijits spent, 
 
 When we have all the learned volumes turn'd, 
 Which yield men's wits both help and ornament ; 
 
 What can we learn, or what can we discern, 
 
 When error clouds the windows of the mind ] 
 The divers forms of things how can we learn. 
 That have been ever from our birthday blind ? 
 30 
 
VANITY 07 LEARNING. 
 
 When reason's lamp, Mhicli, like the sun in sky, 
 Throughout man's little world her beams did spread, 
 
 Is now become a sparkle, which doth lie 
 Under the ashes, half extinct and dead ; 
 
 How can we hope that through the eye and ear, 
 This dying sparkle, in this cloudy place, 
 
 Can recollect those beams of knowledge clear. 
 
 Which were infused in the first minds by G^'ace ? 
 
 So might the heir, whose father hath in play 
 Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent. 
 
 By careful earning of one groat a day 
 Hope to restore the patrimony spent. 
 
 The wits that div'd most deep, and soar'd most high, 
 Seeking man's powers, have found his weakness such ; 
 
 Skill comes so slow, and life so fast doth fly ; 
 We learn so little, and forget so much. 
 
 All things without, which round about we see. 
 We seek to know, and how theremth to do ; 
 
 But that whereby we reason, live, and be. 
 Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto. 
 
 W^e seek to know the moving of each sphere. 
 
 And the strange cause o' th' ebbs and floods of Nile ; 
 
 But of that clock, which in our breasts we bear, 
 The subtle motions we forget the while. 
 
 We that acquaint ourselves with every zone, 
 And pass both tropics, and behold both poles ; 
 
 When we come home, are to ourselves unknown. 
 And unacquainted still with our own souls. 
 
 For this, few know themselves ; for merchants broke 
 View their estate with discontent and pain ; 
 
 As seas are troubled, when they do revoke 
 Their flowing waves into themselves again. 
 31 
 
VANITY OF LEARNING. 
 
 And while the face of outward things we find 
 Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweet, 
 
 These things transport, and carry out the mind, 
 That with herself the mind can never meet. 
 
 Yet if affliction once her wars begin, 
 
 And threat the feebler sense with sword and fire, 
 The mind contracts herself and shrinketh in, 
 
 And to herself she gladly doth retire ; 
 
 As spiders touch'd seek their webs' inmost part; 
 
 As bees in storms back to their hives return ; 
 As blood in danger gathers to the heart ; 
 
 As men seek towns, when foes the country burn. 
 
 If aught can teach us aught, affliction's looks, 
 Making us pry into ourselves so near, 
 
 Teach us to know ourselves beyond our books. 
 Or all the learned schools that ever were. 
 
 This mistress lately pluck' d me by the ear. 
 And many a golden lesson hath me taught ; 
 
 Hath made my senses quick, and reason clear, 
 Eeform'd my will, and rectified my thought. 
 
 So do the winds and thunders cleanse the air ; 
 
 So working lees settle and purge the wine ; 
 So lopp'd and pruned trees do flourish fair ; 
 
 So doth the fire the drossy gold refine. 
 
 Sir John Davies. 
 
 32 
 
PEAYER OF THE PSALMIST. 
 
 Frankly pour, Lord, on me 
 Saving grace to set me free ; 
 That supported I may see 
 Promise truly kept by Tliee. 
 
 That to them who me defame, 
 Eoundly I may answer frame; 
 Who, because Thy word and name 
 Are my trust, thus seek my shame. 
 
 Thy true word, do not make 
 Utterly my mouth forsake; 
 Since I thus still waiting wake, 
 When Thou wilt just vengeance taka 
 
 Then, lo, I Thy doctrine pure, 
 Sure I hold, will hold more sure; 
 !N'ought from it shall me allure 
 All the time my time shall dure. 
 
 Then as brought to widest way 
 From restraint of straitest stay; 
 All their thinking night and day 
 On Thy Law my thoughts shall lay. 
 
 Yea then unto any king 
 Witness will I anything. 
 That from Thee can witness bring; 
 In my face no blush shall spring. 
 33 
 
PRAYER OF THE PSALMIST. 
 
 Then will I set forth to sight 
 With what pleasure, what delight, 
 T embrace Thy precepts right, 
 Whereunto all love I plight. 
 
 Then will I, with either hand, 
 Clasp the rules of Thy command ; 
 There my study still shall stand. 
 Striving: them to understand. 
 
 Countess of Pemhroh 
 
 If our God we had forsaken. 
 Or forgot what He assign' d. 
 
 If ourselves we had betaken 
 Gods to serve of other kind, 
 Should not He our doubling find. 
 
 Though conceal'd and closely lurking? 
 Since His eye of deepest mind, 
 
 Deeper sinks than deepest working. 
 
 Same, 
 
 84 
 
SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 I SOUGHT Thee round about, Thou my God, 
 
 In Thine Abode ; 
 I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou lie T' 
 
 She answered nie, 
 35 
 
SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 "I am not." I enquired of creatures all, 
 
 In general, 
 Contain'd therein ; they with one voice proclaim, 
 That none amongst them challenged such a name. 
 
 I asked the seas, and all the deeps 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 deserts 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, "mi" 
 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. 
 Answered, "To find thy God thou must look higher." 
 
 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 hear ; 
 What in the world I might descry or know^. 
 
 Above, below; 
 With a 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, 
 
 36 
 
SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 ** I am not He, man ! for know that I, 
 
 By Him on high, 
 "Was fashion'd first of nothing, thus instated, 
 And swayed by Him, by whom I was created." 
 
 I sought the Court; but smooth-tongued flattery there 
 
 Deceived each ear ; 
 In the tlironged city there was selling, buying, 
 
 Swearing, and lying ; 
 r the country, craft in simpleness ari'ay'd : 
 
 And then I said, 
 "Yain is my search, although my pains be great — 
 Where my God is, there can be no deceit." 
 
 A scrutiny within myself I, then, 
 
 Even thus began ; 
 " Man, what art thou 1 " What more could I ssij, 
 
 Than dust and clay. 
 Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast. 
 
 That cannot last ; 
 Enthroned to-day, to morrow in an urn ; 
 Formed from that earth to which I must return. 
 
 I asked myself what this great God might be 
 
 That fashion'd me 1 
 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 doth give. 
 
 To all that live, 
 Both breath and being : He is the Creator 
 
 Both of the water, 
 27 
 
SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 Earth, air, and fire. Of all things that subsist, 
 
 He hath 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 sense Thou comest nearest, 
 
 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 quest 
 May, through Thy grace, admit us 'mongst the blest. 
 
 Thomas Heyivood. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 You knew — who knew not, Astrophel? 
 
 (That I should live to say I knew, 
 And have not in possession still !) 
 Things known permit me to renew 
 Of him, you know his merit such, 
 I cannot say — you hear — too much 
 
PORTEAIT OF PHILIP SIDNEY. 
 
 Within these woods of Arcady 
 
 He chief delight and pleasure took ; 
 And on the mountain Partheny, 
 Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
 The Muses met him every day, 
 And taught him sing, to write, and say. 
 
 When he descended down the mount, 
 His personage seeni'd most divine ; 
 A thousand graces one might count 
 Upon his lovely cheerful eyne. 
 
 To hear him speak, and sweetly smile, 
 You were in Paradise the while. 
 
 A sweet attractive kind of grace ; 
 
 A full assurance given by looks; 
 Continual comforts in a face; 
 The lineaments of Gospel books : 
 I trow that count'nance cannot lie, 
 Whose thoughts are legible to the eye. 
 
 Above all others this is he, 
 
 Which erst approved in his song. 
 That love and honour might agree, 
 And that pure love will do no wrong. 
 Sweet saints, it is no sin, or blame. 
 To love a man of virtuous name. 
 
 Did never love so sweetly breathe 
 
 In any mortal breast before : 
 Did never Muse inspire beneath 
 A Poet's brain with finer store. 
 
 He wrote of love with high conceit, 
 And Beauty rear'd above her height. 
 
 Uncertain, 
 
 39 
 
TEUE USE OF KNOWLEDGE 
 
 The chief use then in man of that he knows, 
 Is his painstaking for tlie good of all, 
 Not fleshly weeping for our own made woes, 
 Not laughing from a melancholy gall, 
 Not hating from a soul that overflows 
 With bitterness, breath' d out from inward thrall ; 
 "But sweetly rather to ease, loose, or bind. 
 As need requires, this frail, fall'n humankind." 
 
 Yet some seek knowledge, merely to be known. 
 
 And idle curiosity that is; 
 
 Some but to sell, not freely to bestow. 
 
 These gain and spend both time, and wealth amiss ; 
 
 Embasing hearts, by basely deeming so ; 
 Some to build others, which is charity. 
 But these to build themselves, who wise men be. 
 
 And to conclude, whether we would erect 
 Ourselves, or others, by this choice of arts, 
 Our chief endeavour must be to effect 
 A sound foundation, not on sandy parts 
 Of light opinion, selfness, words of men. 
 But that sure rock of truth, God's word, or pen. 
 
 Next, that we do not overbuild our states. 
 
 In searching secrets of the Deity, 
 
 Obscurities of nature, casualty of fates, 
 
 But measure first our own humanity. 
 
 Then on our gifts impose an equal rate. 
 
 And so seek wisdom with sobriety : 
 
 "Not curious what our fellows ought to do, 
 But what our own creation binds us to." 
 40 
 
TRUE USE OF KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Lastly, we must not to the world erect 
 Theatres, nor plant our paradise in dust, 
 Nor build up Babels for the devil's elect ; 
 Make temples of our hearts to God we must; 
 
 And then, as Godless wisdoms follies be, 
 
 So are His heights our true philosophy. 
 
 With which fair cautions, man may well profess 
 To study God, whom he is born to serve; 
 Nature, t' admire the greater in the less ; 
 Time, but to learn; ourselves we may observe, 
 
 To humble us; others, to exercise 
 
 Our love and patience, wherein duty lies. 
 
 Lastly, the truth and good to love, and do them. 
 The error, only to destroy, and shun it ; 
 Our hearts in general will lead us to them, 
 When gifts of grace, and faith, have once begun it : 
 
 "For without these, the mind, the mind of man grows numb. 
 
 The body darkness, to the soul a tomb." 
 
 Thus are true learnings in the humble heart 
 
 A spiritual work, raising God's image, razed 
 
 By our transgression; a well-framed art, 
 
 At which the world and error stand amazed ; 
 
 A light divine, where man sees joy and smart 
 
 Immortal, in this mortal body blazed; 
 
 A wisdom, which the wisdom us assureth, 
 With hers even to the sight of God endureth. 
 
 Lord Brooke. 
 
 41 
 
EEPENTANCE. 
 
 At the round Earth's imagined corners, blow 
 
 Your trumpets, Angels, and arise, arise 
 
 From Death, you numberless infinities 
 
 Of souls, and to your scattered bodies go. 
 
 All whom the flood did, and fire shall, o'erthrow. 
 
 All whom war, death, age, agues, tyrannies. 
 
 Despair, law, chance, hath slain, and you, whose eyes 
 
 Shall behold God, and never taste Death's woe. 
 
 But let them sleep. Lord, and me mourn a space ; 
 
 For, if above all these, my sins abound, 
 
 'Tis late to ask abundance of Thy grace, 
 
 When we are there; here on this lowly ground. 
 
 Teach me how to repent ; for that's as good 
 
 As if Thou hadst sealed my pardon with Thy blood. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
 
 Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so j 
 
 For those, whom thou think' st thou dost overthrow, 
 
 Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me : 
 
 From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 
 
 Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow, 
 
 And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
 
 Eest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
 
 Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
 
 And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell; 
 
 And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well. 
 
 And better than thy stroke ; — why swell' st thou then 1 
 
 Our short sleep past, we wake eternally, 
 
 And Death shall be no more : Death, thou shalt die. 
 
 John Donne. 
 42 
 
PICTURE OF A MIND. 
 
 Painter, you're come, but may be gone ; 
 Now I have better thought thereon, 
 This work I can perform alone, 
 And give you reasons more than one. 
 
 Not that your art I do refuse ; 
 But here I may no colours use ; 
 Beside, your hand ^\ill never fit 
 To draw a thing that cannot sit. 
 
 You could make shift to paint an eye. 
 An eagle towering in the sky, 
 The sun, a sea, or soundless pit ; 
 But these are like a mind — not it. 
 
 No, to express this mind to sense. 
 Would ask a Heaven's intelligence; 
 Since nothing can report that flame, 
 But what's of kin to whence it came. 
 
 Sweet mind, then speak yourself, and say. 
 As you go on, by what brave way 
 Our sense you do with knowledge fill, 
 And yet remain our wonder still. 
 
 I call you, Muse, now make it true : 
 Henceforth may every line be you ; 
 That all may say, that see the frame. 
 This is no picture, but the same. 
 
 A mind so pure, so perfect, fine, 
 As 'tis not radiant, but divine ; 
 And so disdaining any trier; 
 'Tis got where it can try the fire. 
 43 
 
PICTURE OF A MIND. 
 
 There, high exalted in the sphere, 
 As it another nature were, 
 It nioveth all; and makes a flighty 
 As circnlar as infinite. 
 
 Whose notions when it will express 
 In speech, it is with that excess 
 Of grace, and music to the ear. 
 As what it spoke, it planted there. 
 
 The voice so sweet, the words so fair, 
 As some soft chime had stroked the air; 
 And, though the sound had parted thence, 
 Still left an echo in the sense. 
 
 But that a mind so rapt, so high, 
 
 So swift, so pure, should yet apply 
 
 Itself to us, and come so nigh 
 
 Earth's grossness : there's the how, and why. 
 
 Is it because it sees us dull, 
 And sunk in clay here, it would puU 
 Us forth, by some celestial sleight. 
 Up to her own sublimed height? 
 
 Or hath she here, upon the ground. 
 Some Paradise, or palace, found; 
 In all the bounds of beauty, fit 
 For her t' inhabit? There is it. 
 
 Thrice happy house, thou hast receipt 
 For this so lofty form, so straight. 
 So polished, perfect, round, and even. 
 As it slid moulded off from heaven. 
 
 ISTot swelling, like the ocean proud, 
 But stooping gently, as a cloud. 
 As smooth as oil pour'd forth, and calm 
 As showers, and sweet as drops of balm. 
 
 44 
 
PICTURE OF A MIND. 
 
 Smooth, soft, and sweet, in call a flood, 
 Where it may run to any good; 
 And where it stays, it there becomes 
 A nest of odorous spice and gums. 
 
 In action, winged as the wind. 
 In rest, like spirits left behind 
 Upon a bank, or field of flowers. 
 Begotten by the wind and showers. 
 
 In thee, fair mansion, let it rest, 
 
 Yet know, with what thou art possest. 
 
 Thou, entertaining in thy breast 
 
 But such a mind, mak'st God thy guest. 
 
 Ben Jonson. 
 
 GOD SEEN IN HIS WOEKS. 
 
 The stately Heavens which glory doth array, 
 
 Are mirrors of God's admirable might; 
 
 There, whence forth spreads the night, forth springs the day, 
 
 He fixed the fountains of this temporal light, 
 
 Where stately stars enstall'd, some stand, some stray. 
 
 All sparks of His great power (though small yet bright) ; 
 
 But what none utter can, no, not conceive. 
 
 All of His greatness shadows may perceive. 
 
 What glorious lights through crystal lanterns glance 
 
 (As always burning with their Maker's love), 
 
 Spheres keep one musick, they one measure dance. 
 
 Like influence below, like course above. 
 
 And all by order led, not drawn by chance. 
 
 With majesty (as still in triumph) move. 
 
 And (liberal of their store) seem shouting thus : 
 
 " Look up, all souls, and gaze on God through us ! " 
 
 Same. 
 
 45 
 
A MEMORIAL OF MEECIES PAST. 
 
 Thou, who all things hast of nothing made. 
 
 Whose hand the radiant firmament displayed, 
 
 With such an undiscerned swiftness hurl'd 
 
 About the steadfast centre of the world; 
 
 Against whose rapid course the restless sun, 
 
 And wandering flames in varied motions run ; 
 
 Which heat, light, life infuse ; time, night and day, 
 
 Distinguish ; in our human bodies sway : — 
 
 That hung'st the solid earth in fleeting air, 
 
 Vein'd with clear springs, which ambient seas repair; 
 
 In clouds the mountains wrap their hoary heads; 
 
 Luxurious valleys clothed with flow'ry meads : 
 
 Her trees yield fruit and shade; with liberal breasts, 
 
 All creatures she (their common mother) feasts. 
 
 Then man Thy image mad'st; in dignity, 
 
 In knowledge, and in beauty like to Thee ; 
 
 Placed in a heaven on earth ; without his toil 
 
 The ever-flourishing and fruitful soil 
 
 Unpurchased fruit produced ; all creatures were 
 
 His subjects, serving more from love than fear; 
 
 He knew no lord but Thee. But when he fell 
 
 Prom his obedience, all at once rebel, 
 
 And in his ruin exercise their might; 
 
 Concurring elements against him fight; 
 
 Troops of unknown diseases : sorrow, age. 
 
 And death assail him with successive rage. 
 
 Hell let forth all her furies ; none so great. 
 
 As man to man; ambition, pride, deceit. 
 
 Wrong arm'd with power, lust, rapine, slaughter reign'd ; 
 
 And flatter' d vice the name of virtue gain'd. 
 
A MEMORIAL OF MERCIES PAST. 
 
 Tlien hills beneath the swelling waters stood, 
 
 And all the globe of earth was but one flood ; 
 
 Yet could not cleanse their guilt ; the following race 
 
 Worse than their fathers, and their sons more base, 
 
 Their God-like beauty lost ; sin's wretched thrall ; 
 
 'No spark of their divine original, 
 
 Left unextinguished ; all enveloped 
 
 With darkness ; in their bold transgressions dead. 
 
 Then Thou didst from the East a light display. 
 
 Which rendered to the world a clearer day; 
 
 Whose precepts from hell's jaws our steps withdraw 
 
 And whose example was a living law ; 
 
 Who purged us with His blood ; the way prepar'd 
 
 To heaven, and those long-chained doors unbarr'd. 
 
 How infinite Thy mercy ! which exceeds 
 The world Thou mad'st, as well as our misdeeds ! 
 Which greater reverence than Thy justice wins, 
 And still augments Thy honour by our sins. 
 
 who hath tasted of Thy clemency 
 
 In greater measure, or more oft than I ! 
 
 My grateful verse Thy goodness shall display, 
 
 Thou, who went'st along in all my way ! 
 
 To where the morning with perfumed wings 
 
 From the high mountains of Panchsea springs. 
 
 To that new-found-out world, where sober night 
 
 Takes from th' antipodes her silent flight ; 
 
 To those dark seas, where horrid winter reigns. 
 
 And binds the stubborn floods in icy chains; 
 
 To Libyan wastes, whose thirst no showers assuage, 
 
 And where swoln Nilus cools the lion's rage. 
 
 Thy wonders in the deep have I beheld; 
 Yet all by those on Judah's hills excell'd : 
 There, where the Virgin's Son His doctrine taught, 
 His miracles, and our redemption wrought : 
 
 47 
 
A MEMORIAL OF MERCIES PAST. 
 
 Where I by Thee inspired His praises sung ; 
 And on His sepulchre my offering hung. 
 Which way soe'er I turn my way, or feet; 
 I see Thy glory and Thy mercy meet. 
 
 Met on the Thracian shores ; when in the strife 
 Of frantic Simoans Thou preserv'dst my life, 
 So when Arabian thieves belaid us round. 
 And when by all abandon'd. Thee I found. 
 
 Thou savedst me from the bloody massacres 
 Of faithless Indians ; from their treacherous wars ; 
 Erom raging fevers ; from the sultry breath 
 Of tainted air, which cloy'd the jaws of death. 
 Preserv'd from swallowing seas; when towering waves 
 Mix'd with the clouds, and open'd their deep graves. 
 From barbarous pirates ransom'd ; by those taught 
 Successfully with Salian Moors we fought. 
 
 Thou brought'st me home in safety ; that this earth 
 Might bury me, which fed me from my birth; 
 Blest with a healthful age ; a quiet mind. 
 Content with little ; to this work design' d ; 
 Which I at length have finisht by Thy aid; 
 And now my vows have at Thy altar paid. 
 
 George Sandys. . 
 
 48 
 
A DEEAM. 
 
 Laid in my quiet bed to rest, 
 
 When sleep had all my senses drown'd, 
 Such dreams arose within my breast, 
 
 As did with fear my mind confound. 
 49 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 Methought I wander'd in a wood, 
 Wliicli was as dark as pit of hell ; 
 
 In midst of which such waters stood, 
 That where to pass I could not tell. 
 
 The Lion, Tiger, Wolf, and Bear 
 
 There thunder' d forth such hideous cries. 
 
 As made huge echoes in the air, 
 
 And seem'd almost to pierce the skies. 
 
 Long vex'd with care I there abode, 
 And to get forth I wanted power, 
 
 At every footstep that I trode, 
 
 I fear'd some beast would me devour. 
 
 Abiding thus, perplex'd with pain. 
 This case within myself I scann'd, 
 
 That human help was all in vain. 
 Unless the Lord with us do stand. 
 
 Then falling flat upon my face. 
 In humble sort to God I pray'd. 
 
 That, in this dark and doleful place, 
 He would vouchsafe to be mine aid. 
 
 Arising then, a wight with wings, 
 Of ancient years, methinks I see ; 
 
 A burning torch in hand he brings. 
 And thus began to speak to me. 
 
 "That God, whose aid thou didst implore, 
 Hath sent me hither for thy sake ; 
 
 Pluck up thy sprites, lament no more. 
 With me thou must thy journey take." 
 
 Against a huge and lofty hill, 
 
 With swiftest pace methinks we go. 
 
 When such a sound my ears did fill. 
 As moved my heart to bleed for woe. 
 50 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 Methoiight I heard a doleful wight 
 
 111 doleful sort pour forth great plaints, 
 
 Whose cries did so my mind affright, 
 That even with fear each member faints. 
 
 " Fie ! " quoth my Guide, " what means this change ? 
 
 Pass on apace with courage bold; 
 Hereby doth stand a prison strange, 
 
 Where wondrous things thou may'st behold." 
 
 Then came we to a fort of brass, 
 
 Where, peering through strong iron grates, 
 
 We saw a woman sit, alas ! 
 
 Which ruefully bewail'd her fates. 
 
 Her face was far more white than snow. 
 
 And on her head a crown she ware, 
 Beset with stones that glisten'd so 
 
 A thousand torches had been there. 
 
 Her song was— "Woe! and well away! 
 
 What torments here I do sustain ! " 
 A new mishap did her dismay, 
 
 Which more and more increased her pain. 
 
 An ugly creature, all in black, 
 
 Ean to her seat, and flung her down, 
 
 Who rent her garments from her back, 
 And spoil'd her of her precious crown. 
 
 This crown he placed upon his head. 
 
 And leaving her in doleful case, 
 With swiftest pace away he fled. 
 
 And darkness came in all the place. 
 
 Then quoth my Guide, " ^N'ote well my talk ; 
 
 And thou shalt hear this dream declared : 
 The wood, in which thou first didst walk. 
 
 Unto the world may be compared. 
 51 
 
A DREAM. 
 
 "The roaring beasts plainly express 
 The sundry snares in which we fall : 
 
 This Gaol is named Deep-Distress, 
 In which Dame Virtue lies in thrall. 
 
 "She is the wight, which here within 
 
 So dolefully doth howl and cry ; 
 The foe is called Deadly-Sin, 
 
 That proffer' d her this villainy. 
 
 "My name is Time, whom God hath sent 
 To warn thee of thy Soul's decay ; 
 
 In Time therefore thy sins repent, 
 Lest Time from Thee be ta'en away." 
 
 As soon as he these words had said. 
 
 With swiftest pace away he flies; 
 And I thereat was so afraid, 
 
 That downy sleep forsook mine eyes. 
 
 Humphrey Gifford. 
 
 THE WOELD : A BOOK TO BE READ. 
 
 Of this fair volume which we World do call, 
 
 If we the sheets and leaves would turn with care 
 
 Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame. 
 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom rare; 
 
 Find out His power which wildest arts doth tame, 
 
 His providence extending every where. 
 
 His justice which proud rebels doth not spare, 
 
 In every page, no period of the same : 
 
 But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
 
 Well pleas'd with coloured vellum, leaves of gold; 
 
 Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is best. 
 
 Of the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold : 
 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught, 
 It is some picture on the margin wrought. 
 
 William Drummond. 
 
DECAY OF EAETHLY POMP. 
 
 The rising morn lifts up his orient head, 
 
 And spangled heav'ns in golden robes invests ; 
 Thirsil upstarting from his fearless bed, 
 
 Where useless night he safe and quiet rests, 
 Unhous'd his bleating flock, and quickly thence 
 Hasting to his expecting audience. 
 Thus with sad verse began their griev'd minds to incense. 
 
 "Fond man, that looks on earth for happiness. 
 And here long seeks what here is never found ! 
 
 For all our good we hold from heav'n by lease, 
 With many forfeits and conditions bound; 
 53 
 
DECAY OF EARTHLY POMP. 
 
 Xor can we pay the fine, and rentage due ; 
 Tho' now but writ, and seaPd, and giv'n anew. 
 Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. 
 
 "Why should'st thou here look for perpetual good. 
 
 At ev'ry loss against heav'n's face repining 1 
 Do but behold where glorious cities stood. 
 With gilded tops, and silver turrets shining : 
 
 There now the hart, fearless of greyhound, feeds ; 
 And loving pelican in safety breeds ; 
 There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty stedes. 
 
 "Where is th' Assyrian lion's golden hide, 
 
 That all the East once grasp'd in lordly paw? 
 AVhere that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride 
 The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw 1 
 Or he which, 'twixt a lion and a pard. 
 Thro' all the world with nimble pinions far'd, 
 And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shar'd. 
 
 ''Hardly the place of such antiquity, 
 
 Or note of these great monarchies we find ; 
 Only a fading verbal memory, 
 
 And empty name in writ is left behind : 
 But when this second life and glory fades. 
 And sinks at length in time's obscurer shades, 
 A second fall succeeds, and double death invades. 
 
 "That monstrous beast which, nurs'd in Tiber's fen. 
 
 Did all the world with hideous shape affray ; 
 That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den. 
 And trod down all the rest to dust and clay ; 
 His batt'ring horns, pull'd out by civil hands. 
 And iron teeth lie scatter' d on the sands ; 
 Back'd, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands 
 
 54 
 
DECAY OF EARTHLY POMP. 
 
 ''And that black Vulture,^ wliicli with dreadful wing 
 
 O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight 
 Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring, 
 Already stoops, and flags with weary flight : 
 Who then shall look for happiness beneath 1 
 Where each new day proclaims chance, change, and death ; 
 And life itself s as fleet, as is the air we breathe." 
 
 Fhineas Fletcher. 
 
 HOME OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 So Him they led into the Courts of Day, 
 
 Where never war nor wounds abide Him more ; 
 
 But in that House eternal Peace doth play, 
 
 Acquieting the souls that, new before, 
 
 Their way to Heaven through their own blood did score, 
 But now*, estranged from all misery. 
 As far as heaven and earth discoasted lie, 
 Swelter in quiet waves of immortality. 
 
 Gaze but upon the house where man embowers ; 
 With flowers and rushes paved is his way, 
 Where all the creatures are his servitors ; 
 The winds do sweep his chambers every day ; 
 And clouds do wash his rooms ; the ceiling gay, 
 
 Starred aloft, the gilded knobs embrave, — 
 
 If such a house God to another gave. 
 How shine those glittering Courts He for Himself will have 1 
 
HOME OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 And if a sullen cloud, as sad as night, 
 In whicli the sun may seem embodied, 
 Depur'd of all his dross, we see no white, 
 Burning in melted gold his watery head, 
 Or round with iv'ry edges silvered, 
 
 What lustre super-excellent will He 
 Lighten on those that shall His sunshine see, 
 In that all-glorious Court, in which all glories be ! 
 
 If but one Sun, with his diffusive fire. 
 
 Can paint the stars and the whole world with light. 
 
 And joy and life into each heart inspire. 
 
 And every saint shall shine in heaven as bright, 
 
 As doth the sun in his transcendent might, 
 
 (As faith may well believe what truth once says) 
 What shall so many suns' united rays 
 But dazzle all the eyes that now in Heav'n we praise ] 
 
 Here let my Lord hang up His conquering lance, 
 And bloody armour with late slaughter warm, 
 And, looking down on His weak militants, 
 Behold His Saints amidst their hot alarm. 
 Hang all their golden hopes upon His arm. 
 And in this lower field displacing wide. 
 Through windy thoughts that would their sails misguide, 
 Anchor their fleshly ships fast in His wounded side. 
 
 Here may the band, that now in triumph shines 
 
 And that (before they were invested thus) 
 
 In earthly bodies carried heavenly minds. 
 
 Pitch round about, in order glorious. 
 
 Their sunny tents and houses luminous ; 
 
 All their eternal day in songs employing. 
 Joying their end, without end of their joying. 
 While their Almighty Prince dc^struction is destroying. 
 
HOME OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 Full, yet without satiety, of that 
 Which whets and quiets greedy appetite, 
 Where never sun did rise, nor ever sat ; 
 But one eternal day, and endless light 
 Gives time to those whose time is infinite — 
 
 Speaking with thought, obtaining without fee, 
 Beholding Him whom never eye could see, 
 And magnifying Him that cannot greater be. 
 
 How can such joy as this want words to speak? 
 And yet what words can speak such joy as this 1 
 Far from the world, that might their quiet break, 
 Here the glad souls the face of Beauty kiss, 
 Pour'd out in pleasure, on their beds of bliss ; 
 And drunk with nectar-torrents, ever hold 
 Their eyes on Him, whose graces manifold 
 The more they do behold, the more they would behold. 
 
 No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow, 
 No bloodless malady empales their face, 
 No age drops on their hairs his silver snow, 
 No nakedness their bodies doth embase, 
 No poverty themselves and theirs disgrace. 
 No fear of death the joy of life devours, 
 No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers, 
 No loss, no grief, no change wait on their winged hours. 
 
 But now their naked bodies scorn the cold. 
 And from their eyes joy looks, and laughs at pain ; 
 The infant wonders how he came so old. 
 The old man how he came so young again ; 
 Still resting, though from sleep they still refrain; 
 Where all are rich, and yet no gold they owe, 
 And all are kings, and yet no subjects know. 
 All full, and yet no time on food they do bestow. 
 
 57 I 
 
HOME OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 About the lioly City rolls a flood 
 
 Of molten crystal, like a sea of glass, 
 
 On which weak stream a strong foundation stood; 
 
 Of living diamonds the building was, 
 
 That all things else, besides itself, did pass ; 
 
 Her streets, instead of stones, the stars did pave, 
 And little pearls for dust it seem'd to have. 
 On which soft-streaming manna, like pure snow, did wave. 
 
 Tn midst of this City celestial. 
 
 Where the Eternal Temple should have rose, 
 
 Lighten' d the Idea Beatifical — 
 
 End and beginning of each thing that grows; 
 
 Whose Self no end nor yet beginning knows, 
 That hath no eyes to see, nor ears to hear, 
 Yet sees and hears, and is all eye, all ear ; 
 That nowhere is contain' d, and yet is everywhere : 
 
 Changer of all things, yet immutable ; 
 
 Before and after all, the first and last ; 
 
 That, moving all, is yet immoveable ; 
 
 Great without quantity ; in whose forecast 
 
 Things past are present, things to come are past ; 
 Swift without motion ; to whose open eye 
 The hearts of wicked men unbreasted lie; 
 At once absent and present to them, far and nigh. 
 
 It is no flaming lustre, made of light; 
 No sweet consent, or well-tim'd harmony ; 
 Ambrosia for to feast the appetite. 
 Or flowery odour, mixt with spicery ; 
 No soft embrace, or pleasure bodily ; 
 
 And yet it is a kind of inward feast, 
 A harmony that sounds within the breast, 
 An odour, light, embrace, in which the soul doth rest. 
 
 58 
 
HOME OF THE BLESSED. 
 
 A heavenly feast, no hunger can consume; 
 A light unseen, yet shines in every place ; 
 A sound no time can steal; a sweet perfume 
 No winds can scatter ; an entire emhrace 
 That no satiety can e'er unlace : 
 
 Ingrac'd into so high a favour, there 
 
 The saints, with their beaupeers whole worlds outwear, 
 And things unseen do see, and things unheard do hear. 
 
 Ye blessed souls, grown richer by your spoil. 
 Whose loss, though great, is cause of greater gains, 
 Here may your weary spirits rest from toil. 
 Spending your endless evening that remains. 
 Among those white flocks, and celestrial trains. 
 
 That feed upon their Shepherd's eyes, and frame 
 Their heavenly music of so wondrous fame; 
 Psalming aloud the holy honours of His Name. 
 
 Giles Fletcher. 
 
 59 
 
LIFE'S JOUENEY. 
 
 Yet T confess, in this my pilgrimage, 
 
 I, like some infant am, of tender age, 
 
 60 
 
LIFE'S JOURNEY. 
 
 For as the child who from his father hath 
 Stray'd in some grove thro' many a crooked path, 
 Is sometimes hopeful that he finds the way, 
 And sometimes doubtful he runs more astray ; 
 Sometime with fair and easy paths doth meet, 
 Sometime with rougher tracts that stay his feet; 
 Here goes, there runs, and yon amazed stays; 
 Then cries, and straight forgets his care, and plays; 
 Then, hearing where his loving father calls. 
 Makes haste, but, through a zeal ill-guided, falls ; 
 Or runs some other way, until that he 
 (Whose love is more than his endeavours be). 
 To seek the wanderer, forth himself doth come, 
 And take him in his arms, and bear him home. 
 So in this life, this grove of ignorance, 
 As to my homeward I myself advance. 
 Sometimes aright, and sometimes wrong I go, 
 Sometimes my pace is speedy, sometimes slow ; 
 One while my ways are pleasant unto me. 
 Another while as full of cares they be. 
 I doubt and hope, and doubt and hope again. 
 And many a change of passion I sustain 
 In this my journey, so that now and then 
 I lost, perhaps, may seem to other men. 
 Yea, to myself awdiile, when sins impure 
 Do my Eedeemer's love from me obscure ; 
 But, whatsoe'er betide, I know full well 
 My Father, who above the clouds doth dwell, 
 An eye upon his wandering child doth cast. 
 And He will fetch me to my home at last. 
 
 George Wither. 
 
 61 
 
THE LIGHT OF VIKTtJE. 
 
 Thus fares the man whom Virtue, beacon-like, 
 Hath fixed upon the hills of Eminence ; 
 At him the tempests of mad Envy strike, 
 And rage against his piles of Innocence ; 
 But still the more they wrong him, so the more 
 They seek to keep his worth from being known, 
 They daily make it greater than before, 
 And cause his fame the further to be blown. 
 When, therefore, no self-doting arrogance, 
 But virtues covered with a modest veil. 
 Break thro' obscurity, and then advance, 
 To place where Envy shall thy worth assail. 
 Discourage not thyself, but stand the shocks, 
 Of Wrath and Fury. Let them snarl and bite. 
 Pursue thee with detraction, slander, mocks. 
 And all the venom'd engines of despite ; 
 Thou art above their malice, and the blaze 
 Of thy celestial fire shall shine so clear, 
 That their besotted souls thou shalt amaze. 
 And make thy splendours to their shame appear. 
 
 Wither 
 
 62 
 
IN PRISON 
 
 First think, my soul, if I have foes, 
 That take a pleasure in my care, 
 63 
 
IN PEISON ! 
 
 And to procure tliese outward woes 
 
 Have thus enwrapt me unaware ; 
 
 Thou should' st by much more careful be, 
 Since greater foes lay wait for thee. 
 
 By my late hopes that are now crost, 
 
 Consider those that firmer be, 
 
 And make the freedom I have lost 
 
 A means that may remember thee, 
 Had Christ not thy Kedeemer been, 
 What horrid state had'st thou been in ! 
 
 Or when through me thou se'st a man 
 Condemn'd unto a mortal death, 
 How sad he looks, how pale, how wan. 
 Drawing, with fear, his panting breath : 
 Think if in that such grief thou see, 
 How sad will "Go ye cursed" be! 
 
 These iron chains, these bolts of steel. 
 Which often poor offenders grind; 
 The wants and cares which they do feel 
 May bring some greater things to mind ; 
 
 For by their grief thou shalt do well 
 
 To think upon the pains of Hell. 
 
 Again, when he that fear'd to die 
 
 (Past hope) doth see his pardon brought, 
 
 Eead but the joy that's in his eye. 
 
 And then convey it to thy thought: 
 
 Then think between thy heart and thee, 
 How glad will " Come ye blessed " be ! 
 
 Wither. 
 
 U 
 
THE REMEMBEANCE. 
 
 Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 
 
 Instead of dirges, this complaint; 
 
 And, for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, 
 
 Eeceive a strew of weeping verse 
 
 From thy griev'd friend, whom thou might'st see 
 
 Quite melted into tears for thee. 
 
 Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate 
 My task hath been to meditate 
 On thee, on thee : thou art the book, 
 The library whereon I look. 
 Though almost blind, for thee, lov'd clay, 
 I languish out, not live the day, — 
 Thou hast benighted me ; thy set 
 This eve of blackness did beget, 
 Who wast my day (though overcast 
 Before thou hast thy noon-tide past), 
 And I remember must, in tears. 
 Thou scarce hadst seen so 'many years 
 As day tells hours. By thy clear sun 
 My love and fortune first did run ; 
 But thou wilt never more appear 
 Folded within my hemisphere. 
 Since both thy light and motion 
 Like a fled star is fallen and gone, — 
 I could allow thee for a time 
 To darken me and my sad clime, 
 
 6.5 K 
 
THE REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Were it a month, a year, or ten, 
 I would thy exile live till then ; 
 And all that space my mirth adjourn, 
 So thou Avouldst promise to return — 
 
 But woe is me ! the longest date 
 
 Too narrow is to calculate 
 
 These empty hopes : never shall I 
 
 Be so much, blest as to descry 
 
 A glimpse of thee, till that day come 
 
 Which shall the earth to cinders doom, 
 
 And a fierce fever must calcine 
 
 The body of this world like thine. 
 
 — Then we shall rise. 
 And view ourselves with clearer eyes 
 In that calm region, where no night 
 Can hide ns from each other's sight. 
 
 Meantime, thou hast her. Earth. 
 With a most free and bounteous grief, 
 I give thee what I could not keep — 
 Be kind to her, and, prithee, look 
 Thou write into thy doomsday-book 
 Each parcel of this rarity 
 Which, in thy casket shrin'd doth lie ; 
 Eor thou must audit on thy trust 
 Each grain and atom of this dust. 
 As thou wilt answer Him that lent, 
 Not gave thee, my dear monument; 
 So close the ground, and 'bout her shade 
 Black curtains draw, my bride is laid. 
 
 Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 
 iS'ever to be disquieted ! 
 My last good-night ! thou wilt not wake 
 Till I thy fate shall over-take; 
 66 
 
THE REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 Till age, or grief, or sickness, must 
 
 Marry my body to that dust 
 
 It so much loves ; and fill the room 
 
 My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 
 
 Stay for me there ; I will not fail 
 
 To meet thee in that hollow vale. 
 
 Each minute is a short degree, 
 
 And every hour a step towards thee. 
 
 At night when I betake to rest^ 
 
 Next morning I rise nearer my west 
 
 Of life, almost by eight hours' sail. 
 
 Than when sleep breath'd his drowsy gale. 
 
 'Tis true, with shame and grief I yield, 
 
 Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, 
 
 And gotten hast the victory 
 
 In thus adventuring to die 
 
 Before me, whose more years might crave 
 
 A just precedence in the grave. 
 
 But hark ! my pulse like a soft drum, 
 
 Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; 
 
 And slow, howe'er, my marches be, 
 
 I shall at last sit down by thee. 
 
 The thought of this bids me go on. 
 
 And wait my dissolution 
 
 With hope and comfort : Dear, (forgive 
 
 The crime) I am content to live, 
 
 Divided with but half a heart, 
 
 Till wfc shall meet and never part. 
 
 Henry King. 
 
 67 
 
LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 
 
 In the hour of my distress, 
 When temptations me oppress, 
 And when I my sins confess, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When I lie within my bed, 
 Sick in heart, and sick in head. 
 And with doubts discomforted. 
 
 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 artless Doctor sees 
 No one hope, but of his fees, 
 And his skill runs on the lees ; 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the passing-bell doth toll, 
 And the furies, in a shoal, 
 Come to fright a parting soul ; 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When the tapers now burn blue, 
 And the comforters are few. 
 And that number more than true ; 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 68 
 
LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. 
 
 When the priest his last has pray'd, 
 And I nod to what is said, 
 'Clause my speech is now decay'd, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me ! 
 
 When, God knows, I'm tost about, 
 Either with despair or doubt ; 
 Yet before the glass 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 flames and hellish cries 
 Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, 
 And all terrors me surprise ; 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Robert Hei'rich 
 
THE ONLY ONE. 
 
 Psalm lxxiii. 25. 
 
 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, compar'd with Thee? 
 
 Or what's my mother, or my nurse, to me 1 
 
 I love the Air; her dainty sweets refresh 
 
 My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 
 
 Her shrill-mouth'd choir sustain me with their flesh, 
 And with their merry-sounding notes delight me ; 
 
 But what's the Air, or all the sweets that she 
 
 Can bless my soul withal, compar'd to Thee? 
 70 
 
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 ; 
 
 71 
 
THE ONLY ONE. 
 
 But, Lord of Ocean, when compar'd with Thee, 
 What is the Ocean, or her w^ealth, to me? 
 
 To Heav'n's high city I direct my journey. 
 Whose spangl'd suburbs entertain mine eye ; 
 
 Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney. 
 Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky. 
 
 But what is Heav'n, great God, compar'd to Thee 1 
 
 Without Thy presence Heav'n's no Heav'n to me. 
 
 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 Heav'n itself's no pleasure ; 
 If not possess' d, if not enjoy'd in Thee, 
 What's Earth, or Sea, or Air, or Heav'n 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 proudest flames that earth can kindle be 
 But nightly glow-worms, if compar'd to Thee. 
 
 Without Thy presence wealth is bags of cares ; 
 
 Wisdom but folly; joy disquiet sadness; 
 Friendship is treason, and delights are snares; 
 
 Pleasure's but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness ; 
 Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, 
 Nor have they being, when compar'd with Thee. 
 
 In having all things, and not Thee, what have I? 
 
 Kot having Thee, what have my labours got? 
 Let me enjoy but Thee, what farther crave I 
 
 And having Thee alone, what have I not? 
 I wish nor sea, nor land ; nor would I be 
 Possess'd of Heav'n, Heav'n unpossess'd of Thee. 
 
 Francis Quarles. 
 
THE MAGNETIC NEEDLE. 
 
 Like to the arctic needle, that doth guide 
 The wand'ring shade by his magnetic pow'r, 
 
 And leaves his silken gnomon to decide 
 The question of the controverted hour, 
 
 First frantics up and down from side to side, 
 And restless beats his crystal' d iv'ry case, 
 "With vain impatience jets from place to place, 
 
 And seeks the bosom of his frozen bride ; 
 At length he slacks his motion, and doth rest 
 
 His trembling point at his bright pole's beloved breast. 
 
 E'en so my soul, being hurried here and there, 
 
 By ev'ry object that presents delight. 
 Fain would be settled, but she knows not where ; 
 
 She likes at morning what she loathes at night : 
 She bows to honour ; then she lends an ear 
 
 To that sweet swan-like voice of dying pleasure, 
 
 Then tumbles in the scatter'd heaps of treasure; 
 Now flatter'd with false hope; now foil'd with fear. 
 
 Thus, finding all the world's delight to be 
 But empty toys, great God, she points alone to Thee. 
 
 But hath the virtued steel a power to move? 
 
 Or can the untouch'd needle point aright 1 
 Or can my wand'ring thoughts forbear to rove, 
 
 Unguided by the virtue of Thy spright? 
 Or hath my leaden soul the art t' improve 
 
 Her wasted talent, and, unrais'd, aspire 
 
 Li this sad moulting time of her desire? 
 Not first belov'd, have I the power to love? 
 
 I cannot stir, but as thou please to move me. 
 Nor can my heart return Thee love, until Thou love me. 
 
THE MAGNETIC NEEDLE. 
 
 Eternal God! Thou that only art 
 
 The sacred fountain of eternal light, 
 And blessed loadstone of my better part ! 
 
 Thou, my heart's desire, my soul's delight ! 
 Eeflect upon my soul, and touch my heart. 
 
 And then my heart shall prize no good above Thee ; 
 
 And then my soul shall know Thee ; knowing, love Thee 
 And then my trembling thoughts shall never start 
 
 From Thy commands, or swerve the least degree, 
 Or once presume to move, but as they move in Thee. 
 
 Quarles. 
 
 GOD HIDING HIS FACE. 
 
 Wherefore hidest Thou Thy ftice, and holdest me for Thine enemy ? 
 Job xiii. 24. 
 
 Why dost Thou shade Thy lovely face? why 
 Does that eclipsing hand so long deny 
 The sunshine of Thy soul-enliv'ning eye? 
 
 Without that light, what light remains to me? 
 Thou art my Life, my Way, my Light ; in Thee 
 I live, and move, and by Thy beams I see. 
 
 Thou art my Life; if Thou dost turn away. 
 
 My Life's a thousand deaths ; Thou art my Way ; 
 
 Without Thee, Lord, I travel not, but stray. 
 
 My Light Thou art ; without Thy glorious light, 
 Mine eyes are darken' d with perpetual night ; 
 My God, Thou art my Way, my Life, my Light. 
 
 Thou art my Way, I wander, if Thou Hy ; 
 Thou art my Light, if hid, how blind am I ! 
 Thou art my Life, if Thou withdraw, I die. 
 
 74 
 
GOD HIDING HIS FACE. 
 
 Mine eyes are blind and dark, I cannot see ; 
 
 To whom, or whitlier, should my darkness flee 
 
 But to the Light? and who's that Light but Thee? 
 
 My path is lost, my wand' ring steps do stray ; 
 
 I cannot safely go, or safely stay; 
 
 Whom should I seek but Thee, my Path, my Way? 
 
 0, I am dead; to whom shall I, poor I, 
 
 Eepair? To whom shall my sad ashes fly 
 
 But Life ? and where is Life but in Thine eye ^ 
 
 And yet Thou turn'st away Thy face, and fly'st me ; 
 And yet I sue for grace, and Thou deny'st me : 
 Speak, art Thou angiy. Lord, or only try'st me ? 
 
 Death- conquered Lazarus w^as redeem' d by Thee, 
 If I am dead. Lord, set Death's pris'ner free. 
 Am I more spent, or moulder' d worse than he? 
 
 If my puffd Life be out, give leave to tine^ 
 My flameless snuff at that bright lamp of Thine, 
 what's Thy lamp the less for lighting mine? 
 
 If I have lost my path, great Shepherd, say, 
 
 Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? 
 
 Lord, shall a Lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray? 
 
 Thou art the pilgrim's Path ; the blind man's Eye ; 
 The dead man's Life ; on Thee my hopes rely ; 
 If Thou remove, I err, I grope, I die. 
 
 Disclose Thy sunbeams, close Thy wings, and stay ; 
 See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray ; 
 Thou that art my Light, my Life, my Way. 
 
 Qitarles. 
 
 75 
 
THE DAYS AEE FEW. 
 
 Are not my days few ? Cease, then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little. 
 Job X. 20. 
 
 My glass is half unspent ; forbear t' arrest 
 My thoughtless day too soon : my poor request 
 Is that my glass tcislj run but out the rest. 
 
 My time-devoured minutes will be done 
 Without Thy help j see, see how swift they run 
 Cut not my thread before my thread be spun. 
 
 The gain's not great I purchase by this stay ; 
 What loss sustain'st Thou by so small delay, 
 To whom ten thousand years are but a day? 
 
 My following eye can hardly make a shift 
 To count my winged hours ; they fly so swift, 
 They scarce deserve the bounteous name of gift. 
 
 The secret wheels of hurrying time do give 
 So short a warning, and so fast they drive, 
 That I am dead before I seem to live. 
 
 No, no ; 'tis not to please my wanton ears 
 With frantic mirth : I beg but hours, not years, 
 And what Thou giv'st me, I will give to tears. 
 
 Draw not that soul which would be rather led; 
 That seed has not yet broke my serpent's head; 
 Or shall I die before my sins are dead? 
 
 76 
 
THE DAYS ARE FEW. 
 
 Behold the83 rags ; am I a fitting giiest 
 To taste the dainties of Thy royal feast, 
 With hands and face unwash'd, ungii-t, unblest? 
 
 First let the Jordan streams (that find supplies 
 
 From the deep fountain of my heart) arise, 
 
 And cleanse my spots, and clear my leprous eyes. 
 
 I have a world of sins to be lamented ; 
 I have a sea of tears that must he vented ; 
 spare till then : and then I die contented. 
 
 And what's a life? a weary pilgrimage, 
 Whose glory, in one day, doth fill the stage 
 With childhood, manhood, and decrepid age. 
 
 And what's a life? The flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
 Wears her green plush, and is to-morrow hay. 
 
 Read on this dial, how the shades devour 
 
 My short-liv'd winter's day ; hour eats up hour ; 
 
 Alas ! the total's hut from eight to four. 
 
 Behold those liHes (which ITiy hands have made 
 
 Fair copies of my life, and open laid 
 
 To view), how soon they droop, how soon they fade ! 
 
 Shade not that dial, night will blind too soon; 
 My non-ag'd day already points to noon : 
 How simple is my suit ! how small my boon ! 
 
 Nor do beg I this slender inch, to while 
 
 The time away, or falsely to beguile 
 
 My thoughts with joy; here's nothing worth a smile. 
 
 Quarles. 
 
FLIGHT OF A SINNER 
 
 O WHITHER shall I flyl what path iintrod 
 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? 
 
 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 spring 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-eyed Fury means to smite, can save. 
 
 The sea will part, graves open, rocks will split; 
 The shield will cleave, the frighted shadow flit; 
 When Justice aims, her fiery darts must hit. 
 
 No, no ; if stern-brow'd Vengeance means to thunder, 
 There is no place above, beneath, or under, 
 So close, but will unlock, or rive in sunder. 
 
 78 
 
FLIGHT OF A SINNEE. 
 
 'Tis vain to flee ! 'tis neither here nor there 
 Can 'scape that Hand, until that Hand forbear ; 
 Ah me ! where is He not, that's everywhere ? 
 
 'Tis vain to flee, till gentle mercy show 
 Her better eye; the further ofl" we go, 
 The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow. 
 
 Th' ingenuous child, corrected, doth not fly 
 His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh. 
 And quenches with his tears her flaming eye. 
 
 Shadows are faithless, and the rocks are false ; 
 No trust in brass, no trust in marble walls : 
 Poor cots are even as safe as princes' halls. 
 
 Great God, there is no safety here below ; 
 
 Thou art my fortress, though Thou seem'st my foe, 
 
 'Tis Thou that strik'st the stroke must guard the blow. 
 
 Thou art my God ; by Thee I fall or stand ; 
 Thy grace hath given me courage to withstand 
 All tortures, but my Conscience, and Thy Hand. 
 
 I know Thy Justice is Thyself; I know. 
 
 Just God, Thy very self is mercy too ; 
 
 If not to Thee, where, — whither, — should I go ? 
 
 Then work Thy will — if passion bid me flee, 
 My reason shall obey; my wings shall be 
 Stretch'd out no further than from Thee to Thee. 
 
 Qua7'les. 
 
 79 
 
LIFE. 
 
 I MADE a posy while the day ran by : 
 Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie 
 
 My life within this band. 
 But time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
 By noon most cunningly did steal away 
 
 And wither'd in my hand. 
 
 My hand was next to them, and then my heart ; 
 I took, without more thinking, in good part 
 
 Time's gentle admonition. 
 Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey, 
 Making my mind to smell my fatal day, 
 
 Yet sug'ring the suspicion. 
 
 Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, 
 Fit, while ye liv'd, 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. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 80 
 
EMPLOYMENT. 
 
 If as a flower dotli spread and die, 
 Thou woiildst extend me to some good, 
 Before I were by frosts' extremity 
 Kipt in the bud ; 
 
 81 M 
 
EMPLOYMENT. 
 
 The sweetness and the praise were Thine ; 
 But the extension and the room, 
 Which in Thy garland I should fill, were mine 
 At Thy great doom. 
 
 For as Thou dost impart Thy grace, 
 The greater shall our glory be. 
 The measure of our joys is in this place. 
 The stuff with Thee. 
 
 Let me not languish then, and spend 
 A life as barren to Thy praise 
 As is the dust, to which that life doth tend 
 But with delays. 
 
 All things are busy : only I 
 Neither bring honey with the bees, 
 Kor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry 
 To water these. 
 
 I am no link of Thy great chain. 
 But all my company is as a weed ; 
 Lord, place me in Thy comfort ; give one strain 
 To my poor reed. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 82 
 
THE PEAKL. 
 
 Matt. xin. . 
 
 I KNOW the ways of learning ; both the head 
 And pipes that feed the press, and make it run ; 
 "What reason hath from nature borrowed, 
 Or of itself, and Hke a good huswife, spun 
 In laws and policy ; what the stars conspire, 
 "VMiat willing nature speaks, what forc'd by fire ; 
 Both th' old discoveries, and the new- found seas. 
 The stock and surplus, cause and history : 
 All these stand open, or I have the keys : 
 Yet I love thee. 
 
 I know the ways of honour, what maintains 
 The quick returns of courtesy and wit : 
 In vies of favours whether party gains, 
 When glory swells the heart and moldeth it 
 To all expressions both of hand and eye, 
 Which on the world a true-love-knot may tie, 
 And bear the bundle, Avheresoe'er it goes : 
 How many drams of spirit there must be 
 To sell my life unto my friends or foes : 
 Yet I love thee. 
 
 I know the ways of pleasure, the sweet strains. 
 The lullings and the relishes of it; 
 The propositions of hot blood and brains ; 
 What mirth and musick mean ; what love and wit 
 Have done these twenty hundred years, and more : 
 I know the projects of unbridled store : 
 My stuff is flesh, not brass ; my senses live, 
 And grumble oft, that they have more in me 
 Than he that curbs them, being but one to five : 
 Yet I love thee. 
 83 
 
THE PEARL. 
 
 I know all these, and have them in my hand : 
 
 Therefore not sealed, but with open eyes 
 
 I fly to thee, and fully understand 
 
 Both the main sale, and the commodities ; 
 
 And at what rate and price I have Thy love ; 
 
 With all the circumstances that may move ; 
 
 Yet through the labyrinths, not my groveling wit, 
 
 But thy silk twist let down from heav'n to me. 
 
 Did both conduct and teach me, how by it 
 
 To climb to thee. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell] I humbly crave. 
 
 Let me once know. 
 I sought thee in a secret cave, 
 
 And ask'd, if Peace were there. 
 A hollow wind did seem to answer, No ; 
 
 Go seek elsewhere. 
 
 I did ; and going did a rainbow note : 
 
 Surely, thought I, 
 This is the lace of Peace's coat : 
 
 I will search out the matter, 
 But while I look'd, the clouds immediately 
 
 Did break and scatter. 
 
 Then went I into a garden, and did spy 
 
 A gallant flower, 
 The Crown Imperial : Sure, said I, 
 
 Peace at the root must dwell ; 
 But when I digg'd, I saw a worm devour 
 
 AVhat show'd so well. 
 84 
 
PEACE. 
 
 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 liv'd with good increase 
 
 Of flock and fold. 
 
 He sweetly liv'd ; yet sweetness did not save 
 
 His life from foes ; 
 But after death out of his grave 
 
 There sprang twelve stalks of wheat 
 Which many wondering 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 virtue lies therein : 
 A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth, 
 
 By flight of sin. 
 
 Take of this grain, which in my garden grows, 
 
 And grows for you ; 
 Make bread of it : and that repose. 
 
 And Peace which everywhere 
 With so much earnestness you do pursue, 
 
 Is only there. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 85 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 I travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay 
 My expectation. 
 A long it was and weary way. 
 The gloomy cave of Desperation 
 I left on th' one, and on the other side 
 The rock of Piide. 
 86 
 
THE PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 And so I came to pliansie's meadow strow'd 
 With many a flower : 
 Fain Avould I here have made abode, 
 But I was quicken' d by my hour. 
 So to cares' copse I came, and there got through 
 AVith much ado. 
 
 That led me to the wild of passion ; which 
 
 Some call the wold ; 
 
 A wasted place, but sometimes rich. 
 
 Here I was robb'd of all my gold, 
 
 Save one good Angel, which a friend had ti'd 
 
 Close to my side. 
 
 At length I got unto the gladsome hill, 
 Where lay my hope, 
 Where lay my heart ; and climbing still, 
 When I had gained the brow and top, 
 A lake of brackish waters on the ground 
 Was all I found. 
 
 With that abash'd and struck with many a sting 
 Of swarming fears, 
 I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King ; 
 Can both the way and end be tears 1 
 Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd 
 I was deceiv'd. 
 
 My hill was further ; so T flung away, 
 Yet heard a cry 
 Just as I went, None goes that way 
 And lives : If that be all, said I, 
 After so foul a journey death is fair. 
 And but a chair. 
 
 Herbert 
 
 87 
 
THE FLOWER. 
 
 How fresh, Lord, how sweet and clean 
 
 Are thy returns ! ev'n as the flowers in sprin< 
 To which, besides their own demean, 
 
 The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. 
 Grief melts away 
 Like snow in May, 
 As if there w^ere no such cold thing. 
 
 •©■ 
 
 Who would have thought my shrivel'd heart 
 
 Could have recover' d greenness? It was gone 
 Quite under-ground : as flowers depart 
 
 To see their mother-root, when they have blown ; 
 Where they together 
 All the hard weather, 
 Dead to the world, keep house unknown. 
 
 These are thy wondere, Lord of power, 
 
 Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to hell 
 And up to heaven in an hour ; 
 
 Making a chiming of a passing bell. 
 We say amiss. 
 This or that is : 
 Thy word is all, if we could spell. 
 
 O that I once past changing were. 
 
 Fast in Thy Paradise, where no flower can wither. 
 Many a spring T shoot up fair, 
 
 Ofif'ring at heav'n, growing and groaning thither : 
 Nor doth my flower 
 Want a spring-shower, 
 My sins and I joining together. 
 
THE FLOWER. 
 
 But while I grow in a straight line, 
 
 Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, 
 Thy anger comes, and I decline : 
 
 What frost to that? what pole is not the zone 
 "Where all things burn, 
 When Thou dost turn. 
 And the least frown of Thine is shown ? 
 
 And now in age I bud again, 
 
 After so many deaths I live and write; 
 I once more smell the dew and rain, 
 And relish versing : O my only light. 
 It cannot be 
 That I am he. 
 On whom Thy tempests fell all night. 
 
 These are Thy wonders. Lord of love, 
 
 To make us see we are but flowers that glide, 
 Which when we once can find and prove. 
 Thou hast a garden for us, where to bide. 
 Who would be more, 
 Swelling through store, 
 Forfeit their Paradise by their pride. 
 
 Herbert 
 
 89 
 
a E A C E. 
 
 My flock lies dead, and no increase 
 Doth my dull husbandry improve ; 
 let Thy graces without cease 
 Drop from above. 
 
 If still the sun should hide his face, 
 Thy house would but a dungeon prove. 
 Thy works night's captives : let grace 
 Drop from above. 
 
 The dew doth ev*ry morning fall ; 
 And shall the dew outstrip Thy dovel 
 The dew, for which grass cannot call, 
 Drop from above. 
 
 Death is still working like a mole, 
 And digs my grave at each remove : 
 Let grace work too, and on my soul 
 Drop from above. 
 
 Sin is still hammering my heart 
 Unto a hardness, void of love : 
 Let suppling grace, to cross his art, 
 Drop from above. 
 
 come! for Thou dost know the way, 
 Or if to me Thou wilt not move, 
 Remove me, where I need not say — 
 Drop from above. 
 
 Herbert, 
 
THE QUIP. 
 
 The merry world did on a day 
 With his train-bands and mates 
 To meet together, where I lay, 
 And all in sport to geere at me. 
 91 
 
THE QUIP. 
 
 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, poor man ? said he : 
 I heard in musick you had skill ; 
 But thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. 
 
 Then came brave Glory puffing by 
 In silks that whistled, who but he ! 
 He scarce allow'd me half an eye ; 
 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. 
 
 Yet when the hour 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. 
 
 Herbert. 
 
 92 
 
THE EQUALITY OF THE GRAVE. 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 There is no armour against fate; 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
 Sceptre and crown 
 Must tumble do^vn, 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; 
 But their strong nerves at last 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 : 
 Your heads must come 
 To the cold tomb ; 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 
 
 James Shirley, 
 
A HEEMIT m AN AEBOUR 
 
 Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ! 
 
 Farewell, ye honour' d rags, ye glorious bubbles ! 
 
 Fame's but a hollow echo ; Gold, pure clay ; 
 
 Honour, the darling but of one short day; 
 
 Beauty (th' eyes' idol) but a damask' d skin ; 
 
 State, but a golden prison, to live in 
 
 And torture free-born minds ; imbroydered Trains, . _. 
 
 Merely but pageants for proud-swelling veins ; 
 
 And Blood, allied to greatness, is alone 
 
 Inherited, not purchas'd, nor our own; 
 Fame, Honour, Beauty, State, Train, Blood, and Birth, 
 Are but the fading Blossoms of the earth. 
 
 I would be great, — but that the sun doth still 
 
 Level his rays against the rising hill ; 
 
 I would be high, — but see the proudest oak 
 
 Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke ; 
 
 I would be rich, — but see men, too unkind, 
 
 Dig in the bowels of the richest mind ; 
 
 I would be wise, — but that I often see 
 
 The fox suspected, whilst the ass goes free; 
 
 I would be fair, — but see the fair and proud 
 
 (Like the bright sun) oft setting in a cloud ; 
 
 I would be poor, — but know the humble grass 
 
 Still trampled on by each unworthy ass; 
 
 Rich, hated ; wise, suspected ; scorn' d, if poor ; 
 
 Great, fear'd ; fair, tempted ; high, still envy'd more : 
 
 I have wish'd all, but now I wish for neither; 
 
 Great, high, rich, wise, nor fair; poor Til be rather. 
 94 
 
A HERMIT m AN ARBOUR. 
 
 Would the world now adopt me for her heir; 
 "Would Beauty's queen entitle me the Fair; 
 Fame speak me Fortune's Minion; could I vie 
 Angels^ with India; with a speaking eye 
 Command bare heads, bow'd knees, strike justice dumb, 
 As well as blind and lame ; or give a tongue 
 To stones by epitaphs ; be call'd great Master 
 In the loose rhymes of every poetaster; 
 Could I be more than any man that lives. 
 Great, fair, rich, wise, all in Superlatives ; 
 Yet I more freely would these gifts resign. 
 Than ever Fortune would have made them mine ; 
 And hold one minute of this holy leisure 
 Beyond the riches of this empty pleasure. 
 
 Welcome, pure thoughts ! welcome, ye silent Groves ! 
 These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves : 
 Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing 
 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring; 
 A Pray'r-Book now shall be my looking-glass, 
 In which I wiU adore sweet Virtue's face. 
 Here dwell no hateful looks, no Palace cares, 
 No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-fac'd fears : 
 Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly. 
 And learn t' affect an holy melancholy; 
 And if Contentment be a stranger then, 
 I'll ne'er look for it, but in heaven, again. 
 
 Sir Kenelm Dighy. 
 
 95 
 
DIVINE LOVE. 
 
 Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, 
 
 We should agree as angels do above ; 
 
 Love only enters as a native there, 
 
 Eor, born in heaven, it 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 1 
 
 He can add wings, when He commands to fly. 
 
 I^OT should we be with His command dismay'd; 
 
 He that example gives, will give His aid; 
 
 Eor 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, what Isaiah prophesied can do. 
 
 Exalt the valleys, lay the mountains low, 
 
 Humble the lofty, the dejected raise, 
 
 Smooth and make straight our rough and crooked ways. 
 
 Love as He loved ! a love so unconfin'd. 
 
 With arms extended, would embrace mankind. 
 
 Though the creation (so divinely taught !) 
 Prints such a lively image on our thought, 
 That the first spark of new-created light, 
 Erom Chaos struck, afl'ects our present sight; 
 
DIVINE LOVE. 
 
 Yet the first Christians did esteem more blest 
 
 The day of rising, than the day of rest, 
 
 That every week might new occasion give. 
 
 To make His triumph in their memory live. 
 
 Then let our Muse compose a sacred charm, 
 
 To keep His blood among us ever warm — 
 
 And singing as the blessM do above, 
 
 With our last breath dilate this flame of love. 
 
 But on so vast a subject who can find 
 
 Words that may reach the idea of his mind? 
 
 Our language fails; or, if it could supply, 
 
 What mortal thought can raise itself so high? 
 
 Despairing here, we might abandon art, 
 
 And only hope to have it in our heart. 
 
 But though we find this sacred task too hard, 
 
 Yet the design, the endeavour, brings reward; 
 
 The contemplation does suspend our woe. 
 
 And makes a truce with all the ills we know. 
 
 On divine love to meditate is peace. 
 
 And makes all care of meaner things to cease. 
 
 Amazed at once, and comforted, to find 
 
 A boundless Power so infinitely kind. 
 
 The soul contending to that light to fly 
 
 From her dark cell, we practise how to die ; 
 
 Employing thus the poet's winged art 
 
 To reach this love, and grave it in om* heart. 
 
 Joy so complete, so solid, and severe. 
 
 Would leave no place for meaner pleasures there; 
 
 Pale they would look, as stars that must be gone. 
 
 When from the East the rising sun comes on. 
 
 Edmund Waller. 
 
 97 
 
THE EXALTING OF THE HUMBLE. 
 
 How cheerfully th' unpartial Sun 
 
 Gilds with his beams 
 
 The narrow streams 
 O' the brook, which silently doth run 
 
 Without a name ! 
 
 And yet disdains to lend his flames 
 To the wide channel of the Thames ! 
 
 The largest mountains barren lie, 
 And lightning fear, 
 Though they appear 
 
 To bid defiance to the sky ; 
 
THE EXALTING OF THE HUMBLE. 
 
 Which in one hour 
 We've seen the opening earth devour, 
 When in their height they proudest were. 
 
 But th' humble man heaves up his head, 
 
 Like some rich vale 
 
 Whose fruits ne'er fail 
 With flowers, with corn, with vines o'erspread; 
 
 ISTor doth complain, 
 
 O'erflowed by an ill-season'd rain, 
 Or batter'd by a storm of hail. 
 
 Like a tall ba.rk treasure-fraught. 
 
 He the seas clear 
 
 Doth quiet steer ; 
 But when they are to a tempest wrought, 
 
 More gallantly 
 
 He spreads his sail, and doth more high, 
 By swelling of the waves, appear. 
 
 For the Almighty joys to force 
 
 The glorious tide 
 
 Of human pride 
 To the lowest ebb ; that o'er his course 
 
 (Which rudely bore 
 
 Down what opposed it heretofore) 
 His feeblest enemy may stride. 
 
 But from his ill-thatch'd roof He brings 
 
 The cottager, 
 
 And doth prefer 
 Him to th' ador'd state of kings ; 
 
 He bids that hand, 
 
 Which labour hath made rough and tann'd. 
 The all-commanding sceptre bear. 
 
THE EXALTING OF THE HUMBLE. 
 
 Let then the mighty cease to boast 
 
 Their boundless sway ; 
 
 Since in their sea 
 Few sail, but by some storm are lost : 
 
 Let men themsetves 
 
 Beware, for they are their own shelves ; 
 Man still himself hath cast away. 
 
 William Hahington. 
 
 MOENING PRAYER IN PARADISE. 
 
 To the field they haste. 
 
 But first, from under shady arborous roof, 
 Soon as they forth were come to open sight 
 Of day-spring, and the sun, who scarce uprisen, 
 With wheels yet hovering o'er the ocean brim, 
 Shot parallel to the earth his dewy ray, 
 Discovering in wide landscape all the east 
 Of Paradise and Eden's happy plains, 
 Lowly they bowed adoring, and began 
 Their orisons, each morning duly paid 
 In various style ; for neither various style 
 Nor holy rapture wanted they to praise 
 Their Maker, in fit strains pronounced or sung 
 Unmeditated; such prompt eloquence 
 Flowed from their lips, in prose or numerous verse, 
 More tuneable than needed lute or harp 
 To add more sweetness ; and they thus began : 
 100 
 
MORNING PRAYER IN PARADISE. 
 
 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, 
 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 mom 
 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 clim'st. 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou falVst. 
 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st. 
 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 steaming lake, dusty 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 uncolour'd sky, 
 
 101 
 
MORNING PRAYEE IN PARADISE. 
 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
 
 Eising or falling still advance His praise. 
 
 His 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 giA-e us only good ; and if the night 
 
 Have gathered aught of evil or concealed, 
 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. 
 
 John Milton. 
 
 CHEIST COMING AGAIN IN TEIUMPH. 
 
 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 : 
 
 Eide on triumphantly ; behold we lay 
 
 Our lusts and proud wills in Thy way. 
 
 102 
 
CHRIST COMING AGAIN IN TRIUMPH. 
 
 Hosannah ! welcome to our hearts : Lord, here 
 Thou hast a temple, too, and full as dear 
 As that of Sion ; and as full of sin ; — 
 Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein ; 
 Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor; 
 Crucify them that they may never more 
 
 Profane that holy place. 
 
 Where Thou hast chose to set Thy face, 
 And then if our stiff tongues shall be 
 Mute in the praises of Thy Deity, 
 
 The stones out of the temple wall 
 
 Shall cry aloud and call 
 Hosannah ! and Thy glorious footsteps greet. Amen. 
 
 Jeremy Taylor. 
 
 OF HEAVEN. 
 
 BEAUTEOUS God, uncircumscribed treasure 
 
 Of an eternal pleasure, — 
 
 Thy throne is seated far 
 
 Above the highest star. 
 Where Thou prepar'st a glorious place 
 Within the brightness of Thy face 
 
 For every spirit 
 
 To inherit, 
 That builds his hopes on Thy merit. 
 And loves Thee with a holy charity. 
 What ravish'd heart, seraphic tongue or eyes. 
 
 Clear as the morning's rise. 
 
 Can speak, or think, or see. 
 
 That bright eternity? 
 103 
 
OF HEAVEN. 
 
 Where the great King's transparent throne, 
 Is of an entire jasper stone : 
 
 There the eye 
 
 0' th' chrysolite, 
 
 And a sky 
 Of diamonds, rubies, chrysoprase 
 And, above all. Thy holy face 
 Makes an eternal clarity. 
 When Thou Thy jewels up dost bind — that day 
 
 Remember us, we pray, — 
 
 That where the beryl lies. 
 
 And the crystal, 'bove the skies, 
 
 There Thou may'st appoint us place. 
 
 Within the brightness of Thy face : 
 
 And our soul 
 
 In the scroll 
 Of life and blissfulness enrol, 
 That we may praise Thee to Eternity. Allelujah. 
 
 Taylor. 
 
 A PRAYEE FOR CHARITY. 
 
 EuLL of mercy, full of love, 
 
 Look upon us from above ; 
 
 Thou, who taught'st the blind man's night 
 
 To entertain a double light, 
 
 let Thy love our pattern be ; 
 
 Let thy mercy teach one brother 
 
 To forgive and love another; 
 
 That, copying Thy mercy here, 
 
 Thy goodness may hereafter rear 
 
 Our souls unto Thy glory, when 
 
 Our dust shall cease to be with men. 
 
 Same. 
 
 104 
 
THE RING. 
 
 I SAW Eternity the other night 
 
 Like a great Ring of pure and endless h'ght, 
 
 All calm, as it was bright; 
 And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, 
 
 Driv'n by the spheres 
 
 105 !• 
 
THE RING. 
 
 Like a vast shadow mov'd, in which the World 
 
 And all her train were hurl'd. 
 The doting Lover in his quaintest strain 
 
 Did there complain ; 
 Near him his lute, his fancy, and his flights, 
 
 Wit's four delights ; 
 With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure. 
 
 Yet his dear treasure, 
 All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour 
 
 Upon a flow'r. 
 
 The darksome Statesman hung with weights and woe. 
 Like a thick midnight fog, mov'd there so slow, 
 
 He did not stay, nor go ; 
 Condemning thoughts like sad Eclipses scowl 
 
 Upon his soul. 
 And clouds of crying witnesses without 
 
 Pursued him with one shout. 
 Yet digg'd the mole, and, lest his ways be found, 
 
 Worked underground, 
 Where he did clutch his prey ; but one did see 
 
 That Policy; 
 Churches and altars fed him ; Perjuries 
 
 Were gnats and flies ; 
 It rain'd about him blood and tears ; but he 
 
 Drank them as free. 
 
 The fearful Miser on a heap of rust 
 
 Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust 
 
 His own hands with the dust ; 
 Yet would not place one piece above, but lives 
 
 In fear of thieves. 
 Thousands there were as frantic as himself. 
 
 And hugg'd each one his pelf; 
 The downright Epicure placed Heaven in sense. 
 
 And scorn' d pretence; 
 106 
 
THE RING. 
 
 While others, slipt into a wide excess, 
 
 Said little less. 
 The weaker sort slight, trivial wars inslave, 
 
 Who think them hrave. 
 And poor, despised Truth sate counting by 
 
 Their victory. 
 
 Yet some, who all this time did weep and sing, 
 And sing and weep, soar'd up into the Ring; 
 
 But most would use no wing. 
 fools, said I, thus to prefer dark night 
 
 Before true light ! 
 To live in grots and caves, and hate the day, 
 
 Because it shows the way, 
 The way, which from this dead and dark abode 
 
 Leads up to God; 
 A way where you might tread the Sun, and be 
 
 More bright than he ! 
 But as I did their madness so discuss, 
 
 One whispered thus : 
 This King the Bridegroom did for none provide, 
 
 But for his Bride. 
 
 Henry Vaughan, 
 
 107 
 
BLESSED BE THY WILL. 
 
 Since in a land not barren still, 
 Because Thou dost Thy grace distil, 
 My lot is falFn, blest be Thy will ! 
 
 And since these biting frosts but kill 
 Some tares in me which choke or spill 
 That seed Thou sow'st, blest be Thy skill ! 
 
 Blest be Thy Dew, and blest Thy Erost, 
 And happy I to be so crost, 
 And cur'd by crosses at Thy cost. 
 
 The Dew doth cheer what is distrest, 
 The Erost ill weeds nip and molest, 
 On both Thou workest with the best. 
 
 Thus while Thy sev'ral mercies plot, 
 And work on me now cold now hot, 
 The work goes on and slacketh not; 
 
 For as Thy hand the weather steers. 
 So thrive I best 'twixt joys and tears, 
 And all the year hath some green ears. 
 
 Vaughan, 
 
 108 
 
THE DEPARTED. 
 
 They are all gone into the world of Light ! 
 
 And I alone sit ling' ring here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast 
 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
 Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 
 
 After the Sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an Air of Glory, 
 Whose light doth trample on my days : 
 
 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 
 Mere glimmering and decays. 
 
 holy Hope ! and high Humility ! 
 
 High as the Heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, and you have showed them me. 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear beauteous death ; the jewel of the Just ! 
 
 Shining no where but in the dark ; 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest may know 
 
 At first sight if the bird be flown ; 
 But w^hat fair dell or grove he sings in now, 
 
 That is to him unknown. 
 109 
 
THE DEPARTED. 
 
 And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams 
 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 
 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 Ii a star were confin'd into a tomb, 
 
 Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 
 
 But when the Hand that lock'd her up gives room, 
 She'll shine through all the sphere. 
 
 Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 Created glories under Thee ! 
 Eemove my spirit from this world of thrall 
 
 Into true liberty ! 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
 
 My perspective still as they pass ; 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill. 
 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 t>' 
 
 Vaughan. 
 
 When night comes, list thy deeds; make plain the way 
 'Twixt heaven and thee ; block it not with delays ; 
 But perfect all before thou sleep' st : Then say 
 latere' s one sun more strung on my Bead of days. 
 What's good score up for joy ; the bad well-scann'd 
 Wash off with tears, and get thy Master's hand. 
 
 Same. 
 
 110 
 
THE BIED. 
 
 Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all night 
 Blcv through thy lodging, where thy own warm win; 
 111 
 
THE BIRD. 
 
 Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, 
 
 For which coarse man seems much the fitter born, 
 
 Rain'd on thy bed 
 
 And harmless head ; 
 
 And now, as fresh and cheerful as the light, 
 
 Thy little heart in early hymns doth sing 
 
 Unto that Providence, whose unseen arm 
 
 Curb'd them, and cloth'd thee well and warm. 
 
 All things that be praise Him ; and had 
 Their lesson taught them when first made. 
 
 So hills and valleys into singing break; 
 
 And though poor stones have neither speech nor tongue, 
 
 While active winds and streams both run and speak, 
 
 Yet stones are deep in admiration ; 
 
 Thus Praise and Prayer beneath the Sun 
 
 Make lesser mornings, when the great are done. 
 
 For each inclosed Spirit is a star 
 
 Inlight'ning his own little sphere, 
 Whose light, though fetch'd and borrowed from far, 
 
 Both mornings make and evenings there. 
 
 But, as these birds of light make a land glad, 
 Chirping their solemn Matins on each tree ; 
 So in the shades of night some dark fowls be, 
 Whose heavy notes make all that hear them sad, 
 Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, all fly, 
 Till the Day-spring breaks forth again from high. 
 
 Vaughan. 
 
 112 
 
A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY, 
 
 SUNG BY THE SHEPHERDS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Come, we shepherds, whose blest sight 
 Hath met Love's noon in Nature's night ; 
 Come, lift we up our loftier song, 
 And wake the sun that lies too long. 
 
 To all our world of weU-stol'n joy- 
 He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, 
 
 While we found out Heaven's fairer eye. 
 And kiss'd the cradle of our King : 
 
 Tell him he rises now too late 
 
 To show us aught worth looking at. 
 
 Tell him we now can show him more 
 Than he e'er show'd to mortal sight, 
 
 Than he himself e'er saw before, 
 
 Which to be seen needs not his light : 
 
 Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been; 
 
 Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen. 
 
 TITYRUS, 
 
 Gloomy night embraced the place 
 
 Where the noble Infant lay : 
 The Babe look'd up, and show'd His face ; 
 
 In spite of darkness it was day. 
 
 113 g 
 
A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 
 
 It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise, 
 Not from the east, but from Thy eyes. 
 
 Chorus : It was Thy day, sweet, &( 
 
 THYRSIS. 
 
 Winter cried aloud, and sent 
 
 The angry ISTorth to wage his wars ; 
 
 The North forgot his fierce intent. 
 And left perfumes instead of scars ; 
 
 By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers, 
 
 Where he meant frosts he scatter'd flowers. 
 
 Chorus : By those sweet eyes', &c. 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest. 
 Young dawn of our eternal day ; 
 
 We saw Thine eyes break from the East, 
 And chase the trembling shades away ; 
 
 We saw Thee, and we blest the sight, 
 
 We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. 
 
 TITYRUS. 
 
 Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do 
 To entertain this starry stranger? 
 
 Is this the best thou canst bestow — 
 A cold and not too cleanly manger? 
 
 Contend, the powers of heaven and earth. 
 
 To fit a bed for this huge birth. 
 
 Proud world, said I, cease your contest. 
 And let the mighty Babe alone; 
 
 The Phoenix builds the Phojnix' nest, 
 Love's architecture is his own. 
 
A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 
 
 Tlie Dalie, whose birth embraces this morn, 
 Made His own bed ere He was born. 
 
 I saw the curl'd drops, soft and slow, 
 Come hovering o'er the place's head, 
 
 OfF'ring their whitest sheets of snow. 
 To furnish the fair infimt's bed. 
 
 Forbear, said I, be not too bold. 
 
 Your fleece is white, but 'tis too cohl. 
 
 THYRSI S. 
 
 I saw th' obsequious seraphim 
 Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, 
 
 For well they now can spare their wings, 
 Since Heaven itself lies here below. 
 
 Well done, said I ; but are you sure 
 
 Your dowu, so warm, will pass for pure ? 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 N^o, no, your King's not yet to seek 
 Where to repose His royal head; 
 
 See, see how soon His new-bloom'd cheek 
 'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed. 
 
 Sweet choice, said we, no way but so, 
 
 Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow ! 
 
 FULL CHORUS. 
 
 Welcome all wonders in one sight ! 
 
 Eternity shut in a span ! 
 Summer in winter ! day in night ! 
 
 Heaven in earth ! and God in man ! 
 Great Little One, whose all-embracing birth 
 Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth ! 
 ]15 
 
A HYMN OF THE NATIVITY. 
 
 She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips 
 
 Her kisses in Thy weeping eye ; 
 She spreads the red Jeaves of Thy lips, 
 
 That in their buds yet Hushing lie ; 
 She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries 
 The points of her young eagle's eyes. 
 
 Welcome, tho' not to those gay flies 
 Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings. 
 
 Slippery souls in smiling eyes — 
 
 But to poor shepherds, homespun things 
 
 Whose wealth's their flocks, whose wit's to be 
 
 Well-read in their simplicity. 
 
 Yet, when ^''oung April's husband showers 
 Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, 
 
 We'll bring the first-born of her flowers. 
 To kiss Thy feet, and crown Thy head. 
 
 To Thee, dread Lamb ! whose love must keep 
 
 The shepherds while they feed their sheep. 
 
 To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King 
 
 Of simple graces and sweet loves ! 
 Each of us his lamb will bring, 
 
 Each his pair of silver doves ! 
 At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes, 
 Ourselves become our own best sacrifice ! 
 
 RicJiard Crashaw. 
 
 116 
 
THE GAPtDEN. 
 
 TO J. EVELYN, ESQ. 
 
 Happy art thou, "whom God does bless 
 With the full choice of thine own happiness ; 
 And happier yet, because thou'rt blest 
 With prudence how to choose the best ; 
 In books and gardens thou hast plac'd aright 
 
 (Things which thou well dost understand, 
 And both dost make with thy laborious hand) 
 
 Thy noble, innocent delight ; 
 And in thy virtuous wife, when thou again dost meet 
 Both pleasures more refin'd and sweet ; 
 The fairest garden in her looks, 
 And in her mind the wisest books. 
 Oh, Avho would change these soft, yet solid joys, 
 Eor empty shows and senseless noise ; 
 And all Avbich rank ambition breeds, 
 Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous 
 weeds 1 
 
 When God did man in His own likeness make, 
 As much as clay, though of the purest kind. 
 
 By the great Potter's art refin'd. 
 
 Could the divine impression take, 
 
 He thought it fit to place him where 
 
 A kind of Heaven too did appear, 
 As far as Earth could such a likeness bear : 
 
 That man no happiness might want, 
 Wliich Earth to her first master could afford. 
 
 He did a garden for him plant 
 By the quick hand of His omnipotent word. 
 As the chief help and joy of human life. 
 He gave him the first gift — first, ev'n before a ^ife. 
 
 117 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 For God, the universal Architect, 
 
 'T had been as easy to erect 
 A Louvre or Escurial, or a tower 
 That might with Heaven communication hold, 
 As Babel vainly thought to do of old : 
 
 He wanted not the skill or power ; 
 
 In the world's fabrick those were shown. 
 And the materials were all His own. 
 But well He knew what place would best agree 
 With innocence, and with felicity : 
 And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain ; 
 If any part of either yet remain, 
 If any part of either we expect, 
 This may our judgment in the search direct; 
 God the first Garden made, and the first City Cain. 
 
 blessed shades ! gentle, cool retreat 
 
 From all th' immoderate heat. 
 In which the frantic world does burn and sweat ! 
 This does the lion-star, ambition's rage, 
 This avarice, the dog- star's thirst, assuage ; 
 Everywhere else their fatal power we see. 
 They make and rule men's wretched destiny ; 
 
 They neither set nor disappear, 
 
 But tyrannize o'er all the year; 
 Whilst we ne'er feel their flame or influence here. 
 
 The birds that dance from bough to bough, 
 
 And sing above in every tree, 
 
 Are not from fears and cares more free 
 Than we, who lie, or sit, or walk, below, 
 
 And should by right be singers too. 
 
 What prince's choice of music can excel 
 
 That which within this shade does dwell? 
 To which we nothing pay or give ; 
 They, like all other poets, live 
 118 
 
Without reward, or thanks, for their obliging pains : 
 
 'Tis well if they become not prey : 
 The whistling winds add their less artful strains, 
 And a grave bass the murmuring fountains play; 
 l^ature does all this harmony bestow, 
 
 But to our plants, Art's music too. 
 The pipe, theorbo, and guitar we owe. 
 The lute itself, which once was green and mute. 
 When Orpheus struck the inspired lute, 
 The trees danc'd round, and understood 
 By sympathy the voice of wood. 
 119 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 These are the spells, that to kind sleep invito, 
 And nothing does within resistance make. 
 
 Which yet we moderately take ; 
 
 Who would not choose to be awake. 
 While ibe's encompass' d round with such delight 
 To th' ear, the nose, the touch, the taste, and siglitl 
 When Venus would her dear Ascanius keep 
 A prisoner in the downy bands of sleep. 
 She odorous herbs and flowers beneath him spread, 
 
 As the most soft and sweetest bed ; 
 Not her own lap would more have charm'd his head. 
 Who, that has reason, and his smell. 
 Would not among roses and jasmine dwell, 
 
 Eather than all his spirits choke 
 With exhalations of dirt and smoke, 
 
 And all th' uncleanness which does drown. 
 In pestilential clouds, a populous town? 
 
 When Epicurus to the world had taught. 
 
 That pleasure was the chiefest good 
 (And was, perhaps, i' the right, if rightly understood). 
 
 His life he to his doctrine brought. 
 And in a Garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought 
 Whoever a true Epicure would be. 
 May there find cheap and virtuous luxury. 
 Vitellius' tables, which did hold 
 As many creatures as the Ark of old ; 
 That fiscal table, to which every day 
 Ail countries did a constant tribute pay, 
 Could nothing more delicious afford 
 
 Than Nature's liberality, 
 Help'd with a little art and industry, 
 Allows the meanest gardener's board. 
 The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose. 
 For which the grape or melon she would lose ; 
 Though all the inhabitants of sea and air 
 Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare, 
 120 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 Yet still the fruits of earth we see 
 Plac'd the third story high in all her luxury. 
 
 But with no sense the Garden does comply, 
 None courts, or flatters, as it does the eye. 
 When the great Hebrew king did almost strain 
 The wondrous treasures of his wealth and brain. 
 His royal southern guest to entertain; 
 
 Though she on silver floors did tread, 
 With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread 
 
 To hide the metal's poverty; 
 Though she look'd up to roofs of gold, 
 And nought around her could behold 
 
 But silk and rich embroidery, 
 
 And Babylonish tapestry, 
 And wealthy Hiram's princely dye ; 
 Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her eye ; 
 Though she herself and her gay host were drest 
 With all the shining glories of the East ; 
 When lavish art her costly work had done. 
 
 The honour and the prize of bravery 
 Was by the Garden from the palace won; 
 And every rose and lily there did stand 
 
 Better attir'd by Nature's hand. 
 The case thus judg'd against the king we see, 
 By one that would not be so rich, though wiser far than he. 
 Nor does this happy place only dispense 
 
 Such various pleasures to the sense; 
 
 Here health itself doth live. 
 That salt of life, which does to all a relish give. 
 Its standing pleasure, and intrinsic wealth, 
 The body's virtue, and the soul's good fortune, health. 
 The tree of life, when it in Eden stood, 
 Did its immortal head to heaven rear; 
 It lasted, a tall cedar, till the flood; 
 Now a small thorny shrub it does appear; 
 
 121 R 
 
THE GAEDEN. 
 
 Kor will it thrive too every- where : 
 
 It always here is freshest seen : 
 
 'Tis only here an evergreen, 
 
 If, through the strong and beauteous fence 
 
 Of temperance and innocence, 
 And wholesome labours, and a quiet mind. 
 
 Any diseases passage find, 
 
 They must not think here to assail 
 A land unarmed, or without a guard; 
 They must fight for it, and dispute it hard, 
 
 Before they can prevail : 
 
 Scarce any plant is growing here, 
 "Which against death some weapon does not bear. 
 
 Let cities boast that they provide 
 
 For life the ornaments of pride ; 
 
 But 'tis the country and the field. 
 
 That furnish it with staff and shield. 
 
 Where does the wisdom and the power divine 
 In a more bright and sweet reflection shine? 
 Where do we finer strokes and colours see 
 Of the Creator's real poetry, 
 
 Than when we with attention look 
 Upon the third day's volume of the Book ? 
 If we could open and intend our eye, 
 
 We all, like Moses, should espy, 
 Ev'n in a bush, the radiant Deity : 
 But we despise these His inferior ways 
 (Though no less full of miracle and praise) : 
 
 Upon the flowers of heaVn we gaze ; 
 The stars of earth no wonder in us raise. 
 
 Though these perhaps do, more than they. 
 
 The life of mankind sway. 
 
 Although no part of mighty nature be 
 More stored with beauty, power, and mystery; 
 Yet, to encourage human industry, 
 122 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 God has so order' d, that no other part 
 Such space and such dominion leaves for Art. 
 
 We no-where Art do so triumphant see, 
 
 As when it grafts or buds the tree : 
 In other things we count it to excel, 
 If it a docile scholar can appear 
 To Nature, and but imitate her weU; 
 It overrules and is her master, here. 
 It imitates her Maker's power divine, 
 And change her sometimes, and sometimes does refine 
 It does, like Grace, the fallen tree restore 
 To its bless' d state of Paradise before : 
 Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 
 O'er all the vegetable world command? 
 And the wild giants of the wood receive 
 What law he's pleased to give ? 
 He bids th' ill-natured crab produce 
 The gentle apple's winy juice; 
 The golden fruit, that worthy is 
 Of Galatea's purple kiss : 
 He does the savage hawthorn teach 
 To bear the medlar and the pear : 
 He bids the rustic plum to rear 
 A noble trunk, and be a peach. 
 EVn Daphne's coyness he does mock, 
 And weds the cherry to her stock. 
 Though she refused Apollo's suit; 
 Ev'n she, that chaste and virgin tree, 
 'Now wonders at herself, to see 
 That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. 
 
 Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk 
 In the Salonian Garden's noble shade, 
 Wliich by his own imperial hands was made: 
 I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk 
 123 
 
THE GARDEN. 
 
 With the ambassadors, who come in vain 
 To entice him to a throne again. 
 If I my friends (said he) should to you show 
 All the delights which in these gardens grow, 
 'Tis likelier much,- that you should with me stay. 
 Than 'tis that you should carry me away; 
 And trust me not, my friends, if every day, 
 I walk not here with more delight, 
 Than ever after the most happy light, 
 In triumph to the Capitol I rode, : 
 
 To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god. 
 
 Abraham Cowley. 
 
 PKAISE FOE THE EVENING. 
 
 Now from the altar of my heart 
 
 New incense-flame arise; 
 Assist me, Lord, to offer up 
 
 Mine evening sacrifice. 
 Awake, my love ; awake, my joy ; 
 
 Awake, my heart and tongue ! 
 Sleep not : when mercies loudly call. 
 
 Break forth into a song. 
 
 Man's life's a book of history 
 
 The leaves thereof are days ; 
 The letters, mercies closely join'd ; 
 
 The title is thy praise. 
 This day God was my sun and shield. 
 
 My keeper and ]ny guide ; 
 His care was on my frailty shown. 
 
 His mercies multiplied. 
 
 John Mason. 
 
 124 
 
THE TE DEUM. 
 
 Thee, Sovereign God, our grateful accents praise ; 
 "We own Thee Lord, and bless Thy wondrous ways ; 
 To Thee, Eternal Father, earth's whole frame, 
 With loudest trumpets, sounds immortal fame. 
 Lord God op Hosts ! to Thee the heavenly Powers. 
 With sounding anthems, fill the vaulted towers. 
 The Cherubims thrice Holy, Holy, Holy, cry; 
 Thrice Holy all the Seraphims reply. 
 And thrice returning echoes endless songs supply. 
 Both Heaven and earth Thy Majesty display; 
 They owe their beauty to Thy glorious ray. 
 Thy praises fill the loud Apostles' choir, 
 The Train of Prophets in the song conspire. 
 Legions of Martyrs in the chorus shine, 
 And vocal blood with vocal music join. 
 By these Thy church, inspired by heavenly art, 
 Around the world maintains a second part; 
 And tunes her sweetest notes, God, to Thee, 
 The Father of unbounded majesty; 
 The Son, adored, co-partner of Thy seat. 
 And equal everlasting Paraclete. 
 Thou King of Glory, Christ of the Most High, 
 Thou co-eternal filial Deity; 
 Thou who to save the world's impending doom, 
 Vouchsafest to dwell within a Virgin's womb ; 
 125 
 
THE TE DEUM. 
 
 Old tyrant Death disarmed, before Thee flew 
 
 The bolts of Heaven, and back the foldings drew, 
 
 To give access, and make Thy faithful way; 
 
 From God's right hand Thy filial beams display; 
 
 Thou art to judge the living and the dead ; 
 
 Then spare those souls for which Thy veins have bled. 
 
 take us up among Thy bless' d above. 
 
 To share with them Thy everlasting love. 
 
 Preserve, Lord! Thy people, and enhance 
 
 Thy blessing on Thy own inheritance. 
 
 For ever raise their hearts, and rule their ways. 
 
 Each day we bless Thee, and proclaim Thy praise; 
 
 No age shall fail to celebrate Thy name, 
 
 'No hour neglect Thy everlasting fame. 
 
 Preserve our souls, Lord, this day from ill; 
 
 Have mercy on us, Lord, have mercy still ; 
 
 As we have hoped, do Thou reward our pain; 
 
 We've hoped in Thee, — let not our hope be vain. 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
 Creator Spirit ! by whose aid 
 The world's foundations first were laid. 
 Come visit every pious mind ; 
 Come pour thy joys on human kind ; 
 From sin and sorrow set us free, • 
 And make Thy temples worthy Thee. 
 Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
 And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
 And lest our feet should step astray, 
 Protect and guide us in the way. 
 
 Same. 
 
 126 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 My God, I now from sleep awake, 
 
 The sole possession of me take j 
 
 From midnight terrors me secure, 
 
 And guard my heart from thoughts impure. 
 
 Bless'd angels, while we silent lie, 
 You hallelujahs sing on high; 
 Your joyful hymn, the ever-blest. 
 Before your throne, and never rest. 
 
 I with your choir celestial join, 
 In offering up a hymn divine; 
 With you in Heaven I hope to dwell, 
 And bid the night and world farewell. 
 
 My soul, when I shake off this dust. 
 Lord ! in Thy arms I will intrust ; 
 make me Thy pecuHar care. 
 Some mansion for my soul prepare. 
 
 may I always ready stand, 
 With my lamp burning in my hand ; 
 May I in right of Heaven rejoice 
 Whene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice. 
 127 
 
MIDNIGHT. 
 
 All praise to Thee, in light arra/d, 
 Who light Thy dwelling-place hast made,^ 
 A boundless ocean of bright beams 
 From Thy all-glorious Godhead streams. 
 
 Blest Jesus, Thou in Heaven intent. 
 Whole nights hast in devotion spent; 
 But I, frail creature, now am tired. 
 And all my zeal is soon expired. 
 
 Shine on me, Lord, new life impart, 
 Fresh ardour kindle in my heart ; 
 One ray of Thy all-quickening light 
 Dispels the sloth and clouds of night. 
 
 Lord, lest the tempter me surprise. 
 Watch over Thine own sacrifice ; 
 All loose, all idle thoughts cast out, 
 Make my very dreams devout. 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise Him, all creatures here below; 
 Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts. 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 
 
 Thomas Ken. 
 
 Death ! when you shall approach my head. 
 
 You'll nothing see but what is dead ; 
 
 Yet do not me forsake. 
 
 Care of my body take; 
 
 Lay me with gentle hands asleep — 
 
 God in the grave my dust will keep. 
 
 Same. 
 128 
 
INSCEIPTION FOE LOT'S WIFE. 
 
 "In this pillar I do lie, 
 Buried where no mortal eye 
 Ever could my bones descry. 
 
 " When I saw great Sodom burn, 
 To this pillar I did turn. 
 Where my body is my urn. 
 
 "You to whom my corpse I show, 
 Take true warning from my woe — 
 Look not back when God cries 'Go.' 
 
 "They that toward virtue hie, 
 If but back they cast an eye. 
 Twice as far from it do fly. 
 
 " Counsel then I give to those. 
 Who the path to bliss have chose. 
 Turn not back, ye cannot lose. 
 
 " That way let your whole hearts lie ; 
 If ye let them backward fly, 
 They^ll quickly grow as hard as I." 
 
 Thomas Jordan. 
 
 129 
 
THE MEDITATION. 
 
 It must be done, my soul, but 'tis a strange, 
 
 A dismal and mysterious change, 
 When thou shalt leave this tenement of clay. 
 And to an unknown somewhere wing away ; 
 When time shall be eternity, and thou 
 Shalt be thou know'st not what, and live thou know'st not how. 
 
 Amazing tale ! no wonder that we dread 
 
 To think of death, or view the dead. 
 Thou'rt all wrapp'd up in clouds, as if to thee 
 Our very knowledge had antipathy. 
 Death could not a more sad retinue find — 
 Sickness and pain before, and darkness all behind. 
 
 Some courteous ghost, tell this great secrecy. 
 
 What 'tis you are, and we must be. 
 You warn us of approaching death, and why 
 May we not know from you what 'tis to die] 
 But you, having shot the gulf, delight to see 
 Succeeding souls plunge in with like uncertainty. 
 
 When life's close knot, by writ from destiny, 
 
 Disease shall cut, or age untie ; 
 When after some delays, some dying strife. 
 The soul stands shivering on the ridge of life ; 
 With what a dreadful curiosity 
 Does she launch out into the sja of vast eternity ! 
 
 So when the spacious globe was delug'd o'er, 
 And lower holds could save no more, 
 On the utmost bough the astonish'd sinners stood. 
 And view'd the advances of th' encroaching flood ; 
 O'er-topped at length by th' element's increase. 
 With horror they resign'd to the untried abyss. 
 
 John Hon'is. 
 130 
 
HOPE. 
 
 True Hope is Jacob's staff indeed, 
 
 True Hope is no Egyptian reed 
 
 That springs from mire, or else can feed 
 
 On dirt or mud : 
 By Hope just men are sanctified. 
 In the same ocean safe at anchor ride, 
 Fearless of wreck by wind or tide. 
 
 By ebb or flood. 
 
 Hope's the top window of that Ark, 
 Where all God's !N"oahs do embark; 
 Hope lets in sky-light, else how dark 
 
 "Were such a season ! 
 Wouldst thou not be engulph'd, or drown'd, 
 When storms and tempests gather round, 
 Ere thou cast anchor, try the ground; 
 
 Hope must have reason. 
 
 Hope hath a harvest in the spring, 
 In winter doth of summer sing. 
 Feeds on the fruits while blossoming. 
 
 Yet nips no bloom ; 
 Hope brings me home when I'm abroad, — 
 Soon as the first step homeward's trod — 
 In hope to Thee, my God ! my God ! 
 
 I come, I come. 
 
 Faithful Teate, 
 
 131 
 
THE HEAET ENLAEGED. 
 
 What a blessed change I find, 
 Since I entertain'd this guest ! 
 Kow, methinks, another mind 
 Moves and rules within my breast ; 
 Surely I am not the same 
 That I was before He came ; 
 But I then was much to blame. 
 
 All the ways of righteousness 
 I did think were full of trouble ; 
 I complained of tediousness, 
 And each duty seemed double; 
 While I served Him but from fear, 
 Every minute did appear 
 Longer far than a whole year. 
 
 But the case is alter'd now ; 
 He no sooner turns His eye, 
 But I quickly bend and bow, 
 Eeady at His feet to lie ; 
 Love hath taught me to obey 
 All His precepts, and to say 
 ISTot '■Ho-morroic^'' but ^Ho-day." 
 
 Thomas Harvey. 
 
 132 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Lovely, lasting peace of mind ! 
 
 Sweet delight of human-kind ! 
 Heavenly-born, and bred on high, 
 To crown the favourites of the skj'- 
 133 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 With more of happiness below, 
 Than victors in a triumph know ! 
 Whither, whither art thou fled. 
 To lay thy meek, contented head 1 
 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 enshrin'd. 
 
 The bold adventurer ploughs his way. 
 
 Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
 
 To gain thy love ; and then perceives 
 
 Thou 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 woe. 
 
 No real happiness is found 
 
 In trailing purple o'er the ground; 
 
 Or in a soul exalted high 
 
 To range the circuit of the sky, 
 
 Converse with stars above, and know 
 
 All nature in its forms below; 
 
 The rest it seeks, in seeking dies. 
 
 And doubts at last for knowledge rise. 
 
 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, 
 134 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 And lost in thought, no more perceived 
 The branches whisper as they waved. 
 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 Eeligion flow; 
 Then every Grace shall prove its guest, 
 And I'll be there to crown the rest." 
 
 Oh ! by yonder mossy seat. 
 
 In my hours of sweet retreat. 
 
 Might I thus my soul employ 
 
 With sense of gratitude and joy ! 
 
 Eaised, as ancient prophets were, 
 
 In heav'nly vision, praise, and prayer; 
 
 Pleased with all men, hurting none, 
 
 Pleased and bless' d with God alone. 
 
 Then, while the gardens take my sight 
 
 With all the colours of delight ; 
 
 While silver waters glide along, 
 
 To please my ear, and court my song; 
 
 I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
 
 And Thee, great source of nature, sing. 
 
 The sun that walks his airy way 
 To light the world, and give the day; 
 The moon that shines with borrowed 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 treasures of the plain; 
 AU of these, and all I see. 
 Should be sung, and sung by me; 
 135 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 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. 
 
 Thomas Parnell. 
 
 LIFE EXAMINED. 
 
 Whate'er thou art, where'er ordained to go 
 (Points which we rather may dispute than know, 
 Come on, thou little inmate of this breast, 
 Which for thy sake from passions I divest ; 
 For these, thou say'st, raise all the stormy strife. 
 Which hinder my repose, and trouble life. 
 Be the fair level of thy actions laid. 
 As temperance wills and prudence may persuade ; 
 Be thy affections undisturb'd and clear, 
 Guided to what may great or good appear, 
 And try if life be worth the liver's care. 
 Amass'd in man, there justly is beheld 
 What through the whole creation has excell'd : 
 The life and growth of plants, of beasts the sense, 
 The angel's forecast and intelligence : 
 Say from these glorious seeds what harvest flows ; 
 Eecount our blessings, and compare our woes. 
 In its true light let clearest reason see 
 The man dragg'd out to act, and forc'd to be : 
 Helpless and naked on a woman's knees. 
 To be expos' d, or rear'd, as she may please; 
 136 
 
LIFE EXAMINED. 
 
 Feel her neglect, and pine from her disease, 
 His tender eye by too direct a ray 
 Wounded, and flying from unpractised day; 
 His head assaulted by invading air, 
 And beating fervent to the vital war ; 
 Condemn'd to sacrifice his childish years 
 To babbling ignorance, and to empty fears ; 
 To pass the riper period of his age. 
 Acting his part upon a crowded stage ; 
 To lasting toils expos'd, and endless cares, 
 To open dangers, and to secret snares ; 
 To malice which the vengeful foe intends. 
 And the more dangerous love of seeming friends. 
 His deeds examin'd by the people's will, 
 Frone to forget the good, and blame the ill : 
 Or would he rather leave this frantic scene ; 
 And trees and beasts prefer to courts and men. 
 In the remotest wood and lonely grot. 
 Certain to meet that worst of evils, thought ; 
 Different ideas to his memory brought ; 
 Some intricate, as are the pathless woods. 
 Impetuous some, as the descending floods : 
 With anxious doubts, with raging passions torn, 
 No sweet companion near, with whom to mourn ; 
 He hears the echoing rock return his sighs; 
 And from himself the frighted hermit flies. 
 Thus, through what path soe'er of life we rove, 
 Rage companies our hate, and grief our love ; 
 Vex'd with the present moment's heavy gloom, 
 Why seek we brightness from the years to come 1 
 Disturb'd and broken like a sick man's sleep, 
 Our troubled thoughts to distant prospects leap ; 
 Desirous still what flies us to o'ertake ; 
 For hope is but the dream of those that wake ; 
 But, looking back, we see the dreadful train 
 Of woes anew, which, were we to sustain. 
 We should refuse to tread the path again. 
 
 117 T 
 
LIFE EXAMINED. 
 
 Still adding grief, still counting from the first, 
 Judging the latest evils still the worst ; 
 And sadly finding each progressive hour 
 Heighten their number, and augment their power : 
 Till, by one countless sum of woes opprest, 
 Ploary with cares, and ignorant of rest, 
 We find the vital springs relax'd and worn, 
 Compell'd our common impotence to mourn : 
 Thus, through the round of age to childhood we return 
 Reflecting find, that, naked from the womb, 
 We yesterday came forth ; that in the tomb, 
 Naked again we must to-morrow lie, 
 Born to lament, to labour, and to die. 
 
 Matthew Prior. 
 
 THE PRAYER OE SOLOMON, AND THE ANSWER. 
 
 " Father of Heaven ! " I said, " and Judge of Earth ! " 
 Whose word calFd out this universe to birth ; 
 Omniscient Master, Omnipresent King, 
 To Thee, to Thee, my last distress I bring. 
 Thou, that canst still the ] aging of the seas, 
 Chain up the winds,- and bid the tempest cease ; 
 Redeem my shipwreck'd soul from raging gusts 
 Of cruel passion, and deceitful lusts ; 
 From storms of rage, and dangerous rocks of pride, 
 Let Thy strong hand this little vessel guide 
 (It was Thy hand that made it) through the tide 
 Impetuous of this life : let Thy command 
 Direct my course, and bring me safe to land. 
 If, while this wearied flesh draws fleeting breath, 
 Not satisfied with life, afraid of death, 
 138 
 
THE PR.VYER OF SOLOMON, AND THE ANSWER. 
 
 It liaply be Thy will, that I should know 
 Glimpse of delight, or pause from anxious woe ; 
 From now, from instant now, Great Sire ! dispel 
 The clouds that press my soulj from now reveal 
 A gracious beam of light ; from now inspire 
 My tongue to sing, my hand to touch the lyre ; 
 My open'd thought to joyous prospects raise, 
 And, for Thy mercy, let me sing Thy praise. 
 Or, if Thy will ordains, I still shall wait 
 Some new hereafter, and a future state, 
 Permit me strength, my weight of woe to bear, 
 And raise my mind superior to my care. 
 Let me, howe'er unable to explain 
 The secret lab'rinths of Thy ways to man. 
 With humble zeal confess Thy awful power. 
 Still weeping, hope ; and wondering, still adore. 
 So in my conquest be Thy might declared, 
 And, for Thy justice, be Thy name rever'd." 
 
 My prayer scarce ended, a stupendous gloom 
 
 Darkens the air; loud thunder shakes the dome 
 
 To the beginning miracle succeed 
 
 An awful silence, and religious dread. 
 
 Sudden breaks forth a more than common day ; 
 
 The sacred wood, which on the altar lay. 
 
 Untouch' d, unlighted, glows — 
 
 Ambrosial odour, such as never flows 
 
 From Arab's gum, or the Sabsean rose. 
 
 Does round the air revolving scents diffuse ; 
 
 The holy ground is wet with heavenly dews ; 
 
 And lo ! what sees my ravish' d eye 1 what feels 
 
 My wondering soul 1 an opening cloud reveals 
 
 A heavenly form embodied, and array'd 
 
 With robes of light. I heard ; the angel said : 
 
 "Cease, man of woman born, to hope relief 
 From daily trouble and continud grief, 
 139 
 
THE PRAYER OF SOLOMON, AND THE ANSWER. 
 
 Thy hope of joy deliver to the wind ; 
 Suppress thy passions ; and prepare thy mind. 
 Free and familiar with misfortune grow : 
 Be used to sorrow, and inur'd to woe. 
 And from thy race distinguish' d, One shall spring, 
 Greater in act than victor, more than king 
 In dignity and power, sent down from Heaven, 
 To succour earth. To Him, to Him 'tis given. 
 Passion, and care, and anguish to destroy ; 
 Through Him soft peace, and plenitude of joy 
 Perpetual o'er the world redeem'd shall flow, 
 No more may man inquire, nor angel know." 
 
 The angel said : — 
 "With upward speed his agile wings he spread ; 
 Whilst on the holy ground I prostrate lay. 
 By various doubts impell'd, or to obey. 
 Or to object : at length (my mournful look 
 Heavenward erect) determin'd, thus I spoke : 
 " Supreme, All- wise, Eternal Potentate ! 
 Sole Author, sole disposer of our fate ! 
 Enthron'd in light, and immortality ! 
 Whom no man fully sees, and none can see ! 
 Original of beings ! Power Divine ! 
 Since that I live, and that I think, is Thine ; 
 Benign Creator, let Thy plastic hand 
 Dispose its own effect. Let Thy command 
 Eestore, Great Father, Thy instructed son, 
 And in my act may Thy great will be done." 
 
 Prior. 
 
 140 
 
OJ\ 
 
 WAmc^ 
 
 
 THE ATHEIST AND THE ACOEK 
 
 Methinks the world is oddly made, 
 
 And every thing's amiss, 
 A dull presuming Atheist said, 
 As stretch'd he lay beneath a shade, 
 And instanced it in this : 
 141 
 
THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORK 
 
 Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, 
 
 A pumpkin large and round, 
 Is held but by a little string, 
 Which upwards cannot make it spring, 
 
 Or bear it from the ground. 
 
 AVhile on this oak an acorn small, 
 
 So disproportion' d grows ; 
 That who with sense surveys this all, 
 This universal casual ball. 
 
 Its ill contrivance knows. 
 
 My better judgment could have hung 
 
 The pumpkin on the tree. 
 And left the acorn, lightly strung, 
 'Mongst things which on the surface sprung, 
 
 And small and feeble be. 
 
 No more the caviller could say, 
 
 Nor further faults descry ; 
 For as he upwards gazing lay. 
 An acorn, loosen'd from its stay, 
 
 Tell down upon his eye. 
 
 The wounded part with tears ran o'er, 
 
 As punish'd for the sin; 
 Fool ! had that bough a pumpkin bore, 
 Thy whimsies would have worked no more, 
 
 Nor skull have kept them in. 
 
 Anne, Countess of Winchelsea. 
 
 142 
 
THE WATCHING OF PROVIDENCE. 
 
 How are Thy servants blest, Lord ! 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal Wisdom is their guide ; 
 
 Their help, Omnipotence. 
 143 
 
THE WATCHING OF PROVIDENCE. 
 
 In foreign realms, and lands remote, 
 
 Supported by Thy care. 
 Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, 
 
 And breath'd 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, my soul, devoutly think, 
 
 How, with affrighted eyes, 
 Thou saw'st the wide-extended deep, 
 
 In all its horrors rise ! 
 
 Yet then from all my griefs, 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 mid5t of dangers, fears, and death, 
 
 Thy goodness I'll adore ; 
 And 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 ! 
 
 Jose'ph Addison. 
 
 144 
 
CONS-OLATION. 
 
 When rising from the bed of death, 
 O'erwhelm'd with grief and fear, 
 
 I see my Maker face to face, — 
 Oh, how shall I appear! 
 
 If yet, while pardon may be found, 
 
 And mercy may be sought, 
 My heart with inward horror shrinks, 
 
 And trembles at the thought ; 
 
 When Thou, Lord, shalt stand disclosed 
 
 In majesty severe. 
 And sit in judgment on my soul ; 
 
 Oh, how shall I appear ! 
 
 But Thou hast told the troubled soul, 
 
 Who does her sins lament, 
 The timely tribute of her tears 
 
 Shall endless woe prevent. 
 
 Then see the sorrows of my heart 
 
 Ere yet it be too late ; 
 And hear my Saviour's dying groans, 
 
 To give those sorrows weight. 
 
 For never shall my soul despair 
 
 Her pardon to procure. 
 Who knows Thine only Son has died, 
 To make that pardon sure. 
 
 Addison. 
 145 
 
THE PEOMISED LAND. 
 
 There is a land of pure delight, 
 Where saints immortal reign ; 
 
 Infinite day excludes the night, 
 And pleasures banish pain. 
 
 There everlasting spring abides. 
 And never- withering flowers ; 
 
 Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
 This heavenly land from ours. 
 
 Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood. 
 Stand dress'd in living green; 
 
 So to the Jews old Canaan stood, 
 While Jordan roll'd between. 
 
 But timorous mortals start and shrink 
 
 To cross this narrow sea. 
 And linger shivering on the brink, 
 
 And fear to launch away. 
 
 Oh! could we make our doubts remove, 
 Those gloomy doubts which rise. 
 
 And see the Canaan that we love. 
 With unbeclouded eyes. 
 146 
 
THE PROMISED LAND. 
 
 Could we but climb where Moaes stood, 
 
 And view the landscape o'er, 
 Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold flood 
 
 Should fright us from the shore. 
 
 Give me the wings of faith to rise 
 
 "Within the veil, and see 
 The saints above, how great their joys, 
 
 How bright their glories be. 
 
 Once they were mourning here below, 
 And wet their couch with tears ; 
 
 They wrestled hard, as we do now, 
 With sins and doubts and fears. 
 
 I ask them whence their victory came ; 
 
 They, with united breath, 
 Ascribe their conquest to the Lamb, 
 
 Their triumph to His death. 
 
 They mark'd the footsteps that He trod 
 
 (His zeal inspired their breast); 
 And following their incarnate God 
 
 Possess' d the promised rest. 
 
 Our glorious Leader claims our praise, 
 
 For His own pattern given. 
 While the long cloud of witnesses 
 
 Shows the same path to Heaven. 
 
 Isaac Watts. 
 
 L47 
 
TIME COMING AND GONE. 
 
 Ah ! how unjust to Nature, and Himself 
 
 Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent Man ! 
 
 Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, 
 
 We censure Nature for a span too short; 
 
 That span too short, we tax as tedious too ; 
 
 Torture invention, all expedients tire. 
 
 To lash the ling'ring moments into speed, 
 
 And whirl us (happy riddance !) from ourselves. 
 
 Art, brainless Art ! our furious charioteer 
 
 Drives headlong tow'rds the precipice of Death ; 
 
 Death, most our dread; death thus more dreadful made; 
 
 ! what a riddle of absurdity ! 
 
 Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot- wheels ; 
 
 How heavily we drag the load of life ! 
 
 Blest leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, 
 
 It makes us wander ; wander earth around 
 
 To fly that tyrant. Thought. As Atlas groan'd 
 
 The w^orld beneath, we groan beneath an hour ; 
 
 We cry for mercy to the next amusement ; 
 
 The next amusement mortgages our fields ; 
 
 Slight inconvenience ! 
 
 Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, 
 
 We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink. 
 
 Ages to years. The telescope is turn'd. 
 
 To man's false optics (from his folly false) 
 
 Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, 
 
 And seems to creep, decrepit with his age ; 
 
 Behold him, when past by; what then is seen, 
 
 But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ? 
 
 And all mankind, in contradiction strong. 
 
 Rueful, aghast ! cry out on his career. 
 
 Edward Young. 
 148 
 
GOD'S ARGUMENT WITH JOB. 
 
 ToND man ! the vision of a moment made ! 
 Dream of a dream, and shadow of a shade ! 
 What worlds hast thou produced, what creatures fram'd, 
 What insects cherished, that thy God is blam'd? 
 149 
 
GOD'S ARGUMENT WITH JOB. 
 
 When pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood 
 Loud calls on God, importunate for food; 
 Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request, 
 And stills the clamour of the craving nesti 
 
 Who in the stupid Ostrich has subdu'd 
 A parent's care, and fond inquietude. 
 While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found, 
 Without an owner, on the sandy ground ; 
 Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread 
 May crush her young in their neglected bed. 
 What time she skims along the field with speed, 
 She scorns the rider and pursuing steed. 
 
 How rich the Peacock ! what bright glories run 
 From plume to plume, and vary in the sun; 
 He proudly spreads them to the golden ray, 
 Gives all his colours, and adorns the day : 
 With conscious state the spacious round displays. 
 And slowly moves amid the waving blaze. 
 
 Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, 
 
 Perpetual summer, and a change of skies? 
 
 When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind. 
 
 Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind ; 
 
 The sun returning, she returns again. 
 
 Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. 
 
 Know'st thou how many moons, by Me assign'd, 
 Eoll o'er the mountain Goat, and forest Hind, 
 While pregnant, they a mother's load sustain? 
 They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain. 
 Hale are their young, from human frailties freed ; 
 Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed; 
 They live at once ; forsake the dam's warm side ; 
 Take the wide world, with Nature for their guide ; 
 Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade, 
 And find a home in each delightful shade. 
 150 
 
GOD'S ARGUMENT WITH JOB. 
 
 Will the tall Eeem, which knows no Lord but Me, 
 Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee ; 
 Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke, 
 Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke ? 
 Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care ; 
 Lay on his neck the toil of all the year : 
 Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors. 
 And cast his load among thy gathered stores. 
 
 Young. 
 
 FOE GOD'S HELP. 
 
 Author of good ! to Thee I timi : 
 
 Thy ever wakeful eye 
 Alone can all my wants discern, 
 
 Thy hand alone supply. 
 
 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 subdu'd, 
 
 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. 
 
 James Merrick. 
 151 
 
THE MESSIAH. 
 
 Ye Nymphs of Solyma ! begin the song : 
 To heav'nly themes sublimer strains belong. 
 The mossy fountains, and the sylvan shades, 
 The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids, 
 Delight no more — 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 flow'r with fragrance fills the skies : 
 The ^therial Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, 
 And on its top descends the mystic Dove. 
 Ye Heav'ns ! from high the dewy nectar pour, 
 And in soft silence shed the kindly show'r ! 
 The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, 
 Erom storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. 
 All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail ; 
 Eeturning Justice lift aloft her scale. 
 Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend. 
 And white-rob'd Innocence from heaVn descend. 
 Swift fly the years, and rise th' 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 : 
 152 
 
THE MESSIAH. 
 
 See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, 
 And Carmel's flow'ry 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 declin'd, 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 eye-ball pour the day : 
 'Tis He the obstructed paths of sound shall clear, 
 And bid new music charm th' 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 ev'ry face He "vvipes off ev'ry tear. 
 In adamantine chains shall death be bound. 
 And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. 
 As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, 
 Seeks freshest pasture and the purest air. 
 Explores the lost, the wand'ring sheep directs. 
 By day o'ersees them, and by night protects. 
 The tender lambs he raises in his arms. 
 Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms ; 
 Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage, 
 The promised Father of a future age. 
 'No more shall nation against nation rise, 
 Kor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, 
 Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, 
 The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; 
 But useless lances into scythes shall bend. 
 And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. 
 Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful Son 
 
 153 X 
 
THE MESSIAH. 
 
 Shall finisli what his short-liv'd Sire begun; 
 Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, 
 And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field. 
 The swain in barren deserts with surprise 
 See lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; 
 And start, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear 
 New falls of water murni'ring in his ear. 
 On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, 
 The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. 
 Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn. 
 The spiry fir and shapely box adorn. 
 To leafless shrubs the flow' ring palms succeed. 
 And od'rous myrtle to the noisome weed. 
 The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead. 
 And boys in flow'ry bands 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 hands shall take 
 The crested basilisk and speckled snake, 
 Pleas' d the green lustre of the scales survey. 
 And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. 
 Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise ; 
 Exalt thy tow'ry head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 See, a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
 See future sons, and daughters yet unborn, 
 In crowding ranks on ev'ry side arise, 
 Demanding life, impatient of the skies ! 
 See barb'rous 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 Sabsean springs ! 
 For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 See heav'n its sparkling portals wide display, 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day. 
 'No more the rising sun shall gild the morn, 
 Nor ev'ning Cynthia fill her silver horn; 
 154 
 
THE MESSIAH. 
 
 But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays, 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 O'erflow thy courts; the Light Himself shall shine 
 Reveal' d, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
 Eocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
 But fix'd His word, His saving power remains. 
 Thy realm for ever lasts. Thy own Messiah reigns. 
 
 Alexander Pope. 
 
 ENTHUSIASM DEFINED. 
 
 Think not that you are no Enthusiast then : 
 All men are such, as sure as they are men. 
 The thing itself is not all to blame : 
 'Tis in each state of human life the same. 
 The fiery bent, the driving of the will. 
 That gives the prevalence to good or ill ; — 
 You need not go to cloisters, or to cells. 
 Monks, or field preachers, to see where it dwells. 
 It dwells alike in balls and masquerades ; 
 Courts, camps, and 'Changes, it alike pervades. 
 That which concerns us, therefore, is to see, 
 What species of Enthusiasts we be ; 
 On what materials the fiery source 
 Of thinking life shall execute its force : 
 Whether a man shall stir up love or hate, 
 Erom the mix'd medium of the present state ; 
 Shall choose with upright heart and mind to rise. 
 And reconnoitre Heaven's primeval skies; 
 Or down to lust and rapine to descend. 
 Brute for a time, and demon at its end. 
 155 
 
EITTHUSIASM DEFINED. 
 
 " Fly from Enthiisiasm ! " Yes, fly from air, 
 
 And breathe it more intensely for your care. 
 
 Learn, that, whatever phantoms you embrace, 
 
 Your own essential property takes place : 
 
 Bend all your wits against it, 'tis in vain. 
 
 It must exist, or sacred, or profane. 
 
 For flesh, or spirit, wisdom from above, 
 
 Or from this world, an anger, or a love, 
 
 Must have its fire within the human soul : 
 
 'Tis ours to spread the circle, or control ; 
 
 In clouds of sensual appetites to smoke. 
 
 While smoth'ring lusts the rising conscience choke ; 
 
 Or — with a true celestial ardour fir'd, 
 
 Such as at first created man inspir'd, 
 
 To will, and to persist to will, the light. 
 
 The love, the joy, that makes an angel bright. 
 
 That makes a man, in sight of God, to shine 
 
 With all the lustre of a life divine. 
 
 When true Eeligion kindles up the fire, 
 
 Who can condemn the vigorous desire. 
 
 That burns to reach the end for which 'twas given. 
 
 To shine and sparkle in its native Heaven? 
 
 What else was our creating Father's view ] 
 
 His image lost why sought he to renew ? 
 
 Why all the scene of love that Christians know, 
 
 But to attract us from this poor below ; 
 
 To save us from the fatal choice of ill. 
 
 And bless the free co-operating will ? 
 
 Blame not Enthusiasm, if rightly bent ; 
 Or blame of Saints the holiest intent, 
 The strong persuasion, the confirm'd belief. 
 Of all the comforts of a soul the chief; 
 That God's continual will, and work to save. 
 Teach, and inspire, attend us to the grave : 
 156 
 
ENTHUSIASM DEFINED. 
 
 That they, who in His faith and love abide, 
 
 Find in His Spirit an immediate Guide : 
 
 This is no more a fancy, or a whim. 
 
 Than that we hve, and move, and are in Him. 
 
 Let Nature, or let Scripture, be the ground. 
 
 Here is the seat of true Eeligion found. 
 
 An earthly life, as life itself explains, 
 
 The air and spirit of this world maintains : 
 
 As plainly does an heav'nly life declare 
 
 An heav'nly spirit, and an holy air. 
 
 What truth more plainly does the Gospel teach. 
 
 What doctrine all its missionaries preach, 
 
 Than this, that every good desire and thought, 
 
 Is in us by the Holy Spirit wrought] 
 
 For this the working faith prepares the mind ; 
 
 Hope is expectant, charity resign'd. 
 
 This faith, and this dependance, once destroy'd, 
 
 Man is made helpless, and the Gospel void. 
 
 He that is taught to seek elsewhere for aid, 
 
 Be who he will the teacher, is betray' d : 
 
 Be what it will the system, he's enslaved ; 
 
 Man by man's Maker only can be sav'd. 
 
 In this one fountain of all help to trust, 
 
 What is more easy, natural, and just? 
 
 Talk what we will of morals, and of bliss, 
 
 Our safety has no other source but this : 
 
 Led by this faith, when man forsakes his sin, 
 
 The gate stands open to his God within : 
 
 There, in the temple of his soul, is found 
 
 Of inward, central life, the holy ground ; 
 
 The sacred scene of piety and peace. 
 
 Where new-born Christians feel the life's increase. 
 
 Blessing, and blest, revive to pristine youth. 
 
 And worship God in spirit, and in truth. 
 
 John Byrom. 
 
 157 
 
THE OLD CHUECH IN A STOEM. 
 
 See yonder hallow'd fane; the pious work 
 Of names once fam'd, now dubious or forgot, 
 168 
 
THE OLD CHURCH IN A STORM. 
 
 And buried 'midst the wreck of things which were ; 
 
 There lie interr'd the more illustrious dead. 
 
 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, 
 
 Rock'd in the spire, screams loud — 
 
 Quite round the pile, a row of reverend elms 
 
 (Coeval near with that) all ragged show, 
 
 Long lash'd by the rude winds. Some rift half down 
 
 Their branchless trunks ; others so thin at top, 
 
 That scarce two crows can lodge in the same tree. 
 
 Strange things, the neighbours say, have happen'd here ; 
 
 Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs ; 
 
 Dead men have come again, and walk'd about ; 
 
 And the great bell has toll'd, unrung, untouch'd. 
 
 Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen, 
 
 By glimpse of moonshine chequering thro' the trees, 
 
 The school-boy, 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. 
 
 Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, 
 
 Tlie 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. 
 
 Robert Blair. 
 
 U9 
 
COMMEECE— A HELP TO EELIGION. 
 
 The powerful sun 
 Hot India's zone with gaudy pencil paints, 
 And drops delicious tints o'er hill and dale, 
 Which Trade to us conveys. Not tints alone ; 
 Trade to the good physician gives his balms ; 
 Gives cheering cordials to th' afflicted heart ; 
 Gives, to the wealthy, delicacies high ; 
 Gives, to the curious, works of nature rare ; 
 And when the priest display?, in just discourse. 
 Him, the all-wise Creator, and declares 
 His presence, power, and goodness, unconfin'd, 
 'Tis Trade, attentive voyager, who fills 
 His lips with argument. To censure Trade, 
 Or hold her busy people in contempt, 
 Let none presume. 
 
 — Eor they 
 The clearest sense of Deity receive, 
 Who view the widest prospect of His works, 
 Ranging the globe with Trade thro' various climes ; 
 Who see the signatures of boundless Love, 
 Nor less the judgments of Almighty Power, 
 That warn the wicked, and the wretch who 'scapes 
 From human justice ; who, astonish'd, view 
 Etna's loud thunders and tempestuous fires ; 
 The dust of Carthage ; desert shores of Nile ; 
 160 
 
COMMERCE— A HELP TO RELIGION. 
 
 Or Tyre's abandoned summit, crown'd of old 
 
 With stately tow'rs; whose merchants, from their isles, 
 
 And radiant thrones, assembled in her marts ; 
 
 Whither Arabia, wither Kedar, brought 
 
 Their shaggy goats, their flocks, and bleating lambs ; 
 
 Where rich Damascus pil'd his fleeces white, 
 
 Prepar'd and thirsty for the double tint, 
 
 And flow'ring shuttle. While the admiring world 
 
 Crowded her streets ; ah, then the hand of pride 
 
 Sow'd imperceptible his poisonous weed. 
 
 Which crept destructive up her lofty domes. 
 
 As ivy creeps around the graceful trunk 
 
 Of some tall oak. Her lofty domes no more, 
 
 Xot ev'n the ruins of her pomp, remain, 
 
 ^ot ev'n the dust they sunk in ; by the breath 
 
 Of the Omnipotent ofl'ended, hurl'd 
 
 Down to the bottom of the stormy deep. 
 
 John Dyer. 
 
 The old apart, upon a bank reclin'd, 
 
 Attend the tuneful carol, softly mixt 
 With ev'ry murmur of the sliding wave. 
 And ev'ry warble of the feather'd choir ; 
 Music of Paradise ! which still is heard, 
 AA hen the heart listens. 
 
 Same. 
 
 161 
 
A HYMN. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
 Thy beauty walks. Thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
 And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 
 Then comes Thy glory in the Summer-months, 
 
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year ; 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in Autumn, unconfin'd. 
 And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
 In Winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempests o'er tempests roll'd, 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing. 
 
A HYMN. 
 
 Kiding sublime, Thou bid'st the M^orld adore, 
 And humblest .Mature with thy northern blast. 
 
 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
 Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
 Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ; 
 Shade, unperceiv'd, so softening into shade ; 
 And all so forming an harmonious whole ; 
 That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. 
 But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, 
 Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand 
 That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres; 
 Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring ; 
 Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; 
 And, as on earth this grateful change revolves. 
 With transport touches all the springs of life. 
 
 ligature, attend ! Join every living soul. 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, 
 In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise 
 One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales. 
 Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes ; 
 Oh talk of him in solitary glooms ! 
 Where o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar. 
 Who shake the astonish'd world, lift high to heaven 
 Th' impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 164 
 
A HYMN. 
 
 Sound His stupendous praise ; whose greater voice 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, 
 In mingled clouds to Him ; whose sun exalts, 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil paints. 
 Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to Him ; 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart. 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous Moon. 
 
 
 Ye that keep watch in Heaven, as Earth asleep 
 Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams. 
 Ye constellations, while your angels strike 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 Great source of day ! best image here below 
 Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
 165 
 
A HYMN. 
 
 From world to world, the vital ocean round, 
 On Nature write with every beam His praise. 
 The thunder rolls ; be hush'd the prostrate world ; 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks. 
 Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the Great Shepherd reigns ; 
 And His unsuffering kingdom yet will come. 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless song 
 Burst from the groves. And when the restless day, 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep. 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm 
 The listening shades, and teach the night His praise. 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, 
 At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all, 
 Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast, 
 Assembled men, to the deep organ join 
 The long resounding voice, oft-breaking clear, 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ; 
 And, as each mingling flame increases each. 
 In one united ardour rise to heaven. 
 Or if you rather choose the rural shade. 
 And find a fane in every sacred grove ; 
 There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay. 
 The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 
 Still sing the God of Seasons, as they roll. 
 For me, when I forget the darling theme, 
 Whether the blossom blows, the Summer-ray 
 Bussets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, 
 Or winter rises in the blackening east. 
 Be my tongue mute — my fancy paint no more, 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! 
 Should fate command me to the farthest 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 ; 
 166 
 
A HYMN. 
 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 
 In the void waste, as in the citv full ; 
 
 And where He vital breathes, there must be joy. 
 
 When ev'n 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, 
 
 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. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 167 
 
ON HIS WIFE, IN THE C4THEDEAL OF BRISTOL 
 
 Take, holy earth ! all that my soul holds dear : 
 
 Take that best gift which Heaven so lately gave : 
 To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care 
 
 Her faded form : she bowed to taste the wave, 
 And died. Does youth, does beauty read the line ? 
 
 Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm 1 
 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine : 
 
 E'en from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. 
 Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ; — 
 
 Bid them in Duty's sphere as meekly move ; 
 And if so fair, from vanity as free ; 
 
 As firm in. friendship, and as fond in love. 
 Tell them, though 'tis an awful thing to die, 
 
 (Twas e'eii to thee) yet the dread path once trod, 
 Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, 
 
 And bids "the pure in heart behold their God." 
 
 William Mason. 
 
 1G8 
 
THE PEACE COMING ON THE EARTH. 
 
 The groans of nature in this nether world, 
 Which Heaven has heard for ages, have an end. 
 Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, 
 AYhose fire was kiudled at the prophets' lamp 
 The time of rest, the promised sabbath comes. 
 Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh 
 FulfiU'd their tardy and disastrous course 
 Over a sinful world. And what remains 
 Of this tempestuous state of human things, 
 Is merely as the working of a sea 
 Before a calm, that rocks itself to rest. 
 For He, whose car the winds are, and the clouds 
 The dust that waits upon His sultry march, 
 When sin hath moved Him, and His wrath is hot. 
 Shall visit earth in mercy ; shall descend 
 Propitious, in His chariot paved with love. 
 And what His storms have blasted and defaced 
 For man's revolt, shall with a smile repair. 
 
 Sweet is the harp of prophecy; too sweet 
 Not to be wronged by a mere mortal touch ; 
 Nor can the wonders it records be sung 
 To meaner music, and not suffer loss. 
 But when a poet, or when one like me, 
 Happy to rove among poetic flowers. 
 Though poor in skill to rear them, lights at last 
 On some fair theme, some theme divinely fair. 
 Such is the impulse and the spur he feels 
 To give it praise proportioned to its worth, 
 
 169 z 
 
THE PEACE COMING ON THE EARTH. 
 
 That not t' attempt it, arduous as he deems 
 The labour, were a task more arduous still. 
 
 Oh scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, 
 Scenes of accomplish' d bliss ! which who can see, 
 Though but in distant prospect, and not feel 
 His soul refresh' d with foretaste of the joy 1 
 Rivers of gladness water all the earth. 
 And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach 
 Of barrenness is past. The fruitful field 
 Laughs with abundance ; and the land once lean, 
 Or fertile only in its own disgrace, 
 Exults to see its thistly curse repeal' d. 
 The various seasons woven into one. 
 And that one season an eternal spring. 
 The garden fears no blight, and needs no fence, 
 For there is none to covet, all are full. 
 The lion and the libbard and the bear 
 Graze with the fearless flocks. All bask at noon 
 Together, or all gambol in the shade 
 Of the same grove, and drink one common stream. 
 Antipathies are none. No foe to man 
 Lurks in the serpent now. The mother sees, 
 And smiles to see, her infant's playful hand 
 Stretch'd forth to dally with the crested worm, 
 To stroke his azure neck, or to receive 
 The lambent homage of his arrowy tongue. 
 All creatures worship man, and all mankind 
 One Lord, one Father. Error has no place ; 
 That creeping pestilence is driven away. 
 The breath of heav'n has chased it. In the heart 
 No passion touches a discordant string. 
 But all is harmony and love. Disease 
 Is not. The pure and uncontaminate blood 
 Holds its due course, nor fears the frost of age. 
 One song employs all nations ; and all cry, 
 ''Worthy the Lamb, for He was slain for us!" 
 170 
 
THE PEACE COMING ON THE EARTH. 
 
 The dwellers in the vales and on the rocks 
 Shout to each other; and the mountain tops 
 From distant mountains catch the flying joy, 
 Till, nation after nation taught the strain. 
 Each rolls the rapturous Hosanna round. 
 Behold the measure of the promise fill'd, 
 See Salem built, the labour of a God ! 
 Bright as a sun the sacred city shines ; 
 All kingdoms and all princes of the earth 
 Flock to that light ; the glory of all lands 
 Flows into her, unbounded is her joy. 
 And endless her increase. Thy rams are there 
 N"ebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there; 
 The looms of Ormus, and the mines of Ind, 
 And Saba's spicy groves pay tribute there. 
 Praise is in all her gates. Upon her walls, 
 And in her streets, and in her spacious courts 
 Is heard salvation. Eastern Java there 
 Kneels with the native of the farthest West, 
 And ^Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, 
 And w^orships. Her report has travell'd forth 
 Into all lands. From every clime they come 
 To see thy beauty, and to share thy joy, 
 Sion ! an assembly such as earth 
 Saw never, such as heaven stoops down to see. 
 
 Thus heavenward all things tend. For all were once 
 Perfect, and all must be at length restoried. 
 So God has greatly purposed ; who would else 
 In His dishonour'd works Himself endure 
 Dishonour, and be wrong'd without redress. 
 Haste then, and wheel away a shattered world, 
 Ye slow-revolving seasons ! We would see 
 (A sight to which our eyes are strangers yet) 
 A world that does not dread and hate His laws, 
 And suff'er for its crime : would learn how fair 
 The creature is that God pronounces good, 
 171 
 
THE PEACE COMING ON THE EARTH. 
 
 How pleasant in itself what pleases Him. 
 
 Here eVry drop of honey hides a sting ; 
 
 Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, 
 
 And even the joy that haply some poor heart 
 
 Derives from heaven, pure as the fountain is, 
 
 Is sullied in the stream ; taking a taint 
 
 From touch of human lips, at best impure. 
 
 Oh for a world in principle as chaste 
 
 As this is gross and selfish ! over which 
 
 Custom and prejudice shall bear no sway 
 
 That govern all things here, should' ring aside 
 
 The meek and modest truth, and forcing her 
 
 To seek a refuge from the tongue of strife 
 
 In nooks obscure, far from the ways of men. 
 
 Where violence shall never lift the sword, 
 
 ISTor cunning justify the proud man's wrong. 
 
 Leaving the poor no remedy but tears. 
 
 Where he that fills an office shall esteem 
 
 Th' occasion it presents of doing good 
 
 More than the perquisite : w^here law shall speak 
 
 Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts. 
 
 And equity ; not jealous more to guard 
 
 A worthless form, than to decide aright : 
 
 Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, 
 
 Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) 
 
 With lean performance ape the work of love. 
 
 Come then, and added to Thy many crowns 
 Eeceive yet one, the crown of all the earth. 
 Thou who alone art worthy ! it was Thine 
 By ancient covenant ere nature's birth. 
 And Thou hast made it Thine by purchase since, 
 And overpaid its value with Thy blood. 
 Thy saints proclaim Thee King; and in their hearts 
 Thy title is engraven with a pen, 
 Dipt in the fountain of eternal love. 
 
 William Cowpcr. 
 172 
 
ELEGY WEITTEN IN^ A COUNTEY CHURCHYAED. 
 
 The Curfew tolls the Knell of parting Day, 
 The lowing Herd wind slowly o'er the Lea, 
 The Ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the World to Darkness and to mo. 
 
 Now fades the glimm'ring Landscape on the Sight, 
 And all the Air a solemn Stillness holds, 
 Save where the Beetle wheels his droning Flight, 
 Or drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds : 
 173 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled Tower, 
 The moping Owl does to the Moon complain 
 Of wsuch, as wandering near her secret Bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary Reign. 
 
 Beneath those 
 
 ?d Ehn3, that Yew-tree's shade. 
 
 Wliere heaves the Turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring from the straw-built Shed, 
 The Cock's shrill Clarion, and the echoing Horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly Bed. 
 174 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy Housewife ply her evening Care ; 
 ISTo 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 afield ! 
 How bowed the Woods beneath their sturdy Stroke ! 
 
 175 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 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, 
 
 Awaits alike th' 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 thro' the long-drawn Aisle, and fretted Vault, 
 The pealing Anthem swells the Note of Praise. 
 176 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 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; 
 
 Hands, that the Rod of Empire might have sway'd. 
 Or waked to Ecstasy the living Lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample Page 
 Eich with the spoUs of Time did ne'er unroll ; 
 Chill Penury repress'd their noble Rage, 
 And froze the genial Current of the Soul. 
 
 177 A A 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Full of many a Gem of purest Eay serene 
 The dark unfathom'd Caves of Ocean bear : 
 Full many a Flower is born to blush 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. 
 
 173 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Th' Applause of list'ning Senates to command, 
 The Threats of Pain and Ruin to despise, 
 To scatter Plenty o'er a smiling Land, 
 And read their Hist'ry in a Nation's Eyes, 
 
 Their Lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 TTieir growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin'd ; 
 
 Forbade to wade thro* Slaughter to a Throne, 
 Or 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. 
 179 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Far from the madding Crowd's ignoble Strife, 
 Their sober Wishes never learn'd to stray; 
 Along the cool sequester' d Vale of Life 
 They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way. 
 
 Yet ev'n these Bones from Insult to protect 
 
 Some frail Memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth Ehymes and shapeless Sculpture deck'd, 
 
 Implores the passing Tribute of a Sigh. 
 
 180 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Their Name, their Years spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 The Place of Fame and Epitaph supply ; 
 And many a holy Text around she strews, 
 That teach the rustic Moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a Prey, 
 This pleasing anxious Being e'er resign'd, 
 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 ; 
 Ev'n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries, 
 Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. 
 
 For Thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead, 
 Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate : 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
 Some kindred Spirit shall enquire thy Fate ; 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 
 "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 Eocrts 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, would he rove ; 
 Now drooping woful-wan, like one forlorn. 
 Or craz'd with Care, or cross'd in hopeless Love. 
 181 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 One Morn I missed him from the custom'd Hill, 
 Along the Heath, and near his fav'rite 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." 
 
 182 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his Head upon the Lap of Earth 
 A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown : 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble Birth, 
 And Melancholy markM him for her own. 
 Large was his Bounty, and his Soul sincere ; 
 Heaven did a Recompense as largely send ; 
 
 He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a Tear, 
 
 He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a Friend. 
 
 No farther 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. 
 
 Tlhomas Gray. 
 
 183 
 
GOOD DESIEES. 
 
 Quiet, Lord, my fro ward heart, 
 
 Make me teachable and mild, 
 Upright, simple, free from art, 
 
 Make me as a weaned child; 
 From distrust and envy free, 
 Pleased 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 preserved 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. 
 
 John Newton. 
 184 
 
PEAISE FOR EEDEEMING LOVE. 
 
 Let us love, and sing, and wonder, 
 Let us praise the Saviour's Name, 
 He has hush'd the Law's loud thunder. 
 He has quench'd Mount Sinai's flame : 
 
 He has wash'd us with His blood; 
 
 He has brought us nigh to God. 
 
 Let us love the Lord who bought us. 
 
 Pitied us when enemies, 
 
 Called us by His grace, and taught us. 
 
 Gave us ears, and gave us eyes ; 
 
 He has wash'd us with His blood, 
 He presents our souls to God. 
 
 Let us sing, though fierce temptations 
 Threaten hard to bear us down ! 
 For the Lord, our strong salvation. 
 Holds in view the Conqu'ror's crown ; 
 He, who wash'd us with His blood. 
 Soon will bring us home to God, 
 
 Let us wonder, Grace and Justice 
 
 Join and point to Mercy's shore; 
 
 When through grace in God our trust is. 
 
 Justice smiles, and asks no more. 
 
 He who wash'd us with His Blood, 
 Has secured our way to God. 
 
 185 B B 
 
PRAISE FOR REDEEMING LOVE. 
 
 Let us praise and join the chorus 
 Of the saints enthroned on high, 
 Here they trusted Him before us, 
 Now their praises fill the sky ; 
 
 "Thou hast wash'd us with Thy blood! 
 
 Thou art worthy, Lamb of God!" 
 
 Hark I the name of Jesus sounded 
 
 Loud from golden harps above ! 
 
 Lord, we blush, and are confounded. 
 
 Faint our praises, cold our love ! 
 
 Wash our souls and songs with blood, 
 For by Thee we come to God. 
 
 Newton. 
 
 A COVERT FROM THE STORM. 
 
 Jesus, refuge of my soul. 
 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly. 
 While the raging billows roll, 
 
 While the tempest still is nigh : 
 Hide me, my Saviour, hide 
 
 Till the storm of life is past ; 
 Safe into the haven guide ; 
 
 Then 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 ; — 
 186 
 
A COVERT FROM THE STORM. 
 
 All my trust on Thee is laid, 
 All my help from Thee I bring ; 
 
 Cover my defenceless head 
 
 With the shadow of Thy wing. 
 
 Thou, Christ, art all I want ; 
 
 AU in all in Thee I find ; 
 Raise the fallen, cheer the faint. 
 
 Heal the sick, and lead the blind. 
 Just and holy is Thy name, 
 
 I am all unrighteousness; 
 Vile and full of sin I am ; 
 
 Thou art full of truth and grace. 
 
 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. 
 
 Saviour, where'er Thy steps I see. 
 Dauntless, untir'd I follow Thee : 
 let Thy hand support me still. 
 And lead me to Thy holy Hill. 
 
 If rough and thorny be the way ; 
 My strength proportion to my day ; 
 Till toil, and grief, and pain shall cease 
 Where all is calm, and joy, and peace. 
 
 Same. 
 
 187 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 At 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 l!^ightingale'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 abandon' d 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; 
 
 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 extinguish'd her crescent displays : 
 But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
 Eoll 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 ; 
 
 1 mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you, 
 For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 
 Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. 
 
 188 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 Not yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 Kind Nature the embryo blossom will save. 
 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 betray'd, 
 That leads, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind; 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 
 "0 pity, great Father of light," then I cried, 
 
 " Thy creature who fain would not wander from Thee ; 
 
 So, 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. 
 
 James Beattie. 
 
 THE KESIGNATION. 
 
 God, whose thunder shakes the sky, 
 Whose eye this atom globe surveys, 
 
 To Thee, my only rock, I fly, 
 Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. 
 
 The mystic mazes of Thy will. 
 The shadows of celestial light, 
 
 Are past the pow'r of human skill, — 
 But what th' Eternal acts is right. 
 189 
 
THE RESIGNATIOK 
 
 teach me in this trying hour, 
 
 When anguish swells the dewy tear, 
 
 To still my sorrows, own Thy pow'r, 
 Thy goodness love, Thy justice fear. 
 
 If in this bosom aught but Thee, 
 
 Encroaching sought a boundless sway, 
 
 Omniscience could the danger see. 
 And Mercy look the cause away. 
 
 Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? 
 
 Why drooping seek the dark recess? 
 Shake off the melancholy chain, 
 
 For God created all to bless. 
 
 But ah ! my breast is human still ; 
 
 The rising sigh, the failing tear, 
 My languid vitals' feeble rill. 
 
 The sickness of my soul declare. 
 
 But yet, with fortitude resign'd, 
 
 I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow ; 
 
 Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, 
 Nor let the gush of mis'ry flow. 
 
 The gloomy mantle of the night, 
 
 Which on my sinking spirit steals, 
 Will vanish at the morning light, 
 
 Which God, my East, my Sun reveals. 
 
 Thomas Chatterton. 
 
 190 
 
INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 
 
 Beneath this stony roof reclin'd, 
 I soothe to peace my pensive mind ; 
 And while, to shade my lowly cave, 
 Embowering elms their umbrage wave ; 
 191 
 
INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 
 
 And while the maple dish is mine, 
 The beechen cup, unstain'd with wine ; 
 I scorn the gay licentious crowd, 
 !N'or heed the toys that deck the proud. 
 
 Within my limits lone and still 
 The blackbird pipes in artless trill ; 
 Fast by my couch, congenial guest. 
 The wren has wove her mossy nest ; 
 From busy scenes, and brighter skies. 
 To lurk with innocence, she flies ; 
 Here hopes in safe repose to dwell, 
 Nor aught suspects the silvan cell. 
 
 At morn I take my custom'd round. 
 To mark how buds yon shrubby mound; 
 And every opening primrose count, 
 That trimly paints my blooming mount; 
 Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude, 
 That grace my gloomy solitude, 
 I teach in winding wreaths to stray 
 Fantastic ivy's gadding spray. 
 
 At eve within yon studious nook, 
 
 I ope my brass-embossed book, 
 
 Portray'd with many a holy deed 
 
 Of martyrs, crown' d with heavenly meed : 
 
 Then as my taper waxes dim. 
 
 Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn ; 
 
 And at the close, the gleams behold 
 
 Of parting wings bedropt with gold. 
 
 While such pure joys my bliss create. 
 Who but would smile at guilty state? 
 Who but would wish his holy lot 
 In calm Oblivion's humble grot? 
 192 
 
INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE. 
 
 Who but would cast his pomp away, 
 To take my staff and amice grey; 
 And to the world's tumultuous stage 
 Prefer the blameless Hermitage? 
 
 Thomas Warton. 
 
 WEITTEN IN DUGDALE'S MONASTICON. 
 
 Deem not, devoid of elegance, the sage, 
 
 By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguil'd, 
 
 Of painful pedantry the poring child ; 
 
 Who turns, of these proud domes, th' historic page, 
 
 Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage. 
 
 Think'st thou the warbling muses never smil'd 
 
 On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage 
 
 His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styled, 
 
 Intent. While cloister' d Piety displays 
 
 Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores 
 
 New manners, and the pomp of elder days. 
 
 Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. 
 
 Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways 
 
 Of hoar Antiquity, but strown with flowers. 
 
 Same. 
 
 193 cc 
 
ELEGY WEITTEN IN SPEING. 
 
 'Tis past : the iron North has spent his rage, 
 Stern Winter now resigns the length' ning day ; 
 
 The stormy howlings of the winds assuage, 
 And warm o'er ether western breezes play. 
 
 Loos' d 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. 
 
 The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen. 
 
 Puts on the robe she neither sew'd 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. 
 194 
 
ELEGY WRITTEN IN SPRING. 
 
 On the green furze, clotli'd o'er with golden blooms, 
 That fills the air with fragrance all around, 
 
 The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes. 
 While o'er the wild his broken notes resound. 
 
 "While the sun journey i down the Western sky. 
 
 Along the green sward, mark'd with Roman mound, 
 
 Beneath the blithesome shepherd's watchful eye, 
 The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. 
 
 iS'ow is the time for those who wisdom love. 
 Who love to walk in Virtue's flow'ry road. 
 
 Along the lovely paths of Spring to rove, 
 And follow K'ature up to K'ature's God. 
 
 Thus have I walk'd along the dewy lawn ; 
 
 My frequent foot the blooming wild hath worn ; 
 Before the lark I've sung the beauteous dawn, 
 
 And gather'd health from all the gales of morn. 
 
 Then sleep my nights, and quiet bless'd my days; 
 
 I fear'd no loss, my mind w^as all my store : 
 No anxious wishes e'er disturb'd my ease ; 
 
 Heav'n gave content and health, I ask'd no more. 
 
 Now Spring returns ; but not to me returns 
 The vernal joy my better years have known ; 
 
 Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns, 
 And all the joys of life with health are flown. 
 
 Farewell, ye blooming fields ! ye cheerful plains ! 
 
 Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound. 
 Where melancholy with still silence reigns. 
 
 And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground. 
 
 There let me sleep forgotten in the clay. 
 
 When death shall shut these weary aching eyes; 
 
 Rest in the hopes of an eternal Day, 
 
 Till the last night is gone, and the last morn arise I 
 
 Michael Bruce. 
 
 195 
 
ODE WEITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE COUNTKY 
 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, 
 let me wander thro' 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; 
 196 
 
ODE WRITTEN IN A VISIT TO THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 While sad I ponder on the past, 
 The joys that must no longer last; 
 
 The wild floAvers 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 ! the hospitable hall. 
 
 Where youth and friendship play'd, 
 
 Wide to the winds a ruin'd wall 
 Projects a death-like shade ! 
 
 The charm is vanish'd from the vales ; 
 
 'No voice with virgin whisper hails 
 A stranger to his native bowers ; 
 
 No more Arcadian mountains bloom, 
 
 Nor Enna valleys breathe perfume, 
 
 The fancied Eden fades with all its flowers. 
 
 Yet not unwelcome waves the wood. 
 
 That hides me in its gloom, 
 While lost in melancholy mood, 
 
 I muse upon the tomb : 
 Their chequer' d 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. 
 
 John Logan. 
 
 THE CHAEM OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 A Hermit on the banks of Trent, 
 
 Ear from the world's bewildering maze, 
 
 To humbler scenes of calm content 
 Had fled from lighter, busier days. 
 197 
 
THE CHARM OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 If haply from his guarded breast 
 Should steal the unsuspected sigh, 
 
 And memory, an unbidden guest, 
 With former passions fill'd his eye ; 
 
 Then pious Hope and Duty praised 
 The wisdom of th' Unerring Sway ; 
 
 And while his eye to heaven he raised, 
 Its silent waters stole away. 
 
 Complete Ambition's wildest scheme ; 
 
 In Power's all-brilliant robes aj^pear; 
 Indulge in Fortune's golden dream ; 
 
 Then ask thy breast, if Peace be there. 
 
 No ! it shall tell thee, Peace retires. 
 If once of her loved friends deprived ; 
 
 Contentment calm, subdu'd desires, 
 And happiness from Heaven derived. 
 
 For what though Fortune's frown deny 
 With wealth to bid the sufferer live ? 
 
 Yet Pity's hand can oft supply 
 A balm she never knew to give. 
 
 Be thine those feelings of the mind 
 
 That wake at honour's, friendship's call ; 
 
 Benevolence, that unconfin'd 
 Extends her liberal hand to aU. 
 
 By Sympathy's untutor'd voice 
 
 Be taught her social laws to keep ; 
 
 "Rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
 And weep with them that weep." 
 
 The heart that bleeds for others' woes, 
 Shall feel each selfish sorrow less ; 
 
 His breast who happiness bestows, 
 Reflected happiness shall bless. 
 
 Edmund Cartwright. 
 
 198 
 
THE TWO WEAVERS. 
 
 As at their work two weavers sat, 
 Beguiling time with friendly chat, 
 They touch'd upon the price of meat, 
 So high a weaver scarce could eat. 
 199 
 
THE TWO WEAVERS. 
 
 What with my babes and sickly wife, 
 Quoth James, I'm almost tir'd of life ; 
 So hard we work, so poor we fare, 
 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. 
 
 How glorious is the rich man's state, 
 His house so fine, his wealth so great; 
 Heaven is unjust, you must agree : 
 Why all to him, and none to me 1 
 
 In spite of all the Scripture teaches, 
 In spite of all the pulpit preaches, 
 The world, indeed I've thought so long. 
 Is ruled, mcthinks, extremely wrong. 
 
 Where'er I look, howe'er I range, 
 'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange ; 
 The good are troubled and opprest. 
 And all the wicked are the blest. 
 
 Quoth John, Our ignorance is the cause 
 Why thus we blame our Maker s laws ; 
 Parts of His ways alone we know, 
 'Tis all that man can see below. 
 
 See'st thou that carpet, not half done, 
 Which thou, dear James, hast well begun? 
 Behold the wild confusion there ! 
 So rude the mass, it makes one stare. 
 
 A stranger, ignorant of the trade. 
 Would say no meaning's there convey'd ; 
 For where's the middle, where's the border? 
 The carpet now is all disorder. 
 
 Quoth James, My work is yet in bits. 
 But still in ev'ry part it fits ; 
 Besides, you reason like a lout. 
 Why, man, that carpet's inside ojit ! 
 200 
 
THE TWO WEAVERS. 
 
 Says John, tlioa say'st the thing I mean, 
 And now I hope to cure thy spleen : 
 The world, which clouds thy soul with douht, 
 Is but a carpet inside out. 
 
 As when we view these shreds and ends, 
 We know not what the whole intends ; 
 So when on earth things look but odd, 
 They're working still some scheme of God. 
 
 No plan, no pattern can we trace, 
 All wants proportion, truth, and grace ; 
 The motley mixture we deride, 
 "Not see the beauteous upper side. 
 
 But when we reach the world of light, 
 And view these works of God aright. 
 Then shall we see the whole design. 
 And own the Workman is divine. 
 
 What now seem random strokes will there 
 All order and design appear ; 
 Then shall we praise what here we spurn' d. 
 For then the carpet will be turn'd. 
 
 Thou'rt right, quoth James, no more I'll grumble 
 That this world is so strange a jumble ; 
 My impious doubts are put to flight, 
 For my own carpet sets me right. 
 
 Hannah More. 
 
 201 DD 
 
ALL NATIONS CALLED TO WOESHIP GOD. 
 
 Jehovah reigns : let every nation hear, 
 And at His footstool bow with holy fear; 
 Let Heaven's high arches echo with his name, 
 And the wide peopled earth His praise proclaim ; 
 Then send it down to helFs deep glooms resounding, 
 Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding. 
 
 He rules with wide and absolute command 
 O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land : 
 Jehovah reigns, unbounded and alone. 
 And all creation hangs beneath His throne. 
 
 He reigns alone ; let no inferior nature 
 
 Usurp or share the throne of the Creator. 
 
 He saw the struggling beams of infant light 
 Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night ; 
 His Spirit hush'd the elemental strife. 
 And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life : 
 Seasons and months began the long procession. 
 And measured o'er the year in bright succession. 
 
 The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way, 
 Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay ; 
 And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light, 
 Superior o'er the dusky brow of night ; 
 Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning, 
 Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning. 
 
 Earth's blooming face with rising flowers He dress'd. 
 And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast ; 
 Then from the hollow of His hand He pours 
 The circling waters round her winding shores ; 
 The new-born world in their cool arms embracing, 
 And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing. 
 
 202 
 
ALL NATIONS CALLED TO WORSHIP GOD. 
 
 At length she rose complete in finish'd pride, 
 All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride ; 
 Fresh with untarnish'd lustre as she stood, 
 Her Maker bless'd His work, and call'd it good; 
 The morning stars, with joyful acclamation, 
 Exulting sung, and hail'd the new creation. 
 
 Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, 
 Though built by God's right hand, must pass away ; 
 And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, 
 The fate of Empires, and the pride of Kings ; 
 Eternal night shall veil their proudest story. 
 And drop the curtain o'er all human glory. 
 
 The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest, 
 
 Shall in his silent dark pavilion rest; 
 
 His golden urn shall broke and useless lie 
 
 Amidst the common ruins of the sky ! 
 The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, 
 And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean. 
 
 But fix'd, God ! for ever stands Thy throne ; 
 
 Jehovah reigns, a universe alone : 
 
 Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame. 
 
 Collected or diff'used is still the same. 
 He dwells within His own unfathom'd essence. 
 And fills all space with His unbounded presence. 
 
 But oh ! our highest notes the theme debase, 
 And silence is our least injurious praise : 
 Cease, cease your songs ; the daring flight control ; 
 Revere Him in the stillness of the soul. 
 With silent duty meekly bend before Him, 
 And deep within your inmost hearts adore Him. 
 
 Anna L. Barhaidd. 
 
 203 
 
EEMOESE UNSAJSrCTIFIED. 
 
 Such was his fall; and Edward, from that time, 
 Eelt in full force the censure and the crime — 
 Despised, ashamed; his noble views before. 
 And his proud thoughts, degraded him the more 
 Should he repent — would that conceal his shame ? 
 Could peace be hisi It perish'd with his fame : 
 Himself he scorn' d, nor could his crime forgive ; 
 He fear'd to die, yet felt asham'd to live : 
 Grieved, but not contrite was his heart; oppress' d, 
 Not broken ; not concerted, but distress'd ; 
 He wanted will to bend the stubborn knee. 
 He wanted light the cause of ill to see. 
 To learn how frail is man, how humble then should be; 
 For faith he had not, or a faith too weak 
 To gain the help that humbled sinners seek, 
 Else had he pray'd — to an offended God 
 His tears had flowJ^k. a penitential flood ; 
 Though far astray, he would have heard the call 
 Of mercy — " Come ! return, thou prodigal." 
 Then, though confused, distress'd, ashamed, afraid. 
 Still had the trembling penitent obey'd; 
 Though faith had fainted, when assail'd by fear, 
 Hope to the soul had whisper' d, — " Persevere ! " 
 Till in his Father's house an humbled guest. 
 He would have found forgiveness, comfort, rest. 
 
 204 
 
REMORSE UNSANCTIFIED. 
 
 But all this joy was to our Youth denied, 
 
 By his fierce passions and his daring pride; 
 
 And shame and doubt impell'd him in a course, 
 
 Once so abhorr'd, with unresisted force. 
 
 Proud minds and guilty, whom their crimes oppress, 
 
 Fly to new crimes for comfort and redress ; 
 
 Such were the notions of a mind to ill 
 
 Now prone, but ardent, and determined still : 
 
 Of joy now eager, as before of fame, 
 
 And screen'd by folly when assail'd by shame. 
 
 Deeply he sank; obeyed each passion's call. 
 
 And used his reason to defend them all. 
 
 Shall I proceed, and step by step relate 
 
 The odious progress of a sinner's fate 1 
 
 No — let me rather hasten to the time 
 
 (Sure to arrive !) when misery waits on crime. 
 
 Struck by new terrors, from his friends he fled, 
 
 And wept his woes upon a restless bed ; 
 
 Eetuming late, at early hour to rise, 
 
 With shrunken features, and with bloodshot eyes : 
 
 K Sleep one moment closed the dismal view, 
 
 Fancy her terrors built upon the true; 
 
 And night and day had their alternate woes. 
 
 That baffled pleasure, and that mocVd repose ; 
 
 Till to despair and anguish was consign'd 
 
 The wreck and ruin of a noble mind. 
 
 Harmless at length the unhappy man was found. 
 
 The spirit settled, but the reason drown'd ; 
 
 And all the dreadful tempest died away. 
 
 To the dull stillness of the misty day. 
 
 George Crabhe. 
 
 205 
 
THE NUESINO FEIEND. 
 
 An orphan girl succeeds : ere she was born 
 Her father died, her mother on that morn ; 
 The pious mistress of the school sustains 
 Her parents' part, nor their affection feigns, 
 But pitying feels : with due respect and joy, 
 I trace the matron at her loved employ : 
 What time the striplings, wearied e'en with play, 
 Part at the closing of the summer's day, 
 206 
 
THE NURSING FRIEND. 
 
 And each by diflferent paths returns the well-known way- 
 Then I behold her at her cottage door, 
 Frugal of light ; her Bible laid before, 
 When on her double duty she proceeds, 
 Of time as frugal, — knitting as she reads ; 
 Her idle neighbours, who approach to tell 
 Some trifling tale, her serious looks compel 
 To hear reluctant — while the lads who pass. 
 In pure respect, walk silent on the grass. 
 Then sinks the day, but not to rest she goes. 
 Till solemn prayers the daily duties close. 
 
 Grabhe. 
 
 A LESSON. 
 
 Some acts will stamp their moral on the soul, 
 
 And while the bad they threaten and control. 
 
 Will to the pious and the humble say. 
 
 Yours is the right, the safe, the certain way, 
 
 'Tis wisdom to be good, 'tis virtue to obey. 
 
 So Eachel thinks, the pure, the good, the meek, 
 
 Whose outward acts the inward purpose speak ; 
 
 As men will children at their sports behold, 
 
 And smile to see them, though unmoved and cold. 
 
 Smile at the recollected games, and then 
 
 Depart and mix in the affairs of men : 
 
 So Rachel looks upon the world, and sees 
 
 It cannot longer pain her, longer please, 
 
 But just detain the passing thought, or cause 
 
 A gentle smile of pity, or applause ; 
 
 And then the recollected soul repairs 
 
 Her slumbering hope, and heeds her own affairs. 
 
 Same. 
 207 
 
THE LOST WIFE. 
 
 Slowly they bore, with solemn step, the dead ; 
 When grief grew loud, and bitter tears were shed 
 My part began; a crowd drew near the place, 
 Awe in each eye, alarm in every face ; 
 Eriends with the husband came their griefs to blend; 
 For good-man Frankford was to all a friend. 
 The last-born boy they held above the bier. 
 He knew not grief, but cries express' d his fear; 
 Each different sex and age reveal'd its pain, 
 In now a louder, now a lower strain ; 
 While the meek father, listening to their tones, 
 Swell'd the full cadence of the grief by groans. 
 The elder sister strove her pangs to hide, 
 And soothing words to younger minds applied ; 
 " Be still, be patient ;" oft she strove to say : 
 But fail'd as oft, and weeping turn'd away. 
 Curious and sad, upon the fresh-dug hill. 
 The village lads stood melancholy still; 
 And idle children, wandering to and fro, 
 As nature guided, took the tone of woe. 
 Arrived at home, how then they gazed around. 
 In every place, — where she, no more, was found — 
 The seat at table she was wont to fill ; 
 The fire-side chair, still set, but vacant still; 
 The garden-walks, a labour all her own; 
 The latticed bower, with trailing shrubs o'ergrown; 
 208 
 
THE LOST WIFE. 
 
 The Sanday-pew she fill'd with all her race, — 
 Each place of hers was now a sacred place, 
 That, while it call'd up sorrows in the eyes, 
 Pierced the full heart, and forced them still to rise. 
 Oh sacred sorrow ! by whom souls are tried, 
 Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide ; 
 If thou art mine (and who shall proudly dare 
 To tell his Maker, he has had his share?) 
 Still let me feel for what my pangs are sent. 
 And be my guide, and not my punishment ! 
 
 Crahhe. 
 
 THE VILLAGE MOTHEE EOKSAKEN. 
 
 Lo ! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, 
 And torn green gown loose hanging at her back. 
 One who an infant in her arms sustains. 
 And seems in patience striving with her pains; 
 Pinch'd are her looks, as one who pines for bread, 
 Whose cares are growing, and whose hopes are fled. 
 Pale her parch' d lips, her heavy eyes sunk low, 
 And tears unnoticed from their channels flow; 
 Serene her manner, till some sudden pain 
 Frets the meek soul, and then she's calm again ; — 
 Her broken pitcher to the pool she takes, 
 And every step with cautious terror makes, 
 With water burthen' d, then she picks her way. 
 Slowly and cautious in the clinging clay; 
 Till, in mid-green, she trusts a place unsound, 
 And deeply plunges in th' adhesive ground; 
 
 209 E E 
 
THE VILLAGE MOTHER FORSAKEN. 
 
 Thence, but with pain, her slender foot she takes, 
 
 While hope the mind, as strength the frame forsakes 
 
 For when so full the cup of sorrow grows, 
 
 Add but a drop, it instantly o'erflow^s. 
 
 And now her path, but not her peace she gains. 
 
 Safe from her task, but shivering from her pains; 
 
 Her home she reaches, open leaves the door, 
 
 Aud placing first her infant on the floor, 
 
 She bares her bosom to the wind, and sits. 
 
 And sobbing struggles with the rising fits ; 
 
 In vain, they come, she feels the inflating grief 
 
 That shuts the swelling bosom from relief: 
 
 That speaks in feeble cries a soul distrest, 
 
 Or the sad laugh that cannot be represt. 
 
 The neighbour-matron leaves her wheel, and flies 
 
 With all the aid her poverty supplies ; 
 
 Unfeed, the call of Nature she obeys, 
 
 Not led by profit, not allured by praise ; 
 
 And waiting long, till these contentions cease. 
 
 She speaks of comfort, and departs in peace. 
 
 Friend of distress ! the mourner feels thy aid, 
 
 She cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. 
 
 Crahbe. 
 
 210 
 
THE BLESSINGS OF TEIBULATIOR 
 
 Death has his infant train ; his bony arm 
 Strikes from the baby-cheek the rosy charm ; 
 The brightest eye his glazing film makes dim, 
 And his cold touch sets fast the lithest limb ; 
 He seized the sickening boy to Gerard lent, 
 When three days' life, in feeble cries, were spent ; 
 In pain brought forth, those painful hours to stay. 
 To breathe in pain, and sigh its soul away ! 
 
 *'But why thus lent, if thus recalled again. 
 To cause and feel, to live and die in pain?" 
 Or rather say. Why grievous these appear. 
 If all it pays for Heaven's eternal year ; 
 If these sad sobs and piteous sighs secure 
 Delights that live, when worlds no more endure? 
 
 The sister-spirit long may lodge below, 
 And pains from nature, pains from reason, know 
 Through all the common ills of life may run, 
 By hope perverted, and by love undone ; 
 A wife's distress, a mother's pangs, may dread. 
 And widow-tears, in bitter anguish, shed; 
 May at old age arrive through numerous harms 
 With children's children in those feeble arms ; 
 Nor till by years of want and grief opprest 
 Shall the sad spirit flee and be at rest ! 
 211 
 
THE BLESSINGS OF TRIBULATION. 
 
 Yet happier therefore shall we deem the boy 
 Secured from anxious care and dangerous joy 1 
 iN'ot so ! for then would Love Divine in vain 
 Send all the burthens weary men sustain ; 
 All that now curb the passions when they rage, 
 The checks of youth, and the regrets of age ; 
 All that now bid us hope, believe, endure, 
 Our sorrow's comfort, and our vice's cure ; 
 All that for Heaven's high joys the spirits train, 
 And charity, the crown of all, were vain ! 
 
 Say, will you call the breathless infant blest, 
 Because no cares the silent grave molest 1 
 So would you deem the nursling from the wing 
 Untimely thrust and never train'd to sing : 
 But far more blest the bird whose grateful voice 
 Sings its own joy and makes the woods rejoice, 
 Though, while untaught, ere yet he charm' d the ear. 
 Hard were his trials and his pains severe ! 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 212 
 
SCENE IN A SCOTTISH COTTAGE. 
 
 The cheerfii' supper done, \vi' serious face, 
 They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
 
 The Sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 The big lia Bible, ance his father's pride ; 
 
 His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
 213 
 
SCENE IN A SCOTTISH COTTAGE. 
 
 His lyart haffets weariog tliin 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 beets the heav'nward flame ; 
 
 The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
 Compared wi' these, Italian trills are tame ; 
 
 The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
 Nae unison hae they wi' 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. 
 
 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 banished. 
 
 Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 
 And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's 
 command. 
 
 214 
 
SCENE IN A SCOTTISH COTTAGE. 
 
 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. 
 Which men display to congregations wide, 
 
 Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
 The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert. 
 
 The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
 But, haply, in some cottage far apart. 
 
 May hear, well pleas' d, the language of the soul; 
 And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 
 
 Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 
 
 The youngling Cottagers retire to rest : 
 The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
 
 And proffer up to Heaven the warm request 
 That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 
 
 And decks the lily fair in flow'ry 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. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 215 
 
WINTEE— A DIRGE. 
 
 The wintry west 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 from 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 griefs it seems to join ; 
 The leafless trees my fancy please, 
 
 Their fate resembles mine. 
 
 Thou PoVr 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, (0, do Thou grant 
 
 This one request of mine !) 
 Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, 
 
 Assist me to resign ! 
 
 Burm. 
 
 216 
 
AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. 
 
 When homeward bands their several ways disperse, 
 
 I love to linger in the narrow field 
 
 Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb, 
 
 And think of some who silent sleep below. 
 
 Sad sighs the wind, that from these ancient elms 
 
 Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass : 
 
 The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep, 
 
 Fill up the furrows Hween the hillock'd graves ; 
 
 217 F F 
 
AN AUTUMN SABBATH WALK. 
 
 But list that moan ! 'tis the poor blind man's dog, 
 
 His guide for many a day, now come to mourn 
 
 The master and the friend — conjunction rare : 
 
 A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul, 
 
 Though bred to brave the deep ; the lightnings' flash 
 
 Had dimmed, not closed, his mild, but sightless eyes. 
 
 He was a welcome guest through all his range 
 
 (It was not wide); no dog would bay at him; 
 
 Children would run to meet him on his way, 
 
 And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb 
 
 His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales : 
 
 Then would he teach the elfins how to plait 
 
 The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship ; 
 
 And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand 
 
 Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips. 
 
 Peace to thy spirit ! that now looks on me, 
 
 Perhaps with greater pity than I felt 
 
 To see thee wandering darkling on thy way. 
 
 But let me quit this melancholy spot. 
 
 And roam where nature gives a parting smile ; 
 
 As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod - 
 
 That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods 
 
 A second blow of many flowers appears, 
 
 Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume. 
 
 But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath 
 
 That circles Autumn's brow : The ruddy haws 
 
 Now clothe the half-leaved thorn ; the bramble bends 
 
 Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs 
 
 With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream 
 
 That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow 
 
 The leaf-strewn banks: Oft, statue-like, I gaze. 
 
 In vacancy of thought upon that stream. 
 
 And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam. 
 
 Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf, 
 
 Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood. 
 
 James Grafvame. 
 
 218 
 
THE EESUKRECTIOK 
 
 The setting orb of night her level ray- 
 Shed o'er the land, and on the dewy sward, 
 The lengthened shadows of the triple cross 
 Were laid far-stretched, — when in the East arose, 
 Last of the stars, day's harbinger : No sound 
 Was heard, save of the watching soldier's foot : 
 Within the rock-barred sepulchre, the gloom 
 Of deepest midnight brooded o'er the dead. 
 The Holy One ; but lo ! a radiance faint 
 Began to dawn around His sacred brow : 
 The linen vesture seemed a snowy wreath, 
 Drifted by storms into a mountain cave : 
 Bright, and more bright, the circling halo beamed 
 Upon that face, clothed in a smile benign. 
 Though yet inanimate. Not long the reign 
 Of death ; the eyes, that wept for human griefs. 
 Unclose and look around with conscious joy : 
 Yes ; with returning life, the first emotion 
 That glowed in Jesus' breast of love, was joy 
 At man's redemption, now complete ; at death 
 Disarmed; the grave transformed into the couch 
 Of faith ; the resurrection and the life. 
 Majestical He rose ; trembled the earth ; 
 The ponderous gate of stone was rolled away ; 
 The keepers fell ; the angel, awe- struck, shrunk 
 Into invisibility, while forth 
 The Saviour of the World walked, and stood 
 Before the sepulchre, and viewed the clouds 
 Empurpled glorious by the rising sun. 
 
 Grahame. 
 
 219 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Not in thy terrors clad ; 
 Come in thy meekest, saddest guise ; 
 Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
 The restless and the bad. 
 But I recline, 
 Beneath thy shrine, 
 And round my brow resign' d, thy peaceful cypress twine. 
 
 Though Fancy flies away 
 
 Beneath thy hollow tread, 
 Yet Meditation in her cell, 
 Hears, with faint eye, the ling'ring knell 
 That tells her hopes are dead; 
 And though the tear 
 By chance appear, 
 Yet she can smile, and say. My all was not laid here. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Though from Hope's summit hurl'd; 
 Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven, 
 Por thou severe wert sent from heaven 
 
 To wean me from the world; 
 
 To turn my eye 
 
 Prom vanity. 
 And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die. 
 
 What is this passing scene ? 
 
 A peevish April day ! 
 A little sun, a little rain, 
 And then night sweeps along the plain, 
 And all things fade away. 
 Man (soon discust) 
 Yields up his trust. 
 And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust. 
 
 220 
 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Oh, what is beauty's power? 
 
 It flourishes and dies ; 
 Will the cold earth its silence break, 
 To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek 
 Beneath her surface lies 1 
 Mute, mute is all 
 O'er beauty's fall ; 
 Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. 
 
 The most beloved on earth, 
 
 N^ot long survives to-day ; 
 So music past is obsolete, 
 And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet, 
 But now 'tis gone away. % 
 
 Thus does the shade 
 In memory fade. 
 When in forsaken tomb the form belov'd is laid. 
 
 Then since this world is vain 
 
 And volatile and fleet, 
 Why should I lay up earthly joys. 
 Where rust corrupts and moth destroys, 
 And cares and sorrows eat? 
 Why fly from ill. 
 With anxious skill. 
 When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still? 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 Thou art not stern to me ; 
 Sad Monitress ! I o^vn thy sway, 
 A votary sad in early day, 
 I bend my knee to thee. 
 From sun to sun 
 My race is run, 
 I only bow, and say, My God, Thy will be done. 
 
 Kirke White. 
 
 221 
 
TO THE HEEB EOSEMARY. 
 
 Sweet-scented flower ! who art wont to bloom 
 On January's front severe, 
 And o'er the wintry desert drear 
 
 To waft thy waste perfume ! 
 Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now, 
 And I will bind thee round my brow ; 
 
 And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
 rU weave a melancholy song, 
 And sweet the strain shall be and long, 
 
 The melody of death. 
 
 Come, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 
 With the pale corse in lonely tomb, 
 And throw across the desert gloom 
 
 A sweet decaying smell. 
 Come press my lips, and lie with me 
 Beneath the lowdy Alder tree, 
 
 And we will sleep a pleasant sleep. 
 And not a care shall dare intrude 
 To break the marble solitude. 
 
 So peaceful, and so deep. 
 
 A.nd hark ! the wind-god, as he flies. 
 Moans hollow in the forest- trees, 
 And, sailing on the gusty breeze. 
 
 Mysterious music dies. 
 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is mine. 
 It warns me to the lonely shrine. 
 
 The cold turf altar of the dead; 
 My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
 "Where, as I lie, by all forgot, 
 A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. 
 
 Kirle White. 
 222 
 
SUNDAY IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 Hail, Sabbath ! day of mercy, peace, and rest ! 
 
 Thou o'er loud cities throw'st a noiseless spell; 
 The hammer there, the wheel, the saw, molest 
 
 Pale thought no more. O'er Trade's contentious hell 
 
 Meek Quiet spreads her wings invisible. 
 But when thou com'st, less silent are the fields. 
 
 Through whose sweet paths the toil-freed townsman steals; 
 To him the very air a banquet yields. 
 
 Envious he watches the poised hawk that wheels 
 
 His flight on chainless winds. Each cloud reveals 
 
 22S 
 
SUNDAY IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 A paradise of beauty to his eye. 
 
 His little boys are with him, seeking flowers, 
 
 Or chasing the too venturous gilded fly, 
 So by the daisy's side he spends the hours, 
 Eenewing friendship with the budding bowers; 
 
 And — while might, beauty, good without alloy. 
 Are mirror'd in his children's happy eyes, 
 
 In His great temple offering thankful joy 
 To Him the infinitely Great and Wise, 
 With soul attuned to Nature's harmonies, 
 
 Serene and cheerful as a sporting child. 
 
 Ehenezer Elliot. 
 
 THE ILLUMINATION OF THE BLIND. 
 
 I AM weak, yet strong — 
 I murmur not that I no longer see — 
 Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong, 
 
 Father supreme ! to Thee. 
 
 Thy glorious face 
 Is leaning towards me, — and its holy light 
 Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place. 
 
 And there is no more night. 
 
 On my bended knee 
 I recognise Thy purpose clearly shown — 
 My vision Thou hast dimmed that I may see 
 
 Thyself, Thyself alone. 
 
 I have nought to fear; 
 Mv darkness is the shadow of Thy wing — 
 Beneath it I am almost sacred — ^here 
 Can come no evil thing. 
 
 Lloyd. 
 224 
 
^^^J- 
 
 DAWN OF HOPE AND PEACE ON THE 
 DAKK SOUL. 
 
 Hear what they were : The progeny of Sin 
 Alike, and oft combined ; but differing much 
 In mode of giving pain. As felt the gross 
 Material part, when in the furnace cast, 
 So felt the soul, the victim of Remorse. 
 It was a fire which on the verge of God's 
 Commandments burned, and on the vitals fed 
 Of all who passed. Who passed, there met Remorse ; 
 A violent fever seized his soul ; the heavens 
 Above, the earth beneath, seemed glowing brass 
 Heated seven times; he heard dread voices speak. 
 And mutter horrid prophecies of pain, 
 
 225 G o 
 
DAWN OF HOPE AND PEACE 
 
 Severer and severer yet to come ; 
 
 And as he writhed and quivered, scorched within, 
 
 The Fury round his torrid temples flapped 
 
 Her fiery wings, and breathed upon his lips 
 
 And parched tongue the withering blasts of hell. 
 
 It was the suffering begun thou saw'st, 
 
 In symbol of the Worm that never dies. 
 
 The other, Disappointment, rather seemed 
 Negation of delight. It was a thing 
 Sluggish and torpid, tending towards death. 
 Its breath was cold, and made the sportive blood 
 Stagnant, and dull, and heavy, round the wheels 
 Of life. The roots of that whereon it blew. 
 Decayed, and with the genial soil no more 
 Held sympathy ; the leaves,, the branches drooped. 
 And mouldered slowly down to formless dust ; 
 'Not tossed and driven by violence of winds. 
 But withering where they sprang, and rotting there. 
 Long disappointed, disappointed still, 
 The hopeless man, hopeless in his main wish. 
 As if returning back to nothing, felt ; 
 In strange vacuity of being hung ; 
 And rolled, and rolled his eye on emptiness, 
 That seemed to grow more empty every hour. 
 
 One of this mood I do remember well : 
 "We name him not — what now are earthly names? 
 In humble dwelling bom, retired, remote ; 
 In rural quietude, 'mong hills, and streams, 
 And melancholy deserts, where the Sun 
 Saw, as he passed, a shepherd only, here 
 And there, watching his little flock, or heard 
 The ploughman talking to his steers. His hopes. 
 His morning hopes, awoke before him, smiling, 
 Among the dews and holy mountain airs ; 
 And fancy coloured them with every hue 
 226 
 
ON THE DARK SOUL. 
 
 Of heavenly loveliness. But soon his dreams 
 
 Of childhood fled away — those rain])ow dreams 
 
 So innocent and fair, that withered Age, 
 
 Even at the grave, cleared up his dusty eye. 
 
 And passing all between, looked fondly back 
 
 To see them once again ere he departed : 
 
 These fled away, and anxious thought, that wished 
 
 To go, yet whither knew not well to go. 
 
 Possessed his soul, and held it still awhile. 
 
 He listened, and heard from far the voice of FamC; 
 
 Heard, and was charmed ; and deep and sudden vow 
 
 Of resolution made to be renowned ; 
 
 And deeper vowed again to keep his vow. 
 
 His parents saw — his parents Avhom God made 
 
 Of kindest heart, saw, and indulged his hope. 
 
 The ancient page he turned, read much, thought much, 
 
 And with old bards of honourable name 
 
 Measured his soul severely; and looked up 
 
 To fame, ambitious of no second place. 
 
 Hope grew from inward faith, and promised fair. 
 
 And out before him opened many a path 
 
 Ascending, where the laurel highest waved 
 
 Her branch of endless green. He stood admiring ; 
 
 But stood, admired, not long. The harp he seized, 
 
 The harp he loved, loved better than his life, 
 
 The harp which uttered deepest notes, and held 
 
 The ear of thought a captive to its song. 
 
 He searched, and meditated much, and whUes, 
 
 With rapturous hand, in secret touched the lyre. 
 
 Aiming at glorious strains ; and searched again 
 
 For theme deserving of immortal verse; 
 
 Chose now, and now refused, unsatisfied; 
 
 Pleased, then displeased, and hesitating still. 
 
 Thus stood his mind, when round him came a cloud. 
 Slowly and heavily it came, a cloud 
 Of ills we mention not : enough to say, 
 227 
 
DAWN OF HOPE AND PEACE 
 
 'Twas cold, and dead, inpenetrable gloom. 
 He saw its dark approach, and saw his hopes, 
 One after one, put out, as nearer still 
 It drew his soul ; but fainted not at first, 
 Fainted not soon. He knew the lot of man 
 Was trouble, and prepared to bear the worst ; 
 Endure whate'er should come, without a sigh 
 Endure, and drink, even to the very dregs, 
 The bitterest cup that Time could measure out; 
 And, having done, look up, and ask for more. 
 
 He called Philosophy, and with his heart 
 Reasoned. He called Eeligion, too, but called 
 Reluctantly, and therefore was not heard. 
 Ashamed to be o'ermatched by earthly woes, 
 He sought, and sought with eye that dimmed apace. 
 To find some avenue to light, some place 
 On which to rest a hope; but sought in vain. 
 Darker and darker still the darkness grew. 
 At length he sank ; and Disappointment stood 
 His only comforter, and mournfully 
 Told all was past. His interest in life, 
 In being, ceased ; and now he seemed to feel. 
 And shuddered as he felt, his powers of mind 
 Decaying in the spring-time of his day. 
 The vigorous weak became ; the clear, obscure ; 
 Memory gave up her charge ; Decision reeled ; 
 And from her flight Fancy returned, returned 
 Because she found no nourishment abroad. 
 The blue heavens withered; and the moon and sun, 
 And all the stars, and the green earth, and mom 
 And evening withered ; and the eyes, and smiles, 
 And faces of all men and women, withered. 
 Withered to him ; and all the universe, 
 Like something which had been, appeared, but now 
 Was dead, and mouldering fast away. He tried 
 No more to hope, wished to forget his vow. 
 228 
 
ON THE DARK SOUL. 
 
 Wished to forget his harp ; then ceased to wish. 
 That was his last ; enjoyment now was done. 
 He had no hope, no wish, and scarce a fear. 
 Of being sensible, and sensible 
 Of loss, he as some atom seemed, which God 
 Had made superfluously, and needed not 
 To build creation vnth. ; but back again 
 To nothing threw, and left it in the void, 
 With everlasting sense that once it was. 
 
 Oh ! who can tell what days, what nights he spent, 
 Of tideless, waveless, sailless, shoreless woe ! 
 And who can tell how many, glorious once, 
 To others and themselves of promise full. 
 Conducted to this pass of human thought. 
 This wilderness of intellectual death, 
 Wasted and pined, and vanished from the earth. 
 Leaving no vestige of memorial there ! 
 
 It was not so with him. When thus he lay. 
 Forlorn of heart, withered and desolate, 
 As leaf of autumn, which the wolfish winds, 
 Selecting from its fallen sisters, chase. 
 Far from its native grove, to lifeless wastes, 
 And leave it there alone, to be forgotten 
 Eternally; God passed in mercy by — 
 His praise be ever new ! — and on him breathed. 
 And bade him live, and put into his hands 
 A holy harp, into his lips a song. 
 That rolled its numbers down the tide of Time. 
 Ambitious now but little to be praised 
 Of men alone; ambitious most to be 
 Approved of God, the Judge of all ; and have 
 His name recorded in the Book of Life. 
 
 Robet-t Polloh 
 
 229 
 
THE STEANGER AND HIS FEIEND. 
 
 A POOR wayfaring Man of grid 
 Hath often cross'd nie on my way, 
 Who sued so humbly for relief, 
 That I could never answer — " Nay : " 
 I had not power to ask his name, 
 Whither he went, or whence he came, 
 Yet there was something in his eye, 
 That won my love, I knew not why. 
 
 Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 
 He enter'd ; not a word he spake ; — 
 Just perishing for want of bread, 
 I gave him all ; he bless'd it, brake, 
 And ate, — but gave me part again ; 
 Mine was an angel's portion then. 
 For while I fed with eager haste. 
 That crust was manna to my taste. 
 
 I spied him where a fountain burst 
 Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ; 
 The heedless water mock'd his thirst, 
 He heard it, saw it hurrying on ; 
 I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
 Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, 
 Dipp'd, and return'd it running o'er; 
 I drank, and never thirsted more. 
 230 
 
THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND. 
 
 Twas night, the floods were out; it blew 
 
 A winter hurricane aloof; 
 
 I heard his voice abroad, and flew 
 
 To bid him welcome to my roof; 
 
 I warm'd, I cloth'd, I cheer'd my guest, 
 
 Laid him on my own couch to rest; 
 
 Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd 
 
 In Eden's garden while I dream' d. 
 
 Stript, wounded, beaten nigh to death, 
 I found him by the highway-side ; 
 I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, 
 Eevived his spirit, and supplied 
 Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was lieal'd ; 
 — I had myself a wound conceal'd; 
 But from that hour forgot the smart. 
 And Peace bound up my broken heart. 
 
 In prison I saw him next, condemn'd 
 
 To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; 
 
 The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd. 
 
 And honour'd him midst shame and scorn ; 
 
 My friendship's utmost zeal to try. 
 
 He ask'd if I for him would die ; 
 
 The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill. 
 
 But the free spirit cried- — " I will." 
 
 Then in a moment to my view 
 The stranger darted from disguise ; 
 The tokens in his hands I knew. 
 My Saviour stood before mine eyes : 
 He spake : and my poor name He named ; 
 " Of Me thou hast not been ashamed : 
 These deeds shall thy memorial be; 
 Fear not, thou did'st them unto Me." 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 231 
 
HYMN BEFORE SUN-EISE, 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 bold awful head, Sovran Blanc ! 
 The Avre 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 ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee. 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought; entranced in prayer 
 
 1 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 thoughts, 
 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; 
 
 Till th^e 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 
 
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE. 
 
 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. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale ! 
 struggling with darkness all the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink ; 
 Companion of the morning-star at da"wn, 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald ; wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth 1 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 
 Who called ye forth from night and utter death, 
 
 Erom dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged Eocks, 
 
 Eor ever shattered and the same for ever? 
 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. 
 
 Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam? 
 
 And who commanded (and the silence came,) 
 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 
 ("lothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers, 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 
 233 HH 
 
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE. 
 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Thou, too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks. 
 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 
 That as I raise my head, awhUe bowed low 
 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 
 Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears. 
 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 
 To rise before me — Else, ever rise. 
 
 Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 234 
 
PLACES OF WOESHIP. 
 
 As star that slimes dependent upon star 
 Is to the sky while we look np in love ; 
 As to the deep fair ships, which though they move 
 Seem fixed, to eyes that watch them from, afar ; 
 235 
 
PLACES OF WORSHIP. 
 
 As to the sandy desert fountains are, 
 
 "With palm-groves shaded at wide intervals, 
 
 Whose fruit around the sun-burnt native falls. 
 
 Of roving tired, or desultory war — 
 
 Such to this British Isle her Christian Fanes, 
 
 Each linked to each for kindred services ; 
 
 Her Spires, her Steeple-towers with glittering vanes 
 
 Far kenned, her chapels lurking among trees. 
 
 Where a few villagers on bended knees 
 
 Find solace w^hich a busy world disdains. 
 
 William Wordsworth. 
 
 CATECHISING. 
 
 From Little down to Least, in due degree 
 Around the Pastor, each in new-wrought vest, 
 Each with a vernal posy in his breast. 
 We stood, a trembling, earnest Company ! 
 With low soft murmur, like a distant bee, 
 Some spake, by thought-perplexing fears betrayed, 
 And some a bold, unerring answer made ; 
 How fluttered then, thy anxious heart for me, 
 Beloved mother ! thou whose happy hand 
 Had bound the flowers I wore, with faithful tie : 
 Sweet flowers ! at whose inaudible command 
 Her countenance, phantom-like, doth reappear: 
 lost too early for the frequent tear, 
 And ill-requited by this heart-felt sigh ! 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 236 
 
NEW CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The encircling ground, in native turf arrayed, 
 Is now by solemn consecration given 
 To social interests, and to favouring Heaven. 
 And where the rugged colts their gambols played, 
 And wild deer bounded through the forest glade, 
 Uncheck'd as when by merry outlaw driven, 
 Shall hymns of praise resound at morn and even ; 
 And soon, full soon, the lonely sexton's spade 
 Shall wound the tender sod. Encincture small. 
 But infinite its grasp of weal and woe ! 
 Hopes, fears, in never ending ebb and flow; — 
 The spousal trembling, and the "dust to dust," 
 The prayers, the contrite struggle, and the trust 
 That to th' Almighty Father looks through all. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 OLD ABBEYS. 
 
 Monastic domes ! following my downward way, 
 Untouched by deep regret I marked your fall ! 
 Now ruin, beauty, antient stillness, all 
 Dispose to judgments temperate as we lay 
 On our past selves in life's declining day ; 
 For as by discipline of Time made wise, 
 We learn to tolerate the infirmities 
 And faults of others, gently as we may. 
 So with our own the mild Instructor deals, 
 Teaching us to forget them, or forgive. 
 Perversely curious, then, for hidden ill 
 Why should we break Time's charitable seals? — 
 Once ye were holy, ye are holy still ; 
 Your spirit freely let me drink, and live. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 237 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 
 
 Yet one song more ! one high and solemn strain, 
 Ere, Phoebus ! on thy temple's ruined wall 
 I hang the silent harp ; there may its strings, 
 When the rude tempest shakes the aged pile, 
 Make melancholy music. One song more ! 
 Pefiates ! hear me ! for to you I hymn 
 The votive lay — 
 
 Venerable powers ! 
 Hearken your hymn of praise ! Though from your rites 
 Estranged, and exiled from your altars long, 
 I have not ceased to love you, household gods ! 
 In many a long and melancholy hour 
 Of solitude and sorrow, hath my heart 
 With earnest longings prayed, to rest at length 
 Beside your hallowed hearth — for peace is there ! 
 
 Yes, I have loved you long. 1 call on you 
 Yourselves to witness with what holy joy. 
 Shunning the polish'd mob of human kind, 
 I have retired to watch your lonely fires, 
 And commune with mj^self. Delightful hours, 
 That gave mysterious pleasure, made me know 
 All the recesses of my wayward heart. 
 Taught me to cherish with devoutest care 
 Its strange unworldly feelings, taught me too 
 The best of lessons — to respect myself. 
 Nor have I ever ceased to reverence you, 
 Domestic deities ! from the first dawn 
 Of reason, through the adventurous paths of youth, 
 238 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 
 
 Even to this better day, when on mine ear 
 
 The uproar of contending nations sounds 
 
 But like the passing wind, and wakes no pulse 
 
 To tumult. When a child — (and still I love 
 
 To dweU with fondness on my childish years) 
 
 When first a little one, I left my home, 
 
 I can remember the first grief I felt. 
 
 And the first painful smile that clothed my front 
 
 With feelings not its own : sadly at night 
 
 I sat me down beside a stranger's hearth ; 
 
 And when the lingering hour of rest was come, 
 
 First wet with tears my piUow. As I grew 
 
 In years and knowledge, and the course of time 
 
 Developed the young feelings of my heart. 
 
 When most I loved in solitude to rove 
 
 Amid the woodland gloom ; or where the rocks 
 
 Darken'd old Avon's stream, in the ivied cave 
 
 Recluse, to sit and brood the future song, — 
 
 Yet not the less, Penates, loved I then 
 
 Your altars, not the less at evening hour 
 
 Delighted by the well- trimmed fire to sit, 
 
 Absorbed in many a dear deceitful dream 
 
 Of visionary joys ; — deceitful dreams — 
 
 And yet not vain — for painting purest joys. 
 
 They formed to Fancy's mould her votary's heart. 
 
 By Cherwell's sedgy side, and in the meads 
 Where Isis in her calm clear stream reflects 
 The willow's bending boughs, at early dawn, 
 In the noontide hour, and when the night-mist rose, 
 I have remembered you; and when the noise 
 Of lewd intemperance on my lonely ear 
 Burst with loud tumult, as recluse I sat, 
 Pondering on loftiest themes of man redeemed 
 From servitude, and vice, and wretchedness, 
 I blest you, household gods ! because I loved 
 Your peaceful altars and serener rites. 
 239 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 
 
 Nor did I cease to reverence you, when driven 
 Amid the jarring crowd, an unfit man 
 To mingle with the world ; still, still my heart 
 Sighed for your sanctuary, and inly pined; 
 And loathing human converse, I have strayed 
 Where o'er the sea-beach chilly howled the blast, 
 And gazed upon the world of waves, and wished 
 That I were far beyond the Atlantic deep. 
 In woodland haunts, a sojourner with peace. 
 
 As on the height of some huge eminence, 
 Eeached with long labour, the wayfaring man 
 Pauses awhile, and gazing o'er the plain, 
 With many a sore step travelled, turns him then 
 Serious to contemplate the onward road, 
 And calls to mind the comforts of his home. 
 And sighs that he has left them, and resolves 
 To stray no more : I on my way of life 
 Muse thus, Penates, and with firmest faith 
 Devote myself to you. I will not quit. 
 To mingle with the crowd, your calm abodes, 
 Where by the evening hearth contentment sits 
 And hears the cricket chirp; where love delights 
 To dwell, and on your altars lays his torch 
 That burns with no extinguishable flame. 
 
 Penates ! some there are 
 Who say, that not in the inmost heaven ye dwell. 
 Gazing with eye remote on all the ways 
 Of man, his guardian gods ; wiselier they deem 
 A dearer interest to the human race 
 Links you, yourselves the spirits of the dead. 
 No mortal eye may pierce the invisible world, 
 No light of human reason penetrate 
 The depth where truth lies hid. Yet to this faith 
 My heart with instant sympathy assents ; 
 And I would judge all systems and all faiths 
 240 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 
 
 By that best touchstone, from whose test deceit 
 Shrinks like the arch-fiend at Ithuriel's spear, — 
 
 Nor can the halls of heaven 
 Give to the human heart such kindred joy, 
 As hovering o'er its earthly haunts it feels. 
 When with the breeze it wantons round the brow 
 Of one beloved on earth ; or when at night 
 In dreams it comes, and brings with it the days 
 And joys that are no more. Or when, perchance. 
 With power permitted to alleviate ill. 
 And fit the sufferer for the coming woe. 
 Some strange presage the Spirit breathes, and fills 
 The breast with ominous fear, and disciplines 
 For sorrow, pours into the afflicted heart 
 The balm of resignation, and inspires 
 With heavenly hope. Even as a child delights 
 To visit day by day the favourite plant 
 His hand has sown, to mark its gradual growth, 
 And watch, all-anxious, for the promised flower;-. 
 Thus to the blessed spirit in innocence 
 And pure affections, like a little child. 
 Sweet will it be to hover o'er the friends 
 Beloved ; then sweetest, if, as Duty prompts, 
 With earthly care we in their breasts have sown 
 The seeds of truth and virtue, holy flowers. 
 Whose odour reacheth heaven. 
 
 When my sick heart 
 (Sick with hope long delay'd, than which no care 
 Presses the crushed heart heavier) from itself 
 Seeks the best comfort, often have f deemed 
 That thou didst witness every inmost thought, 
 Seward ! my dear dead friend ! for not in vain, 
 O early summoned on thy heavenly course ! 
 Was thy brief sojourn here : me didst thou leave 
 With strengthened step to follow the right path 
 Till we shall meet again. Meantime I soothe 
 
 241 I I 
 
HYMN TO THE PENATES. 
 
 The deep regret of nature, with belief, 
 
 Edmund ! that thine eye's celestial ken 
 Pervades me now, marking with no mean joy 
 The movements of the heart that loved thee well ! 
 
 Hearken your hymn of praise, 
 Penates ! to your shrines I come for rest, 
 There only to be found. Often at eve. 
 Amid my wanderings, I have seen far off 
 The lonely light that spake of comfort there ; 
 It told my heart of many a joy of home, 
 And my poor heart was sad. When I have gazed 
 From some high eminence on goodly vales 
 And cots and villages embowered below, 
 The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
 Amid the scene so fair, nor one small spot 
 Where my tired mind might rest and call it home. 
 There is a magic in that little word ; 
 It is a mystic circle that surrounds 
 Comforts and virtues never known beyond 
 The hallowed limit. Often has my heart 
 Ached for that quiet haven ! havened now, 
 
 1 think of those in this world's wilderness 
 Who wander on and find no home of rest 
 Till to the grave they go ! 
 
 Household deities ! 
 Then only shall be happiness on earth 
 When men shall feel your sacred power, and love 
 Your tranquil joys — 
 
 This the state 
 Shall bless the race redeemed of man ! 
 Heart-calming hope, and sure ! for hitherward 
 Tend all the tumults of the troubled world. 
 Its woes, its wisdom, and its wickedness 
 Alike : So He hath wiU'd Whose Will is just ! 
 
 Robert Southey. 
 242 
 
THOU AET, O GOD. 
 
 Thou art^ God, the life and light 
 Of all this wondrous world we see ; 
 
 Its glow by day, its smile by night. 
 Are but reflections caught from Thee. 
 
 Where'er we turn Thy glories shine. 
 
 And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 
 243 
 
THOU ART, GOD. 
 
 When Day, with farewell beam, delays 
 Among the op'ning 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'er-shadows all the earth and skies, 
 
 Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
 Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes — 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
 244 
 
THE WIPER AWAY OF TEARS. 
 
 Oh, Thou ! who dry'st the mourner's tear, 
 
 How dark this world would be, 
 If when deceiVd 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 nor cheers, 
 
 And even the hope, that threw 
 A moment's sparkle o'er our tears. 
 
 Is dimm'd, and banish'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 ! 
 
 Moore. 
 
 245 
 
THE EAINBOW. 
 
 Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky 
 When storms prepare to part, 
 
 I ask not proud Philosophy 
 To tell me what thou art — 
 
 Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, 
 
 A midway station given 
 For happy spirits to alight 
 
 Betwixt the earth and heaven. 
 
 Can all that Optics teach, unfold 
 
 Thy form to please me so, 
 As when I dreamt of gems and gold 
 
 Hid in thy radiant bow 1 
 
 When Science from Creation's face 
 Enchantment's veil withdraws. 
 
 What lovely visions yield their place 
 To cold, material laws ! 
 
 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams. 
 But words of the Most High, 
 
 Have told why first thy robe of beams 
 Was woven in the sky. 
 
 When o'er the green undeluged earth 
 Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, 
 
 How came the world's grey fathers forth 
 To watch thy sacred sign ! 
 246 
 
THE RAINBOW. 
 
 And when its yellow lustre smiled 
 
 O'er mountains yet untrod, 
 Each mother held aloft her child 
 
 To bless the bow of God. 
 
 Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, 
 
 The first-made anthem rang 
 On earth deliver' d from the deep, 
 
 And the first poet sang. 
 
 Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
 XJnraptured greet thy beam ; 
 
 Theme of primeval prophecy. 
 Be still the prophet's theme ! 
 
 The earth to thee her incense yields, 
 The lark thy welcome sings, 
 
 When, glittering in the freshen' d fields. 
 The snowy mushroom springs. 
 
 How glorious is thy girdle, cast 
 O'er mountain, tower, and town. 
 
 Or rairror'd in the ocean vast, 
 A thousand fathoms down ! 
 
 As fresh in yon horizon dark, , 
 
 As young thy beauties seem, 
 
 As when the Eagle from the Ark 
 First sported in thy beam; 
 
 For, faithful to its sacred page, 
 Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
 
 Nor lets the type grow pale with age, 
 That first spoke peace to man. 
 
 Thomas Campbell 
 
 247 
 
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. 
 
 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. 
 
 With dauntless words and high ; 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood 
 
 As if a storm pass'd by. 
 Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun ! 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
 For thou, ten thousand thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears. 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 248 
 
THE LAST MAN. 
 
 What though beneath thee man put forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, and 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 
 
 EntaiFd 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. 
 Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd, 
 Or mown in battle by the sword, 
 
 like grass beneath the scythe. 
 
 E'en 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 
 Who gave its heavenly spark; 
 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 249 
 
THE LAST MAE". 
 
 1^0 ! it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine ; 
 
 By Him recall' d to breath, 
 Who captive led captivity, 
 Who robb'd the grave of Victory, — 
 
 And took the sting from Death ! 
 
 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 darkening universe defy 
 To quench his Immortalitj^, 
 
 Or shake his trust in God ! 
 
 CaiiipbeU. 
 
 Eternal Hope ! when yonder spheres sublime 
 Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time, 
 Thy joyous youth began — but not to fade — 
 When all the sister planets have decay'd; 
 When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow. 
 And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world below; 
 Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile, 
 And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile. 
 
 Same. 
 
 250 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 
 251 
 
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 AVhen 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 wither'd and strown ! 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride ; 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf . 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 Lord Byr<m. 
 
 252 
 
ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. 
 
 The Son of God goes foi-th to war, 
 
 A kingly crown to gain : 
 His blood-red banner streams afar ! 
 
 Who follows in His train 1 
 
 Who best can drink His cup of woe, 
 
 Triumphant over pain, 
 Who patient bears His Cross below, 
 
 He follows in His train ! 
 
 The martyr first, whose eagle eye 
 Could pierce beyond the grave ; 
 
 Who saw his Master in the sky, 
 And call'd on Him to save. 
 
 Like Him, with pardon on his tongue 
 
 In midst of mortal j^ain. 
 He pray'd for them that did the wrong 
 
 Who follows in his train? 
 
 A glorious band, the chosen few 
 
 On whom the Spirit came ; 
 Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, 
 
 And mock'd the cross and flame. 
 
 They met the tyrant's brandish' d steel. 
 
 The lion's gory mane; 
 They bow'd their necks the death to feel ! 
 
 Who follows in their train? 
 253 
 
ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. 
 
 A noble army — men and boys, 
 
 The matron and the maid, 
 Around the Saviour's throne rejoice. 
 
 In robes of light array'd. 
 
 They climb the steep ascent of Heaven, 
 
 Through peril, toil, and pain ! 
 God ! to us may grace be given 
 
 To follow in their train ! 
 
 Reginald Heber. 
 
 THE THEEE TABEENACLES. 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here, 
 If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom? 
 
 ]^or Elias, nor Moses appear, 
 But the shadows of Eve that encompass the gloom, 
 The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. 
 
 Shall we build to Ambition 1 ah ! no ; 
 Affrighted he shrinketh away ; 
 
 For see ! they would pin him below 
 To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay. 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 
 
 To Beauty 1 ah ! no ; she forgets 
 The charms which she wielded before ; 
 
 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 wov( 
 
 254 
 
THE THREE TABERNACLES. 
 
 Shall we build to tlie purple of Pride, 
 The trappings which dizen the proud? 
 
 Alas ! they are all laid aside, 
 And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd. 
 But the long winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. 
 
 To Riches ? alas ! 'tis in vain, 
 Who hid in their turns have been hid ; 
 
 The treasures are squander' d again ; 
 And here in the grave are all metals forbid, 
 But the tinsel which shone on the dark coffin lid. 
 
 To the Pleasures which mirth can afford, 
 The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board, 
 But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, 
 And none but the worm is a reveller here. 
 
 Shall we build to Affection and Love? 
 Ah ! no ; they have withered and died. 
 
 Or fled with the spirit above — 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 
 
 Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve, 
 Not a sob, not a sigh, meets thine ear. 
 
 Which compassion itself could relieve : 
 Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; 
 Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here. 
 
 Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? 
 Ah ! no ; for his empire is known, 
 
 And here there are trophies enow ; 
 Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone. 
 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. 
 
 255 
 
THE THREE TABERNACLES. 
 
 The first Tabernacle to Hope we will build, 
 And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; 
 
 The Second to Faith, which ensures it fulfiU'd : 
 And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, 
 Who bequeath'd us them both when He rose to the skies. 
 
 Herbert Knowles. 
 
 THE TEUE INQUIEY. 
 
 The question is not, if our earthly race 
 Was once enlighten' d by a flash of grace ; 
 If we sustain'd a place on Zion's hill 
 And called Him Lord, — but if we did His will. 
 What if the stranger, sick and captive lie 
 Naked and hungry, and we pass them by ! 
 Or do but some extorted pittance throw, 
 To save our credit, not to ease their woe ! 
 Or, strangers to the charity whence springs 
 The liberal heart devising liberal things. 
 We, cumber'd over with our own pursuits. 
 To others leave the labour and its fruits ; 
 Pleading excuses for the crumb we save, 
 Eor want of faith to cast it on the wave ! 
 Shall we go forth with joy to meet our Lord, 
 Enter his kingdom, reap the full reward 
 Can such His good. His faithful servants be, 
 Bless'd of the Father? Eead His word and see. 
 
 Ja7ie Taylor. 
 
 256 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 In part these nightly terrors to dispel, 
 Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. 
 From the fireside with many a shrug he hies, 
 Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes, 
 And through the unbroken stillness of the night 
 Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. 
 With sauntering step he climbs the distant stile, 
 Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; 
 
 257 ^ ^' 
 
MOONLIGHT. 
 
 There views the white-robed clouds in clusters driven, 
 
 And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven. 
 
 Low, on the utmost boundary of the sight, 
 
 The rising vapours catch the silver light; 
 
 Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly, 
 
 Which first will throw its shadow on the eye. 
 
 Passing the source of light; and thence away, 
 
 Succeeded quick by brighter still than they. 
 
 Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen 
 
 (In a remoter sky, still more serene) 
 
 Others, detach' d in ranges through the air, 
 
 Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair; 
 
 Scatter' d immensely wide from e£ist to west, 
 
 The beauteous semblance of a Flock at rest 
 
 These, to the raptured mind, aloud proclaim 
 
 Their mighty Shepherd's everlasting Name. 
 
 Eternal Power ! from whom all 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 plai);i : 
 Let the first flower, corn-waving field, plain, tree, 
 Here round my home, still lift my soul to Thee ; 
 And let me ever, midst Thy bounties, raise 
 An humble note of thankfulness and praise. 
 
 Robert Bloomfield. 
 
 258 
 
FOEGIVENESS. 
 
 When on the fragrant Sandal tree 
 
 The woodman's axe descends, 
 And she who bloom'd so beauteously, 
 
 Beneath the keen stroke bends ; 
 E'en on the edge that wrought her death, 
 Dying she breathes her sweetest breath, 
 As if to token in her fall, 
 Peace to her foes, and love to all. 
 
 How hardly Man this lesson learns, 
 To smile, and bless the hand that spurns ; 
 To see the blow, and feel the pain. 
 But render only Love again ! 
 This spirit not to earth is given; 
 One had it — but He came from Heaven ; 
 Reviled, rejected, and betrayed, 
 No curse He breathed, no plaint He made; 
 But when in death's deep pang He sighed, 
 Prayed for His murderers and died. 
 
 James Edmeston. 
 
 259 
 
THE LILY. 
 
 How withered, perished seems the form 
 
 Of yon obscure unsightly root ! 
 Yet from the blight of wintry storm, 
 
 It hides secure the precious fruit. 
 
 The careless eye can find no grace, 
 
 No beauty in the scaly folds, 
 Nor see within the dark embrace 
 
 What hidden loveliness it holds. 
 
 Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, 
 
 The lily weeps her silver vest, 
 Till vernal suns and vernal gales 
 
 Shall kiss once more her pregnant breast. 
 
 Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap 
 The undelighting slighted thing; 
 
 There in the cold earth buried deep. 
 In silence let it wait the Spring. 
 
 Oh ! many a stormy night shall close 
 In gloom upon the barren earth, 
 
 While still, in undisturb'd repose, 
 Uninjur'd lies the future birth ; 
 260 
 
THE LILY. 
 
 And Ignorance, with sceptic eye, 
 
 Hope's patient smile shall wondering view ; 
 Or mock her fond credulity. 
 
 As her soft tears the spot bedew. 
 
 Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! 
 
 The sun, the shower indeed shall come ; 
 The promised verdant shoot appear, 
 
 And Nature bid her blossoms bloom. 
 
 And thou, Virgin Queen of Spring ! 
 
 Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed. 
 Bursting thy green sheath's silken string. 
 
 Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed ; 
 
 Unfold thy robes of purest white, 
 Unsullied from their darksome grave. 
 
 And thy soft petals' flowery light 
 In the mild breeze unfetter'd wave. 
 
 So Faith shall seek the lowly dust. 
 Where humble Sorrow loves to lie, 
 
 And bid her thus her hopes entrust, 
 And watch with patient, cheerful eye ; 
 
 And bear the long, cold, wintry night, 
 And bear her own degraded doom. 
 
 And wait till Heaven's reviving light, 
 Eternal Spring ! shall burst the gloom. 
 
 Mary Tighe. 
 
 261 
 
A LAMENT. 
 
 There was an eye, whose i)artial glance 
 Could ne'er my numerous failings see ; 
 There was an ear that heard untired 
 What others spoke in praise of me. 
 2(32 
 
A LAMENT. 
 
 There was a heart time only taught 
 With warmer love for me to burn ; 
 A heart whene'er from home I roved 
 Which fondly pined for my return. 
 
 There was a lip which always breathed, 
 E'en short farewells in tones of sadness ; 
 There was a voice whose eager sound 
 My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness. 
 
 There w^as a mind whose vigorous power 
 On mine its own effulgence threw, 
 And call'd my humble talents forth, 
 Wliile thence its dearest joys it drew. 
 
 There was a love, which for my weal 
 With anxious tears would overflow; 
 Which wept, which pray'd, for me, and sought 
 From future ills to guard — But now ! 
 
 That eye is closed, and deaf that ear, 
 That lip and voice are mute for ever ; 
 And cold that heart of anxious love, 
 Which death alone from mine could sever : 
 
 And lost to me that ardent mind, 
 Which loved my various tastes to see ; 
 And oh ! of all the praise I gain'd. 
 His was the dearest far to me ! 
 
 Now I unloved, uncheer'd, alone. 
 Life's dreary wilderness must tread, 
 Till He who heals the broken heart 
 In mercy bids me join the dead. 
 
 Thou ! who from Thy throne on high, 
 Canst heed the mourner's deep distress ; 
 Thou ! who hear'st the widow's cry, 
 Thou ! Father of the fatherless ! 
 
A LAMENT. 
 
 Though now I am a faded leaf, 
 That's sever' d from its parent tree, 
 And thrown ujjon a stormy tide, 
 Life's awful tide that leads to Thee ! — 
 
 Still, gracious Lord ! the voice of praise 
 Shall spring spontaneous from my breast; 
 Since, though I tread a weary way, 
 I trust that he I mourn is blest. 
 
 Amelia Opie. 
 
 HABITUAL DEVOTION. 
 
 While Thee I seek, protecting Power ! 
 
 Be my vain wishes still' d ; 
 And may this consecrating hour 
 
 With better hopes be fill'd ! 
 
 Thy love the powers of thought bestow' d ; 
 
 To Thee my thoughts would soar; 
 Thy mercy o'er my life has flow'd; — 
 
 That mercy I adore ! 
 
 In each event of life, how clear 
 
 Thy ruling hand I see ! 
 Each blessing to my soul more dear. 
 
 Because conferr'd by Thee ! 
 
 In every joy that crowns my days, 
 
 In eveiy pain I bear. 
 My heart shall find delight in praise, 
 
 Or seek relief in prayer. 
 264 
 
* HABITUAL DEVOTIOK 
 
 When gladness wings my favour'd hour, 
 Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 
 
 Resign'd, when storms of sorrow lour, 
 My soul shall meet Thy will. 
 
 My lifted eye, without a tear, 
 
 The gath'ring storm shall see ; 
 My steadfast heart will know no fear ; 
 
 Because it rests on Thee. 
 
 Hden Maria Williains. 
 
 TO MY MOTHEE SLEEPING. 
 
 Sleep on, my Mother ! sweet and innocent dreams 
 Attend thee, best and dearest ! Dreams that gild 
 Life's clouds like setting suns, with pleasure fiU'd, 
 
 And saintly joy, such as thy mind beseems, — 
 
 Thy mind where never stormy passion gleams, 
 Where their soft nest the dove-like virtues build. 
 
 And calmest thoughts, Hke violets distill' d, 
 
 Their fragrance mingle with bright Wisdom's beams. 
 Sleep on, my Mother ! not the lil/s bell 
 
 So sweet; not the enamour'd west wind's sighs 
 That shake the dew-drop from her snowy cell 
 
 So gentle ; not that dew-drop ere it flies 
 
 So pure ! E'en slumber loves with thee to dwell. 
 
 Oh, model most beloved of good and wise I 
 
 Mary Russell Mitford. 
 
 265 M M 
 
THE CHUECHYAED OF THE VILLAGE 
 
 How sweet and solemn, all alone, 
 
 With reverent steps, from stone to stone, 
 
 In a small village cliurcliyard lying. 
 
 O'er intervening flowers to move ! 
 And as we read the names unknown 
 Of young and old to judgment gone, 
 
 And hear in the calm air above 
 Time onwards softly flying. 
 
 To meditate, in Christian love. 
 Upon the dead and dying ! 
 266 
 
THE CHURCHYARD OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 Across the silence seem to go 
 
 With dream-like motion wavering slow, 
 
 And shrouded in their folds of snow, 
 
 The friends we loved, long, long ago ! 
 
 Gliding across the sad retreat, 
 
 How beautiful their phantom-feet ! 
 
 What tenderness is in their eyes, 
 
 Turn'd where the poor survivor lies 
 
 'Mid monitory sanctities ! 
 
 "What years of vanish'd joy are fann'd 
 
 From one uplifting of that hand 
 
 In its white stillness ! when the Shade 
 
 Doth glimmeringly in sunshine fade 
 
 From our embrace, how dim appears 
 
 This world's life through a mist of tears ! 
 
 Vain hopes ! blind sorrows ! needless fears 1 
 
 Such is the scene around me now ; 
 A little churchyard on the brow 
 
 Of a green pastoral hill ; 
 Its sylvan village sleeps below, 
 And faintly here is heard the flow 
 
 Of Woodburn's summer rill : 
 A place where all things mournful meet, 
 And yet the sweetest of the sweet, 
 
 The stiUest of the still ! 
 With what a pensive beauty fall, 
 
 Across the mossy, mouldering wall, 
 That rose-tree's cluster'd arches ! See 
 
 The robin-red-breast warily, 
 Bright, through the blossoms, leaves his nest ; 
 Sweet ingrate, through the winter blest 
 
 At the firesides of men — but shy 
 Through all the sunny summer hours, 
 He hides himself among the flowers. 
 
 In his own wild festivity. 
 267 
 
THE CHURCHYARD OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 What lulling sound and shadow cool 
 
 Hangs half the darkened churchyard o'er, 
 From thy green depth so beautiful, 
 
 Thoa gorgeous Sycamore ; 
 Oft hath the holy wine and bread 
 
 Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent, 
 Where many a bright and hoary head 
 
 Bowed at the awful Sacrament. 
 Now all beneath the turf are laid. 
 On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd. 
 
 Above that consecrated tree 
 Ascends the tapering spire, that seems 
 
 To lift the soul up silently 
 To Heaven with all its dreams ; 
 
 While in the belfry, deep and low. 
 From his heaved bosom's purple gleams, 
 
 The dove's continuous murmurs flow, 
 
 A dirge-like song, half bliss, half woe, 
 The voice so lonely seems. 
 
 John Wilson. 
 
 A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting Sun, 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow ; 
 Long had I watch'd 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 departing soul ! 
 To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given ; 
 And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
 Eight onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, 
 Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies. 
 And tells to man his glorious destinies. 
 
 Same. 
 
REST. 
 
 It is tlie hush of night ; all sounds of life, 
 
 That jarr'd my sick ear through the live-long day, 
 
 The scoffer's heartless laugh, the voice of strife, 
 The murmur of dull talk, are past away; 
 
 My bosom's secret, solitary woes 
 
 In the calm lap of silence find repose. 
 
 The warm soft arms of sleep are round the world. 
 The stars are walking on their mute career. 
 
 O'er town and waste one boundless gloom is furl'd ; 
 Half sound, half silence, to the listening ear 
 
 There comes a tingling murmur, which doth seem 
 
 The everlasting flow of Time's mysterious stream. 
 
 The sweet and solemn influence of the hour 
 Steals o'er me, like the coming on of rest; 
 
 My soul lies hush'd beneath the gentle power ; 
 The shapes of fear and anguish, that infest 
 
 My thoughts by day, seem soften' d now and changed, 
 
 Like the relenting looks of one erewhile estranged. 
 
 Rest, troubled spirit, rest ! confide in Him, 
 
 Whose eye is on thee thro' thy watch of paui ; 
 
 When earthly comfort waxeth cold and dim. 
 Trust thou in that which doth for aye remain. 
 
 Thy heai-t-deep sighs to truth and freedom given, 
 
 Can find no answer here ; but they are heard in heav'n. 
 
 Sidney Walker. 
 
THE LAEK AT THE TOMB* 
 
 Over that solemn pageant mnte and dark, 
 
 Where in tlie grave we laid to rest 
 
 Heaven's latest, not least welcome guest. 
 What didst thou on the wing, thou jocund lark ! 
 
 Hovering in unrebuk^d glee, 
 And carolling above that mournful company ? 
 
 O thou light-loving and melodious bird ! 
 
 At every sad and solemn fall 
 
 Of mine own voice, each interval 
 In the soul-elevating prayer, I heard 
 
 Thy quivering descant full and clear — 
 Discord not inharmonious to the ear. 
 
 We laid her there, the Minstrel's darling child. 
 
 Seem'd it then meet that, borne away 
 
 From the close city's dubious day, 
 Her dirge should be thy native wood- note wild ; 
 
 Nursed upon Nature's lap, her sleep 
 Should be where birds may sing, and dewy flowerets weep? 
 
 Ascendest thou, air-wandering messenger ! 
 
 Above us slowly lingering yet, 
 
 To bear our deep, our mute regret; 
 To waft upon thy faithful wing to her 
 
 The husband's fondest, last fareM^ell — 
 Love's final parting pang, the unspoke, the unspeakable? 
 
 * Of Sophia Lockhart, eldest daughter of "Walter Scott. 
 270 
 
THE LARK AT THE TOMB. 
 
 Or didst thou rather chide with thy blithe voice 
 
 Our selfish grief, .that would delay 
 
 Her passage to a brighter day; 
 Bidding us mourn no longer, but rejoice 
 
 That it hath heavenward flown, like thee, 
 That spirit from this cold world of sin and sorrow free ? 
 
 I watched thee, lessening, lessening to the sight ; 
 
 Still faint and fainter winnowing 
 
 The sunshine with thy dwindling wing, 
 A speck, a movement in the ruffled light; 
 
 Till thou wert melted in the sky, 
 An undistinguish'd part of the bright infinity. 
 
 Meet emblem of that lightsome spirit thou ! 
 
 That still, wherever it might come. 
 
 Shed sunshine o'er that happy home. 
 Her task of kindliness and gladness now 
 
 Absolved, with the element above 
 Hath mingled, and become pure light, pure joy, pure love. 
 
 Henry Hart Milman. 
 
 Oh help us. Lord ! each hour of need 
 
 Thy heavenly succour give ; 
 Help us in thought, and word, and deed. 
 
 Each hour on earth we live. 
 
 Oh help us. Saviour ! from on high. 
 We know no help but Thee ; 
 
 Oh ! help us so to live and die 
 As Thine in heaven to be. 
 
 Same. 
 
 271 
 
GOOD FEIDAY. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
 Sad and dying, who is He? 
 By the last and bitter cry 
 The ghost given up in agony ; 
 
 272 
 
GOOD FRIDAY. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 grave, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Milman. 
 
 QUINQUAGESIMA. 
 
 Lord ! we sit and cry to Thee, 
 Like the blind beside the way : 
 
 Make our darken' d souls to see 
 The glory of Thy perfect day; 
 
 Lord ! rebuke our sullen night. 
 
 And give Thyself unto our sight ! 
 
 Lord ! we do not ask to gaze 
 On our dim and earthly sun ; 
 
 But the light that still shall blaze 
 When every star its course hath run : 
 
 The light that gilds Thy blest abode. 
 
 The glory of the Lamb of God ! 
 
 273 N : 
 
THE DEPAETED IN THE LORD. 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before us, and thy saintly soul is flown 
 Where tears are wiped from every eye, and sorrow is unknown ; 
 From the burthen of the flesh, and from care and fear released. 
 Where the \\dcked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er, and borne the heavy load, 
 But Christ hath taught thy languid feet to reach His blest abode. 
 Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus upon his Father's breast, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 Sin can never taint thee now, nor doubt thy faith assail, 
 
 Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit fail. 
 
 And there thou'rt sure to meet the good, whom on earth thou lovedst best, 
 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 "Earth to earth,'' and "dust to dust," the solemn priest hath said, 
 So we lay the turf above thee now, and we seal thy narrow bed; 
 But thy spirit, brother, soars away among the faithful blest. 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 And when the Lord shall summon us whom thou hast left behind. 
 May we, untainted by the world, as sure a welcome find; 
 May each, like thee, depart in peace, to be a glorious guest, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 Milman. 
 
 274 
 
A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. 
 
 'TwAS early day, and sunlight stream' d 
 Soft through a quiet room, 
 
 That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd, 
 Still, but with naught of gloom. 
 275 
 
A FATHER, READING THE BIBLE. 
 
 For there, serene 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 holy hair, 
 And touch'd the page 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 martyr's prayer, wherein the glow 
 
 Of quenchless faith survives : 
 While every feature said, — "/ know 
 
 That my Redeemer lives.^' 
 
 And silent stood his children by, 
 
 Hushing their very breath. 
 Before the solemn sanctity 
 
 Of thoughts o'er-sweeping 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. 
 
 Felicia Hemans. 
 
 276 
 
EVENING PEAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 
 
 Hush ! 'tis a holy hour — the quiet room 
 
 Seems hke a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds 
 
 A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom 
 
 And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads, 
 
 With all their clust'ring locks, untouched by care, 
 
 And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer. 
 
 Gaze on — 'tis lovely ! Childhood's lip and cheek, 
 Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought — 
 
 Gaze — yet what seest thou in those fair and meek. 
 And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought? — 
 
 Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky. 
 
 What death must fashion for Eternity ! 
 
 277 
 
EVET^ING PRAYER AT A GIRLS' SCHOOL. 
 
 ! joyous creatures ! that will sink to rest, 
 Lightly, when those pure orisons are done. 
 
 As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest, 
 'Midst the dim-folded leaves at set of sun — 
 
 Lift up your hearts ! though yet no sorrow lies 
 
 Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes. 
 
 Though fresh within your breasts th' uiitroubled springs 
 Of hope make melody where'er ye tread, 
 
 And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings 
 Of Spirits visiting but youth, be spread ; 
 
 Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low. 
 
 Is woman's tenderness, — how soon her woe ! 
 
 Her lot is on you — silent tears to weep. 
 
 And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, 
 And sumless riches, from affection's deep, 
 
 To pour on broken reeds — a wasted shower ! 
 And to make idols, and to find them clay. 
 And to bewail that worship, — therefore pray ! 
 
 Her lot is on you — to be found untired, 
 Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, 
 
 With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired. 
 
 And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain ; 
 
 Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay, 
 
 And, oh ! to love through all things— therefore pray ! 
 
 And take the thought of this calm vesper time, 
 With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light. 
 
 On through the dark days fading from their prime, 
 As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight ! 
 
 Earth will forsake — 0! happy to have given 
 
 IV unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven ! 
 
 278 
 
THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 We watch' d her breathing thro' the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seem'd 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 sad and dim, 
 And chill with early showers. 
 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 Another morn than ours ! 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 279 
 
TO A CHILD EMBKACING HIS MOTHER 
 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
 Hereafter she may have a son, 
 Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain. 
 Love thy mother, little one ! 
 280 
 
TO A CHILD EMBKACING HIS MOTHER. 
 
 Gaze upon her living eyes,' 
 And mirror back her love for thee, — 
 Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 
 To meet them when they cannot see. 
 Gaze upon her living eyes ! 
 
 Press her lips the while they glow 
 With love that they have often told, — 
 Hereafter thou ma/st press in woe, 
 And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
 Press her lips the while they glow ! 
 
 Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
 Altho' it be not silver-grey; 
 Too early Death, led on by Care, 
 May snatch save one dear lock away. 
 Oh, revere her raven hair ! 
 
 Pray for her at eve and morn, 
 That Heaven may long the stroke defer, — 
 For thou may'st live the hour forlorn, 
 When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
 Pray for her at eve and morn ! 
 
 Hood. 
 
 281 o o 
 
JACOB'S DEEAM.— FEOM A PICTUEE BY ALLSTON. 
 
 The sun was sinking on the mountain zone 
 That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine ! 
 And lovely from the desert rose the moon, 
 Yet lingering on the- horizon's purple line, 
 Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine. 
 Up Padan- Aram's height abrupt and bare 
 A pilgrim toil'd, and oft on day's decline 
 Look'd pale, then paused for eve's delicious air ; 
 The summit gain'd, he knelt, and breathed his evening prayer. 
 
 He spread his cloak and slumber' d — darkness fell 
 Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound 
 Of silver trumpets o'er him seem'd to swell ; 
 Clouds heavy with the tempest gather' d round; 
 Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound ; 
 Still deeper roU'd the darkness from on high, 
 Gigantic volume upon volume wound; 
 Above, a pillar shooting to the sky, 
 Below, a mighty sea, that spread incessantly. 
 
 Voices are heard — a choir of golden strings, 
 Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose : 
 Then chariot-wheels — the nearer rush of wings ; 
 Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows. 
 It thunders — the resplendent gates unclose ; 
 Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height, 
 Eise fiery waving wings, and star-crown' d brows, 
 Millions on millions, brighter and more bright, 
 Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light. 
 
 282 
 
JACOB'S DREAM.— FROM A PICTURE BY ALLSTON. 
 
 But, two beside the sleeping Pilgrim stand, 
 Like Cherub kings, with lifted, mighty plume, 
 Fix'd, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high command ; 
 They tell the Patriarch of his glorious doom ; 
 Father of countless myriads that shall come. 
 Sweeping the land like billows of the sea. 
 Bright as the stars of Heaven from twilight's gloom, 
 Till He is given whom Angels long to see. 
 And Israel's splendid line is crown' d with Deity. 
 
 George Croly, 
 
 THE LAST JOUENEY. 
 
 Michaud, in his description of an Egyptian funeral procession which he met on its way 
 to the cemetery of Rosetta, says : " The procession which we saw pass stopped before 
 certain houses, and sometimes receded a few steps. 1 was told that the dead stopped 
 thus before the doors of their friends to bid them a last farewell, and before those of their 
 enemies, to eflFect a reconciliation before they parted for ever." 
 
 Slowly, with measured tread, 
 Onward we bear the dead 
 
 To his long home. 
 Short grows the homeward road. 
 On with your mortal load. 
 
 Oh, Grave ! we come. 
 
 Yet, yet — ah! hasten not 
 Past each familiar spot 
 
 Where he hath been : 
 Where late he walk'd in glee. 
 There henceforth to be 
 
 Never more seen. 
 283 
 
THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 Yet, yet — ah! slowly move- 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 Fast from our sight — 
 Let the air breathe on him, 
 And the sun leave on him 
 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 Eest ye — set down the bier, 
 One he loved dwelleth here. 
 
 Let the dead lie. 
 A moment that door beside, 
 Wont to fly open wide 
 
 Ere he came nigh. 
 
 Hearken ! he speaketh yet — 
 " Oh, friend ! wilt thou forget 
 
 (Friend more than brother !) 
 How hand in hand we've gone, 
 Heart with heart link'd in one — 
 
 All to each other'? 
 
 " Oh, friend ! I go from thee. 
 Where the worm feasteth free, 
 
 Darkly to dwell — 
 Giv'st thou no parting kiss? 
 Friend ! is it come to this ? 
 
 Oh, friend, farewell ! '* 
 
 Uplift your load again, 
 
 Take up the mourning strain ! 
 
 Pour the deep wail ! 
 Lo ! the expected one 
 To his place passeth on — 
 
 Grave ! bid him hail. 
 284 
 
THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 Yet, yet — ah ! slowly move ; 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 Fast from our sight — 
 Let the air breathe on him, 
 And the sun leave on him 
 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
 Lay the departed low, 
 
 E^en at his gate — 
 Will the dead speak again 1 
 Uttering proud boasts and vain, 
 
 Last words of hate 1 
 
 Lo ! the dead lips unclose — 
 List ! list ! what sounds are those, 
 
 Plaintive and low 1 
 " Oh thou mine enemy ! 
 Come forth and look on me 
 
 Ere hence I go. 
 
 "Curse not thy foeman now — 
 Mark ! on his pallid brow 
 
 Whose seal is set ! 
 Pard'ning I past away — 
 Then wage not war with clay — 
 
 Pardon — forget." 
 
 Now his last labour's done ! 
 Now, now the goal is won ! 
 
 Oh, Grave ! we come. 
 Seal up this precious dust — 
 Land of the good and just, 
 
 Take the soul home ! 
 
 Caroline Bowles. 
 
 285 
 

 THE LANDING OF THE PEIMEOSE. 
 
 Australia's land was swarming 
 
 With myriads, tier on tier, 
 
 286 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 Like bees, they clung and cluster' d 
 On wall and pile and pier. 
 
 The wanderer and the outcast — 
 Hope — Penitence — Despair — 
 
 The felon and the freeman, 
 Were intermingling there. 
 
 There ran a restless murmur, 
 A murmur deep, not loud ; 
 
 For evej-y heart was thrilling 
 Thro' all that motley crowd ; 
 
 And every eye was straining 
 To where a good ship lay, 
 
 With England's red-cross waving 
 Above her decks that day. 
 
 And comes she, deeply freighted 
 With human guilt and shame 1 
 
 And wait those crowds expectant, 
 To greet with loud acclaim 1 
 
 Or, comes she treasure-laden, 
 And ache those anxious eyes 
 
 For sight of her rich cargo. 
 Her goodly merchandise ? 
 
 See, see ! they lower the long-boat, 
 And now they man the barge ; 
 
 Trick' d out and mann'd so bravely, 
 For no ignoble charge. 
 
 Gold gleams on breast and shoulder 
 Of England's own true-blue ; 
 
 That sure must be the captain, 
 Salutes his gallant crew. 
 
 287 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PEIMEOSE. 
 
 And that the captain's lady 
 
 They're handing down the side ; 
 
 "Steady, my hearts, now, steady!" 
 Was that the coxswain cried. 
 
 "Hold on," she's safely seated, 
 "In oars," — a sparkling splash; 
 
 Hats off on deck — one cheer now — 
 "Pull hearties !" off they dash. 
 
 And now the lines long stretching 
 
 Of earnest gazers, strain 
 (Converging to one centre) 
 
 The landing-place to gain. 
 
 " A guard, a guard ! " in haste then 
 
 The governor calls out ; 
 "Protect the lady's landing 
 
 From all that rabble rout." 
 
 Her foot is on the gunwale. 
 Her eye on that turmoil ; 
 
 A moment so she lingers. 
 Then treads Australia's soil. 
 
 With looks of humid wonder 
 
 She gazes all about ; 
 And oh ! her woman's nature 
 
 Calls that no ^^rahhle rouV 
 
 For well she reads the feeling 
 Each face expressive wears; 
 
 And well she knows what wakes it- 
 That precious thing she bears. 
 
 That precious thing — oh wondrous ! 
 A spell of potent power ; 
 
 288 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 From English earth transported, 
 A little lowly flower. 
 
 Be blessings on that lady, 
 Be blessings on that hand ; 
 
 The first to plant the Primrose 
 Upon the Exile's land ! 
 
 The sound had gone before her, 
 No eye had closed that night ; 
 
 So yearned they for the morrow, 
 So longed they for the light. 
 
 She smiles while tears are dropping. 
 She holds the treasure high ; 
 
 And land and sea resounding. 
 Ring out with one wild cry. 
 
 And sobs at its subsiding 
 
 From manly breasts are heard ; 
 
 Stern natures, hearts guilt-hardened, 
 To woman's softness stirred. 
 
 One gazes all intentness. 
 
 That felon -Boy — and lo ! 
 The bold bright eyes are glistening. 
 
 Long, long, unmoistened so. 
 
 The woman holds her child up : 
 " Look, little one ! " cries she, 
 
 " I pulled such when as blithesome 
 And innocent as thee ! " 
 
 No word the old man utters, — 
 His earnest eyes grow dim ; 
 
 One spot beyond the salt sea 
 Is present now to him. 
 289 
 
THE LANDING OF THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 There blooms the earliest primrose, 
 
 His father's grave hard by ; 
 There lieth all his kindred, 
 
 There he shall never lie. 
 
 The living mass moves onward, 
 
 The Lady and her train; 
 They press upon her path still. 
 
 To look and look again. 
 
 Yet on she moves securely, 
 
 No guards are needed there ; 
 Of her they hem so closely 
 
 They would not harm a hair. 
 
 Be blessings on that Lady ! 
 
 Be blessings on that hand. 
 The first to plant the Primrose 
 
 Upon the Exile's land ! 
 
 Caroline Southey, 
 
 EiVER ! Eiver ! rapid River, 
 
 Swifter now you slip away ; 
 Swift and silent as an arrow. 
 Through a channel dark and narrow, 
 Like life's closing day. 
 
 River ! River ! headlong River, 
 Down you dash into the sea; 
 Sea, that line hath never sounded, 
 Sea, that voyage hath never rounded, 
 Like Eternity, 
 
 Same. 
 
 290 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 I mark'd when vernal meads were bright, 
 And many a primrose smiled, 
 
 I mark'd her, blithe as morning light, 
 A dimpled three years' child. 
 291 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 A basket on one tender arm 
 
 Contain'd her precious store 
 Of spring-flowers in their freshest charm, 
 
 Told proudly o'er and o'er. 
 
 The other wound with earnest hold 
 
 About her blooming guide, 
 A maid who scarce twelve years had told 
 
 So walk'd they side by side. 
 
 One a bright bud, and one might seem 
 
 A sister flower half-blown. 
 Full joyous on their loving dream 
 
 The sky of April shone. 
 
 The summer months swept by : again 
 
 That loving pair I met. 
 On russet heath, and bowery lane, 
 
 Th' autumnal sun had set ! 
 
 And chill and damp that Sunday eve 
 Breath'd on the mourners' road, 
 
 That bright-eyed little one to leave 
 Safe in the Saints' abode. 
 
 Behind, the guardian sister came, 
 Her bright brow dim and pale — 
 
 cheer thee, maiden ! in His Name, 
 Who still'd Jairus' wail ! 
 
 Thou mourn'st to miss the fingers soft 
 
 That held by thine so fast. 
 The fond appealing eye, full oft 
 
 Tow'rd thee for refuge cast. 
 
 Sweet toils, sweet cares, for ever gone ! 
 
 "No more from stranger's face, 
 Or startling sound, the timid one 
 
 Shall hide in thine embrace. 
 292 
 
BEREAVEMENT. 
 
 The first glad earthly task is o'er, 
 
 And dreary seems thy way. 
 But what if nearer than before 
 
 She watch thee even to-day? 
 
 What if henceforth by Heaven's decree 
 
 She leave thee not alone, 
 But in her turn prove guide to thee 
 
 In ways to Angels known ? 
 
 O yield thee to her whisperings sweet : 
 Away with thoughts of gloom ! 
 
 In love the loving spirits greet 
 Who wait to bless her tomb. 
 
 In loving hope with her unseen, 
 
 Walk as in hallowed air. 
 When foes are strong and trials keen, 
 
 Think, "What if she be there?" 
 
 John Keble. 
 
 A FRAGMENT of a rainbow bright 
 Through the moist air I see, 
 
 All dark and damp on yonder height, 
 All clear and gay to me. 
 
 An hour ago the storm was here, 
 The gleam was far behind, 
 
 So will our joys and griefs appear 
 When earth has ceased to blind. 
 
 Grief will be joy, if on its edge 
 Fall soft that holiest ray : 
 
 Joy wiU be grief, if no faint pledge 
 Be there of heavenly day. 
 
 Same. 
 
CHILDEEN'S THANKFULNESS. 
 
 Why so stately, Maiden fair, 
 
 Rising in thy nurse's arms 
 
 With that condescending air ; 
 
 Gathering up thy queenly charms. 
 Like some gorgeous Indian bird, 
 Which, when at eve the balmy copse is stirr'd. 
 
 Turns the glowing neck, to chide 
 Th' irreverent footfall, then makes haste to hide 
 
 Again its lustre deep 
 Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep? 
 294 
 
CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 
 
 Not as yet she comprehends 
 
 How the tongues of men reprove, 
 
 But a spirit o'er her bends, 
 
 Train 'd in heaven to courteous love, 
 
 And with wondering grave rebuke 
 Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look. 
 
 Graceless one, 'tis all of thee, 
 Who for her maiden bounty, full and free. 
 
 The violet from her gay 
 And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay. 
 
 Therefore, lo, she opens wide 
 
 Both her blue and wistful eyes — 
 
 Breathes her grateful chant, to chide 
 Our too tardy sympathies. 
 
 Little Babes and Angels bright — 
 They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night. 
 
 How th' all-holy Hand should give. 
 The sinner's hand in thankfulness receive. 
 
 We see it and we hear. 
 But wonder not : for why 1 we feel it all too near. 
 
 Not in vain, when feasts are spread. 
 To the youngest at the board 
 
 Call we to incline the head, 
 
 And pronounce the solemn word. 
 
 Not in vain they clasp and raise 
 The soft pure fingers in unconscious praise, 
 
 Taught perchance by pictur'd wall 
 How little ones before the Lord may fall, 
 
 How to His loved caress 
 Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. 
 
 Children in their joyous ranks. 
 
 As you pace the village street, 
 Fill the air with smiles and thanks 
 
 If but once one babe you greet. 
 295 
 
CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. 
 
 Never weary, never dim, 
 From Thrones Seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. 
 
 Babes and Angels grudge no praise : — 
 But elder souls, to whom His saving ways 
 
 Are open, fearless take 
 Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. 
 
 Save our blessings. Master, save 
 
 From the blight of thankless eye ; 
 Teach us for all joys to crave, 
 Benediction pure and high, 
 Own them given, endure them gone, 
 Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them won : 
 
 Prize them as rich odours, meet 
 For Love to lavish on His Sacred Feet ; — 
 
 Prize them as sparkles bright 
 Of heavenly dew, from yon o'er flowing well of light. 
 
 Kehle. 
 
 Hearken, children of the May, 
 
 Now in your glad hour and gay. 
 
 Ye whom all good Angels greet 
 
 With their treasures blithe and sweet : — 
 
 None of all the wreaths ye prize 
 
 But was nursed by weeping skies. 
 
 Keen March winds, soft April showers. 
 
 Braced the roots, embalmed the flowers. 
 
 So, if e'er that second Spring 
 
 Her green robe o'er you shall fling. 
 
 Stern self-mastery, tearful prayer, 
 
 Must the way of bliss prepare. 
 
 How should else Earth's flowerets prove 
 
 Meet for those pure crowns above? 
 
 Same. 
 296 
 
THE WAY TO THE CHAPTER HOUSE. 
 
 SACRED RETIREMENT. 
 
 A MOUNTAIN lake, where sleeps the midday Moon, 
 When beetle booming by is heard no more — 
 
 297 Q Q 
 
THE WAY TO THE CHAPTER HOUSE. 
 
 'Twixt drowsy hills and sea a sultry noon, 
 A rural Church, some evening funeral o'er — 
 A leaf's still image in a fountain hoar — 
 
 On cloistral pane the gaze of Saint or Seer, 
 Suffus'd with lessons sweet of heavenly lore, 
 
 And heavenly-rapt affection — These all wear 
 Calm unalloyed, but none so deep as lingereth here. 
 
 II. 
 
 The long green avenue, where light and shade 
 
 Chequering the floor, now play, now sleep profound 
 
 Old pines, the lonely breeze that by them stray'd 
 Wooing in vain ; old yews, hiding the ground, 
 Grey oaks, and far-off spires, seem to have found 
 
 A voice, while busier sounds are dimly spent. 
 As waken'd by the stillness. One around. 
 
 On pillars of blue light hath spread His tent; 
 And walks with us below in silence eloquent. 
 
 III. 
 
 And now we hear Him : thus when Nature's wheel 
 Is still, we find ourselves hurrying along ; 
 
 In crowds ourselves alone we mostly feel ; 
 When turbulence of business, and the throng 
 Of passionate hopes, which unto Earth belong, 
 
 And mould too oft from Earth the rebel will. 
 Sleep ; then we hear the mighty undersong, 
 
 To which loud Niagara's voice is still. 
 And mute the thunders strong which air and ocean fill. 
 
 IV. 
 
 heavenly Love, that o'er us, sin defil'd, 
 With thy blest arm beneath us, leaning low, 
 
 Dost watch, fond mother, o'er thy slumbering child, 
 That still in dreams is tossing to and fro. 
 And knowing knows thee not ! Aye ! come and go 
 298 
 
THE WAY TO THE CHAPTER HOUSE. 
 
 Thy messengers of pity ; from Heaven's door 
 
 The star its silver image shoots below, 
 Seen instantaneous in the wat'ry floor; 
 So quick 'tween Earth and Heaven thy beams of mercy pour 
 
 V. 
 
 Into my cold and leaden spirit stream, 
 
 Out of thy Star of beauty, that doth burn 
 
 Around my Saviour's brow ! grant one beam, 
 One faint, dim emanation from thine urn, 
 Which e'en in me may so responsive turn. 
 
 Like magnet to thy pole, that I may rove 
 No longer. I my daily path would earn, 
 
 And gather tow'rd the haven ; I would move 
 On by thy light till lost in everlasting love. 
 
 Oh ! hide me in Thy temple, ark serene, 
 Where safe upon the swell of this rude sea, 
 
 I might survey the stars, Thy towers between. 
 And might pray always ; not that I would be 
 Uplifted, or would fain not dwell with Thee 
 
 On the rough waters, but in soul within 
 I sigh for Thy pure calm, serene and free ; 
 
 I too would prove Thy temple, 'mid the din 
 Of earthly things, unstain'd by care or sin ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Into the deeps, where Ev'ning holds her court, 
 
 A feather'd flock are winging their wild flight, 
 Now gradual fading far, now borne athwart, 
 And seen again, now lost in Infinite 
 And Sea of purple ; we, with eager sight, 
 Would match their soaring wings, as on the swell 
 
 Of music, ling'ring in some vaulted height — 
 Then sink, and feel our chain and earthly cell; — 
 When shall the soul be free, and in those glories dwell ? 
 
 Isaac Williams. 
 299 
 
AUTUMNAL SEED-VESSELS. 
 
 Beautiful urns, that neither spun nor sow'd, 
 
 Baring your laden vessels to Heaven's eye, 
 
 Like manhood goodly deeds ; 'neath Autumn's sky 
 
 Dropping your purple youth, and glittering Lood. 
 
 What sunbeams build you in your quietude, 
 
 So far beyond art's labour'd mimicry ; 
 
 Each varied, each their wild variety 
 
 In union blend, a sylvan sisterhood ! 
 
 The hand that spann'd and painted yon blue dome. 
 
 Is in th' autumnal urn and vernal bell, 
 
 Shrining strange beauty in a flow'ret's cell. 
 
 Oh, how much more, flower of immortal bloom. 
 
 Within thee, and aroand thee, doth He dwell, 
 
 Tempering that shadowy world whose key-stone is the tomb ! 
 
 Williams. 
 
 THE ANGEL OF MAEEIAGE. 
 
 'TwAS God Himself to Adam brought 
 
 His one appointed bride, 
 And by Himself the gift that wrought, 
 
 The gift was sanctified. 
 
 And for his son when Abraham sent 
 
 To seek the destin'd maid, 
 God's angel watch before him went, 
 
 And all their path array' d. 
 300 
 
THE ANGEL OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 An angel at Tobias' side 
 By Tigiis' banks is bound, 
 
 An unknown yet protecting guide, 
 Till Sarah hath been found. 
 
 I deem that these, — and such as these, 
 Unknown to sight or sense, 
 
 Do speak in marriage destinies 
 Unwonted providence. 
 
 A special guiding beyond all 
 
 Mysteriously attends 
 By Him who makes the secret call. 
 
 And hallows all the ends. 
 
 And therefore those I deem unwise, 
 
 Fond tales of earthly love, 
 "Which seem to trifle with the ties 
 
 Hid in God's hand above. 
 
 Of patient fear we need far more, 
 And more of faith's repose. 
 
 Of looking more to God before 
 Till He His will disclose. 
 
 For better far than passion's glow, 
 
 Or aught of worldly choice, 
 To listen His own will to know, 
 
 And listening hear His voice. 
 
 To fear lest led by Heaven's own guide 
 
 We have a human will. 
 Which clings for evil to our side 
 
 Its judgments to fulfil. 
 301 
 
THE ANGEL OF MARRIAGE. 
 
 The ambitious mother, — and the dress — 
 
 Alas ! they little know 
 How much more cire in caring less, 
 
 God's better choice undo. 
 
 But this I write, my little child, 
 Which you one day may read, 
 
 To flee such faithless fancies wild, 
 Thy God thine only need. 
 
 And in these thoughts to read the sign 
 
 Of nobler things allied, 
 To know a leading more divine, 
 
 A more enduring Bride. 
 
 If thus a Watch peculiar waits 
 
 On marriages below, 
 So intertwined with human fates 
 
 For this world's weal or woe ; 
 
 How beautiful, how sweet the Guide 
 When God shall send His Dove, 
 
 And lead us onward by our side 
 To everlasting Love ! 
 
 Williams. 
 
 302 
 
THE DEAD MAN OF BETHANY. 
 
 When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
 
 And home to Mary's house return'd, 
 "Was this demanded — if he yearn'd 
 
 To hear her weeping by his gravel 
 303 
 
THE DEAD MAN OF BETHANY. 
 
 " Where wert thou, brother, those four days ? " 
 There lives no record of reply, 
 Which telling what it is to die, 
 
 Had surely added praise to praise. 
 
 From every house the neighbours met, 
 
 The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, 
 A solemn gladness even crown'd 
 
 The purple brows of Olivet. 
 
 Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 
 
 The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 
 
 He told it not; or something seal'd 
 The lips of that Evangelist. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
 304 
 
MARY AT THE TABLE. 
 
 Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
 No other thought her mind admits 
 But, he was dead, and there he sits, 
 
 And He that brought him hack is there. 
 
 Then one deep love doth supersede 
 All other, when her ardent gaze 
 Eoves from the living brother's face, 
 
 And rests upon the Life indeed. 
 
 All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
 
 Borne down by gladness so complete. 
 She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 
 
 "With costly spikenard and with tears. 
 
 Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers. 
 Whose loves in higher love endure; 
 Whose souls possess themselves so pure, 
 
 Oh, is there blessedness like theirs 1 
 
 Tennyson, 
 
 305 K R 
 
THE HEAET'S WITNESS TO GOD. 
 
 That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
 
 Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt; 
 
 He, They, One, All; within, without; 
 The Power in darkness whom we guess ; 
 
 I found Him not in world or sun, 
 Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye; 
 Nor thro' the questions men may try, 
 
 The petty cobwebs we have spun : 
 
 If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, 
 I heard a voice * believe no more,' 
 And heard an ever-breaking shore 
 
 That tumbled in the Godless deep ; 
 
 A warmth within the breast would melt 
 The freezing reason's colder part. 
 And like a man in wrath the heart 
 
 Stood up and answer' d 'I have felt.' 
 
 No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
 
 But that blind clamour made me wise ; 
 Then was I as a child that cries. 
 
 But, crying, knows his father near; 
 
 And what I seem beheld again 
 
 What is, and no man understands ; 
 And out of darkness came the hands 
 
 That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 306 
 
ONE BY ONE. 
 
 OxE by one the sands are flowing, 
 One by one the moments fall ; 
 
 Some are coming, some are going; 
 Do not strive to grasp them all. 
 
 One by one thy duties wait thee, 
 Let thy whole strength go to each, 
 
 Let no future dreams elate thee, 
 Learn thou first what these can teach. 
 
 One by one (bright gifts from Heaven) 
 Joys are sent thee here below ; 
 
 Take them readily when given, 
 Ready be to let them go. 
 
 One by one thy griefs shall meet thee. 
 Do not fear an armM band; 
 
 One will fade as others greet thee. 
 Shadows passing through the land. 
 
 Do not look at life's long sorrow; 
 
 See how small each moment's pain; 
 God will help thee for to-morrow. 
 
 So each day begin again. 
 307 
 
ONE BY ONE. 
 
 Every liour that fleets so slowly, 
 
 Has its task to do or bear; 
 Luminous the crown, and holy. 
 
 When each gem is set with care. 
 
 Do not linger with regretting. 
 
 Or for passing hours despond; 
 Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 
 
 Look too eagerly beyond. 
 
 Hours are golden links, God's token, 
 Eeaching Heaven; but one by one 
 
 Take them, lest the chain be broken 
 Ere the pilgrimage be done. 
 
 Adelaide Procter. 
 
 NOW. 
 
 EiSE ! for the day is passing, 
 
 And you lie dreaming on; 
 The others have buckled their armour. 
 
 And forth to the fight are gone : 
 A place in the ranks awaits you, 
 
 Each man has some part to play ; 
 The Past and the Future are nothing, 
 
 In the face of the stern To-day. 
 
 Rise ! if the Past detains you. 
 
 Her sunshine and storms forget ; 
 No chains so unworthy to hold you 
 
 As those of a vain regret; 
 Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever. 
 
 Cast her phantom arms away, 
 Nor look back, save to learn the lesson 
 
 Of a nobler strife To-day. 
 
 Same. 
 
 308 
 
FEIEND SOEEOW. 
 
 Do not cheat thy Heart and tell her, 
 
 "Grief will pass away, 
 Hope for fairer times in future, 
 
 And forget to-day." 
 Tell her, if you will, that sorrow 
 
 Need not come in vain ; 
 Tell her that the lesson taught her 
 
 Far outweighs the pain. 
 
 Cheat her not with the old comfort, 
 
 "Soon she will forget" — 
 Bitter truth, alas — hut matter 
 
 Eatlier for regret ; 
 Bid her not " Seek other pleasures, 
 
 Turn to other things : " 
 Eather nurse her caged sorrow, 
 
 Till the captive sings. 
 
 Eather bid her go forth bravely. 
 
 And the stranger greet : 
 Not as foe, with spear and buckler. 
 
 But as dear friends meet; 
 Bid her with a strong clasp hold her. 
 
 By her dusky wings — 
 Listening for the murmured blessing 
 
 Sorrow always brings. 
 
 Procter, 
 
 309 
 
EVENING HYMN. 
 
 The shadows of the evening hours 
 Fall from the darkening sky ; 
 
 Upon the fragrance of the flowers 
 The dews of evening lie : 
 810 
 
EVENING HYMN. 
 
 Before Thy throne, Lord of Heaven, 
 
 We kneel at close of day ; 
 Look on Thy children from on high, 
 
 And hear us while we pray. 
 
 The son'ows 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. 
 
 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 ; — 
 Gi/e us, Lord, fresh hopes in Heaven, 
 
 And trust in things divine. 
 
 Let peace, Lord, Thy peace, Q<^ 
 
 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 sufier. Lord, 
 
 Oh, give us now repose ! 
 
 Procter. 
 
 311 
 
A MOTHER'S GRIEF. 
 
 A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 
 
 To mark the sufferings of the babe 
 That cannot speak its woe ; 
 To see the infant tears gush forth, 
 Yet know not why they flow; 
 312 
 
A MOTHER'S GRIEF. 
 
 To mark the meek, uplifted eye, 
 That fain would ask relief, 
 Yet can but tell of agony ; — 
 This is a Mother's grief. 
 
 Through dreary days and darker nights 
 
 To trace the march of death, 
 
 To hear the faint and frequent sigh, 
 
 The quick and shortened breath ; 
 
 To watch the last dread strife draw near, 
 
 And pray that struggle brief, 
 
 Though all is ended with the close ; — 
 
 This is a Mother's grief! 
 
 To see, in one short hour, decayed 
 
 The hope of future years ; 
 
 To feel how vain a Father's prayers. 
 
 How vain a Mother's tears. 
 
 To think the cold grave now must close 
 
 O'er what was once the chief 
 
 Of all the treasured joys of earth, — 
 
 This is a Mother's grief. 
 
 Yet when the first wild throb is past, 
 Of anguish and despair. 
 To lift the eye of faith to Heaven, 
 And think, "My child is there!" 
 This best can dry the gushing tear. 
 This yields the heart relief. 
 Until the Christian's pious hope 
 O'ercomes a Mother's grief. 
 
 Thomas Dale. 
 
 313 s s 
 
JESUS PAYING TEIBUTE. 
 
 He came ! to man from God, to earth from heaven : 
 He came ! the sinless to a world of sin ; 
 Yet dwelt the fulness of the God within, 
 And to His sway the conscious earth was given. 
 All Nature knew the Holiest, as He trod 
 In mortal form the hill or pastured plain; 
 The valleys laugh' d rejoicing — once again 
 Creation mute ador'd the present God; 
 As when of old bright angels left their skies, 
 And even Jehovah walked in groves of Paradise. 
 
 No flower that bloomed beneath Messiah's feet 
 But shed rich odours, by His footstep pressed; 
 No breeze around Him sported, but confessed 
 The Lord of Nature, scattering incense sweet; 
 If wound His upward path the wood-crown'd hill, 
 The forest waved in gladness ; on the shore 
 The wild waves crouch'd before him, and forbore 
 The surge its angry murmurs, strangely still : 
 All knew their Lord ; rocks, winds, earth, forest, wave ! 
 All but the thankless thing He came to seek and save. 
 
 Yet men too knew Him, though but dimly known; 
 They knew him not as Godhead; but they knew 
 None ever spake like Him; none else could do 
 
 His works of power ; of woman born alone, 
 311 
 
JESUS PAYING TRIBUTE. 
 
 He swayed the subject elements ; the storm, 
 "Which but obeys Almightiness, to Him 
 Gave heed, what time amidst the tempest dim 
 Walked forth upon the wave His awful form ; 
 He did not wear the crown, or wield the sword, 
 Yet was He Judah's King, and haughty Caesar's Lord ! 
 
 Still veiled in flesh. He willed not to disclaim 
 The power which Heaven permitted, man obeyed ; 
 Tribute, as man, the Lord of Nature paid 
 
 To those who asked it in the Roman's name. 
 
 But paid it as a God. He breathed His w^ord 
 In silence to the ocean. Ocean knew 
 His mute command — and Simon, wondering, drew 
 
 From its dark depths an offering to the Lord; 
 Thus taught He man by whom all power is given, 
 And on the thrones of earth He flashed the light of Heaven ! 
 
 " Eender to Caesar what is Caesar's due ; 
 
 From God withhold not God's.'' — Thus ran His word 
 
 To those who owned Him Master, called Him Lord ; 
 Their Teacher, and their pure Example too. 
 Example, how pure ! to God He gave 
 
 Himself, His soul, His strength. His heart. His mind; 
 
 Powers of a God in human form enshrined 
 To work His Father's will — to die, to save — 
 Didst Thou such tribute pay to Heaven for me? 
 And shall I think it much, dear Lord, to follow Thee 'i 
 
 Dale. 
 
 315 
 
THE CEOWN OF THOENS. 
 
 The Kings of old were Kings of pride, 
 
 And Earth and Sea combined for them 
 
 To grace the regal diadem ; 
 
 Ocean its choicest pearl supplied, 
 
 The mine its rarest gem. 
 
 But when a costlier crown was worn 
 
 On earth, by one of woman born, 
 
 Than Kings had worn before, 
 
 'Twas woven of the tangled thorn ; 
 
 And meek the brow, and marr'd and torn 
 
 The form of Him who wore. 
 
 Where was He crown'd? In dungeon pale- 
 Around him dark-brow'd warriors pressed; 
 One, mocking, brought the gorgeous vest; 
 One bade the silent sufferer " Hail ! 
 King of the Jews confess'd!" 
 And lo ! upon His bleeding brow 
 They bind the torturing circlet now ; 
 Place in His hand the reed, — 
 A mimic sceptre, " Hail ! Thou, 
 To whom the tribes of Israel bow ! — 
 A King ! — a King indeed !" 
 
 A King indeed? That nameless One, 
 Whom priestly hate hath doom'd to die 
 A death of hngering agony — 
 Shall He ascend a kingly thrones- 
 Hear, Nature ! and reply. 
 316 
 
THE CROWN OF THORNS. 
 
 Answer, ye heavens, in storm and cloud ! 
 Answer, ye rocks ! ye mountains proud, 
 By earthquakes rent and torn ! 
 Answer, ye graves — your earthly shroud 
 Rent by His death-cry long and loud ! 
 By whom that crown is worn. 
 
 Is He a King — a King indeed? 
 
 And does that wreath of thorns outshine 
 
 The treasures of the deep — the mine? 
 
 That sceptre of the bending reed. 
 
 Speaks it a sway Divine? 
 
 And can it be that one who sate 
 
 On earth forlorn and desolate 
 
 Beneath a tyrant's frown, 
 
 Shall rise to more than kingly state, 
 
 And wield at will the powers of fate. 
 
 And tread th' oppressor down? 
 
 Yes ! He shall live as He hath died ; 
 
 And storm and thunder, earth and sea, 
 
 Friends, angels, men, the bond, the free, 
 
 Shall bend before the Crucified ! — 
 
 The Kings of earth shall be 
 
 His ministers — all knees shall bow 
 
 To Him ; His praise all tongues avow ; — 
 
 That first which scoffs and scorns ; — 
 
 When beams upon th' Avenger's brow 
 
 A crown of glory, what is now 
 
 A Saviour's Crown of Thorns ! 
 
 Bale. 
 
 317 
 
A TRUANT HOUR. 
 
 Bonn, July 8, 1847. 
 
 * On the Alte Zoll, over the Rhine. The sweet odour of the grape-bloom filled the air ; 
 the heaven was tremulously reflected in the eddies of the river, as the realities of life in 
 the dreams of the sleepers ; and the clocks of the town were telling the hour of the night. 
 
 The golden stars keep watch aloft ; 
 Unmarked the moments glide along, 
 Save that around me scatters oft 
 Yon nightingale his pearls of song : — 
 318 
 
A TRUANT HOUR. 
 
 The hum of men, the roar of wheels, 
 That filled the streets erewhile, are gone ; 
 The inner consciousness but feels 
 The lordly river rolling on. 
 
 The course of thoughts and being, pent 
 As waters ere they plunge below, 
 Eeflects a downward firmament 
 Of life and things, in gleamy show. 
 
 Thus rest, so hushed with airs of balm 
 That reach them from their promise land, 
 The righteous souls, in stillest calm 
 Laid up in their Eedeemer's hand. 
 
 All that has been, and all that is, 
 
 Back from their thoughts in light is given, 
 
 Deep firmaments of inward bliss 
 
 Far glittering into distant heaven. 
 
 The while, side-heard as in a dream, 
 The ages strike their solemn chime; 
 And from the ancient hills, the stream 
 Rolls onward of predestined Time. 
 
 Henry Alford. 
 
 319 
 
THE LITTLE MOUENEK. 
 
 "Child, -wliither goest thor 
 
 Over the snowy hill? 
 The frost-air nips so keen, 
 
 That the very clouds are still , 
 Erom the golden folding curtains 
 
 The Sun hath not looked forth. 
 And brown the snow-mist hangs 
 
 Eound the mountains to the north.' 
 
 "Kind stranger, dost thou see 
 
 Yonder church-tower rise, 
 Thrusting its ftrown of pinnacles 
 
 Into the looming skies? — 
 Thither go I : — keen the morning 
 
 Bites, and deep the snow; 
 But, in spite of them. 
 
 Up the frosted hill I go." 
 
 "Child, and what dost thou 
 
 When thou shalt be there? 
 The chancel-door is shut — 
 
 There is no bell for prayer; 
 Yester-morn and yester-even 
 
 Met we there and prayed; 
 But now none is there 
 
 Save the dead lowly laid." 
 
 "Stranger, underneath that tower, 
 
 On the western side, 
 A happy, happy company 
 
 In holy peace abide; 
 My father, and my mother. 
 
 And my sisters four — 
 Their beds are made in swelling turf. 
 
 Fronting the western door." 
 320 
 
"Child, if thou speak to them, 
 They will not answer thee ; 
 
 They are deep down in earth— 
 Thy face they cannot see. 
 321 
 
THE LITTLE MOURNER. 
 
 Then wherefore art thou going 
 
 Over the snowy hill? 
 Why seek thy low-laid family, 
 
 Where they lie cold and stilU" 
 
 "Stranger, when the summer heats 
 
 Would dry their turfy bed, 
 Duly from this loving hand 
 
 With water it is fed ; 
 They must be cleared this morning 
 
 From the thick-laid snow; — 
 So now along the frosted field, 
 
 Stranger, let me go." 
 
 A Iford. 
 
 Thou Saviour, who Thyself didst give, 
 That all the world might turn and live, 
 Who dost the careless sinner draw 
 With cords of love to Thy pure law. 
 Who dost Thy Church with fondness call, 
 And by Thy grace receivest all ; 
 
 Behold us, Lord, before Thy throne, 
 Inspire and make our hearts Thine own ; 
 Bind to Thy Cross our wandering will. 
 Each act with holy purpose fill; 
 Our weakness let Thy strength defend, 
 Thou Author of our faith, and End. 
 
 Same. 
 
 322 
 
LAST WOKBS. 
 
 Refresh me with the bright-blue violet, 
 
 And put the pale faint-scented primrose near, 
 For I am breathing yet : 
 Shed not one silly tear ; 
 But when mine eyes are set, 
 Scatter the fresh flowers thick upon my bier, 
 And let my early grave with morning dew be wet. 
 323 
 
LAST WORDS. 
 
 I have passed swiftly o'er the pleasant earth ; 
 My life hath been the shadow of a dream ; 
 The joyousness of birth 
 Did ever with me seem : 
 My spirit had no dearth, 
 But dwelt for ever by a full swift stream, 
 Lapt in a golden trance of never-failing mirth. 
 
 Touch me once more, my father, ere my hand 
 Have not an answer for thee ; — kiss my cheek 
 Ere the blood fix and stand 
 Where flits the hectic streak ; 
 Give me thy last command, 
 Before I lie all undisturbed and meek, 
 Wrapt in the snowy folds of funeral swathing-band. 
 
 A Iford. 
 
 Glory of Thy Father's face, 
 Fountain deep of love and grace, 
 Who, Lord, can repay Thee thus, 
 As Thou gav'st Thyself for us ? 
 
 What to Thee shall we reply, 
 Who for us didst bleed and die. 
 When Thou shalt the question make, 
 What have ye done for My sake? 
 
 Hard in heart, in action weak, 
 Lord, Thy grace divine we seek : 
 Set us from our bondage free; 
 Draw us, and we follow Thee. 
 
 Same, 
 324 
 
HOW WE BUEIED HIM. 
 
 ' A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE CANON CHESSHYRE, CANTERBURY. 
 
 Where thickest on that eastward hill the grassy mounds are piled, 
 We laid him till the glorious morn beside his waiting child : 
 Above, that home of England's faith ; around, the silent dead ; 
 Beneath, the city in her pomp of ancient towers outspread. 
 
 Some might have blamed the swelling tear, and chid the faltering voice, 
 When Earth below would have us mourn, but Heaven above rejoice : 
 But down beneath its busy thoughts the Christian heart can weep. 
 Where meet the springs of joy and woe, ten thousand fathoms deep. 
 
 He walked the furnace tied and bound with suffering's galling band, 
 But One there was, the Son of God, who held him by the hand : 
 ]S"o smell of fire is on him now, no link of all his chains. 
 The wreck we mourned is pass'd away, — the friend we loved remains. 
 
 Let Worcester tell his deeds of love — let Canterbury tell, — 
 Each sacred roof his labour raised, each flock he watched so well; 
 The councils that no more shall hear his zealous words and wise. 
 The souls that miss him on their path of holy enterprise. 
 
 We stood, his brothers, o'er him, in the sacred garb he wore ; 
 We thought of all we owed him, and of all we hoped for more ; 
 Our Zion's desolation on every heart fell chill. 
 As we left him, slowly winding down that ancient eastward hill. 
 
 And what if in the distance then some lightsome sounds were heard, 
 That seem'd to mar the solemn thought and mock the sacred word? 
 In air that savour' d yet of death 'twas life sprung up anew : 
 There yet is youth, there still is hope, there yet are deeds to do. 
 
 To our places in the vineyard of our God return we now. 
 With kindled eye, with onward step, with hand upon the plough : 
 Our hearts are safer anchored ; our hopes have richer store ; 
 One treasure more in Heaven is ours; one bright example more. 
 
 Alford. 
 325 
 
THE BUEIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 By Nebo's lovely mountain, 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 In a vale of the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave. 
 But no man dug that sepulchre, 
 
 And no one saw it e'er; 
 For the Angels of God upturned the sod. 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth; 
 But no man heard the trampling. 
 
 Or saw the train go forth. 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done, 
 Or the crimson streak on Ocean's cheek 
 
 Fades in the setting sun — 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 Her crest of verdure waves, 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves; 
 So, without sound of musick. 
 
 Or voice of them that wept. 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown 
 
 That grand procession swept. 
 
THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 Perchance some bald old eagle, 
 
 On gray Beth-Peor's height, 
 Out of his rocky eyrie, 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 Perchance some lion, stalking. 
 
 Still shuns the hallowed spot ; 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 But when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed and muffled drums 
 
 Follow the funeral car ; 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won. 
 And after him lead his matchless steed, 
 
 While peals the minute gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 They lay the sage to rest ; 
 And give the bard an honoured place. 
 
 With costly marble drest ; 
 In the great minster's transept high, 
 
 Where lights like glories fall, 
 While the sweet choir sings, and the organ rings 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, words half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 327 
 
THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 And had he not high honour? 
 
 The hillside for his pall, 
 To lie in state while Angels wait, 
 
 With stars for tapers tall; 
 The dark rock pines, like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave, 
 And God's own hand, in that lovely land, 
 
 To lay him in the grave ! 
 
 In that deep grave without a name, 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 Shall break again — most wondrous thought !- 
 
 Before the Judgment-day ; 
 And stand with glory wrapped around, 
 
 On the hills he never trod, 
 And speak of the strife that won our life, 
 
 Thro' Christ th' Incarnate God. 
 
 silent tomb in Moab's land, 
 
 dark Beth-Peor's hill, 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours. 
 
 And teach them to be still ! 
 God hath his mysteries of grace, 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell; 
 He hides them deep, like the sacred sleep 
 
 Of him He loved so well. 
 
 Unknown. 
 
 328 
 
WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 
 
 If I were thou, butterfly, 
 And poised my purple wing to spy 
 The sweetest flowers that live and die, 
 329 
 
 u u 
 
WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 
 
 I would not waste my strength on those, 
 As thou, — for summer has a close. 
 And pansies bloom not in the snows. 
 
 If I were thou, working bee, 
 And all that honey-gold I see 
 Could delve from roses easily, 
 
 I would not hive it at man's door, 
 As thou, — that heirdom of my store 
 Should make him rich, and leave me poor. 
 
 If I were thou, eagle proud, 
 
 And screamed the thunder back aloud. 
 
 And faced the lightning from the cloud, 
 
 I would not build my eyrie-throne, 
 As thou, — upon a crumbling stone, 
 Which the next storm may trample down. 
 
 If I were thou, gallant steed. 
 With pawing hoof, and dancing head, 
 And eye outrunning thine own speed, 
 
 I would not meeken to the rein, 
 
 As thou, — nor smooth my nostril plain 
 
 From the glad desert's snort and strain. 
 
 If I were thou, red-breasted bird. 
 With song at shut-up window heard, 
 Like Love's sweet Yes too long deferred, 
 
 I would not over-stay delight, 
 
 As thou, — but take a swallow-flight, 
 
 Till the new spring returned to sight. 
 
WISDOM UNAPPLIED. 
 
 While yet I spake, a touch was laid 
 Upon my brow, whose pride did fade 
 As thus, methought, an angel said, — 
 
 "If I were thou who sing'st this song. 
 Most wise for others, and most strong 
 In seeing right while doing wrong, 
 
 "I would not waste my cares, and choose, 
 As thou, — to seek what thou must lose. 
 Such gains as perish in the use. 
 
 "I would not work where none can win. 
 As thou, — half-way 'twixt grief and sin, 
 But look above, and judge within. 
 
 "I would not let my pulse beat high. 
 As thov, — towards fame's regality, 
 iN"or yet in love's great jeopardy. 
 
 "I would not champ the hard cold bit, 
 As thou, — of what the world thinks fit. 
 But take God's freedom, using it. 
 
 "I would not play earth's winter out. 
 As thou, — but gird my soul about. 
 And live for life past death and doubt. 
 
 " Then sing, singer ! — but allow. 
 Beast, fly, and bird, called foohsh now. 
 Are wise (for all thy scorn) as thou!" 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 331 
 
THE WEAKEST THING. 
 
 Which is the weakest thing of all 
 
 Mine heart can ponder*? 
 The sun, a little cloud can i3all 
 
 With darkness yonder 1 
 The cloud, a little wind can move 
 
 Where'er it listeth ? 
 The wind, a little leaf above, 
 
 Though sear, resisteth? 
 
 What time that yellow leaf was green, 
 
 My days were gladder; 
 But now, whatever Spring may mean, 
 
 I must grow sadder. 
 Ah, me ! a leaf with sighs can wring 
 
 My lips asunder ? 
 Then is mine heart the weakest thing 
 
 Itself can ponder. 
 332 
 
THE WEAKEST THING. 
 
 Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are pined 
 
 And drop together, 
 And at a blast which is not wind. 
 
 The forests wither. 
 Thou, from the darkening deathly curse, 
 
 To glory breakest, — 
 The Strongest of the universe 
 
 Guarding the weakest ! 
 
 Browning. 
 
 MOTHERS. 
 
 life's guaedian angels. 
 
 The mothers of the human race ; — 
 A solemn beauty stamps each face ; 
 Unfathomed love is their embrace; 
 They hold a high and holy place, 
 
 A place by God appointed ! 
 With altar-fire their bosoins glow ; 
 A sacred halo spans each brow; 
 They are life's guardian-angels now. 
 
 Life's hierophants anointed. 
 
 A glorious work is yours to do. 
 Oh ye anointed ! Not the few 
 Alone are called ! Be pure and true, 
 For the Great Future springs from you- 
 
 All future generations ! 
 Yours is a destiny sublime; 
 Yours is all virtue — yours all crime; 
 You have the forming of all time, — 
 
 The character of nations. 
 333 
 
MOTHERS. 
 
 Kings may have power, but ye have more ; 
 Philosophers have sapient lore, 
 But in your bosoms lies a store 
 Of wisdom, which is far before 
 
 The wisdom of the sages. 
 Love, which no injury hath outworn ; 
 Meek stedfastness, the fruit of scorn ; 
 And patience, and sweet pity, born 
 
 From the old woe of ages. 
 
 Oh wife and mother ! if the stain 
 Of thy first-born — thy guilty Cain, 
 Yet on thy furrowed brow remain. 
 And in thy soul the deathless pain. 
 
 Hath memory yet none other? 
 The Christ was also born of thee, 
 Clasped to thy heart, reared at thy knee ; 
 God's only Son vouchsafed to be 
 
 Child of a human mother ! 
 
 And what, though sorrow be thy share. 
 Though thou shouldst sit, like Mary, where 
 Thou seest alone, in thy despair, 
 The cruel Cross — yet God is there, 
 
 And feels thy soul's dejection ! 
 And unto thee, dissolved in tears. 
 Again the risen Christ appears. 
 And bids thee tell unwilling ears 
 
 His joyful resurrection ! 
 
 In every home, in every land, 
 Mighty in love's great strength ye stand. 
 And round your knees a growing band 
 Of sons and daughters, hand in hand, 
 Gather in youthful beauty. 
 334 
 
MOTHERS. 
 
 List to the earnest words they speak : — 
 "We are but ignorant and weak; 
 Show us the things that we should seek ;- 
 Make clear the paths of duty ! 
 
 " We are like little flowers in bud ; 
 We know not evil yet from good; 
 Nor can we reason, if we would, 
 On that which is not understood ; 
 
 Oh mothers, be our teachers ! 
 Show us the wrong, teach us the right ; 
 Be unto us as God's own light ! 
 Ye love us — love us — and ye might 
 
 Be our divinest preachers!" 
 
 Such are your children's daily cries ; 
 And by that solemn sacrifice 
 Which ye beheld with weeping eyes, 
 And by the truth of Christ's uprise, 
 
 Which first to you was given; 
 This is the work ye have to do, 
 The work which God requires from you ! 
 Fear not ! the faithful and the true 
 
 Are strong in strength from Heaven ! 
 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 335 
 
APPEOACHIIsrG THE UNSEEN. 
 
 Behold a pilgrim, staff-sustained and hoary, 
 Waiting the sunset aud the hour of night ; 
 
 Standing transfigured, as in flioods of glory, 
 "With garments whitened by excess of light. 
 
 Hold me not back, my children ! Let me speed 
 
 Onward, and ever onward, for the path 
 Which the Great Master hath for me decreed 
 Its lines of glory hath ! 
 
 The shadows fall behind me ; see ye not 
 
 That all is bright towards which my footsteps tend? 
 Come onward with me, towards the appointed spot 
 Which is my journey's end. 
 
 Come onward with me, towards the setting sun, — 
 
 Towards the new morning portalled by the night, 
 When the allotted task of life is done, 
 And darkness merged in light. 
 
 See, through the opening vistas of the west, 
 
 Bright glimpses of the land toward which I am bound 
 The crystal-walled city of the Blest, 
 With angel-watchers round. 
 
 Far mountain ridges, gold and amethyst, — 
 
 Ascending spires of kingliest palaces ; 
 And a calm ocean spread like sunlit mist, 
 Betwixt myself and these ! 
 336 
 
APPROACHING THE UNSEEN. 
 
 And all, as in a light of God doth, sliine ; 
 And on the margin of that sunlit shore 
 I see the loved, the young that once were mine, — 
 JSTot dead, but gone before. 
 
 And with their hands they beckon unto me, 
 
 And with a voice-like melody they say, 
 " Here, oh beloved one, we wait for thee, 
 Until thou pass away! 
 
 " Until thou pass away from earth and time, — 
 Till the night-shadows pass, and thou emerge 
 Into the fulness of the day sublime 
 
 Of which thou see'st the verge. 
 
 " Little remains to do as day grows late ; 
 
 Only to trust, to love with all thy heart, 
 To bless, Hke Christ the Lord; to stand and wait, 
 And when He calls, depart!" 
 
 Thus speak the voices. 
 
 Oh accept, my Grod, 
 Thy servant's feeble sacrifice of praise, 
 For that Thy goodness has to me allowed 
 The fulness of my days! 
 
 I praise and bless Thee ! bless Thee for the gain 
 
 Which, of Thy mercy, life has been to me; 
 Bless Thee for joy, — ^bless Thee for grief and pain, 
 Which brought me nearer Thee ! 
 
 Lord, when Thou -wiliest, caU Thy servant hence! 
 
 But to the last let love my being move ; 
 Unto the last, like Thee, let me dispense 
 From Thy great treasury, love! 
 
 M. HowitU 
 
 3S2 X X 
 
A FATHEE'S LAMENT. 
 
 Two creatures of a pleasant life were mine ; 
 My house they filled with a perpetual joy ; 
 Twin lamps that chased all darkness did they shine, 
 My fairy girl and merry-hearted boy, 
 I never dreamt death would their mirth destroy; 
 For they were dwelling midst life's freshest springs; 
 338 
 
A FATHER'S LAMEFi^ 
 
 And I was busied with a fond employ, 
 Eanging the future on hope's fearless wings, 
 And gathering for them thence, how many pleasant things ! 
 
 But a dark dream has swept across my brain, 
 A wild, a dismal dream that will not break; 
 A rush of fear, an agony of pain — 
 Pangs and suspense that inly make me quake. 
 My boy ! ray boy ! I saw thy sweet eyes take 
 A strange, unearthly lustre, and then fade ; 
 And oh ! I deemed my heart must surely break 
 As, stooping, I thy pleasant looks surveyed. 
 And felt that thou must die, and they in dust be laid. 
 
 Oh ! precious in thy life of happiness ! 
 Daily and hourly valued more and more ! 
 Yet, to the few brief days of thy distress 
 How faint all love my spirit knew before ! 
 I turn and turn and ponder o'er and o'er. 
 Insatiate, all that sad and dreary time. 
 Thy words thrill through me; — in my fond heart's core 
 I hoard thy sighs, and tears shed for no crime. 
 And thy most patient love sent from a happier clime. 
 
 How dim and dismal is my home ! — a sense 
 Of thee spreads through it, like a haunting ill : — 
 For thou — for ever — thou hast vanished thence ! 
 This, this pursues me, pass where'er I will; 
 And all the traces thou hast left but fill 
 The hollow of thine absence with more pain. 
 I toil to keep thy living image still, 
 But fancy feebly doth her part maintain, 
 I see, yet see thee not, my child ! as I would fain. 
 
 In dreams for ever thy dear form I grasp; 
 In noonday reveries do I rove — then start, 
 And certainty, as with an iron clasp, 
 
A FATHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Shuts down once more to misery my heart. 
 The world from thee, as a shorn flower, doth part. 
 Ending its care and knowledge with — " farewell ! " 
 But in my soul a shrined life thou art, 
 Ordained with memory and strong hope to dwell, 
 And with all pure desires to sanctify my cell. 
 
 Spring like a spirit is upon the earth — 
 Forth gush the flowers and fresh leaves of the tree ; 
 And I had planned, with wonder and with mirth, — 
 The bird, the nest, the blossom, and the bee. 
 To fill thy boyish bosom — till its glee 
 O'erflowed my own with transport ! In far years 
 I felt thy hand in mine, by stream and lea 
 Wandering in gladness. But these blinding tears, 
 Why will they still gush forth, though richer hope appears? 
 
 Far other lands thy happy feet have trod; 
 Far other scenes thy tender soul has known; 
 The golden city of the Eternal God; 
 The rainbow splendours of the Eternal Throne. 
 Through the pearl-gate how lightly hast thou flown ! 
 The streets of lucid gold — the chrysalite 
 Foundations have received thee.— Dearest one 
 That thought alone can break aflliction's might — 
 Feeling that thou art blest, again my heart is light. 
 
 Thanks to the Framer of life's mystery ! 
 Thanks to th' Illuminator of the grave ! 
 "Vainly on Time's obscure and tossing sea 
 Hope did I seek and comfort did I crave; 
 But He who made neglecteth not to save. 
 My child ! — thou hast allied me to the blest ; 
 I cannot fear what thou didst meekly brave ; 
 I cannot cease to long with thee to rest — 
 And heaven is doubly heaven with thee, with thee possest ! 
 
 William Howitt. 
 
 340 
 
TO A FLOWEE. 
 
 The sun awakes thee with, his rosy light, 
 
 And the sun cheers thee with his early rays; 
 
 He culls thy tender beauty from the night, 
 To share the strength and glory of his days. 
 
 He smiles upon thee from the misty hiUs — 
 
 With fervent love looks on thee from deep skies, 
 
 And what of dewy sweet his warmth distils, 
 Eeceives, repaying thee with lovelier dyes. 
 
 Thou art not proud that he does look on thee ; 
 
 As thou didst know his greatness thou art meek ; 
 And seem a pledge of thine humility, 
 
 This dewy tear, and tint upon thy cheek. 
 
 Thou livest not unto thyself alone; 
 
 Thou takest, and thou givest, and art blest : 
 Around to thankful life thy sweets are blown, 
 
 And I seem thankless, wakeful, or at rest. 
 
 Oh, might I raise me from the darkness up. 
 
 From the soul's night as thou dost from the sod, 
 And fiU my heart with dewy thoughts — a cup 
 Of incense purely offer'd unto God ! 
 
 Richard Howitt. 
 341 
 
C^t) U P L E T S. 
 
 Thy treasures lodged so low, earth's damps will soon consume 
 While time is, lift them up into a higher room. 
 
 Only the waters which in perfect stillness lie. 
 Give back an undistorted image of the sky. 
 
 Despise not little sins ; the gallant ship may sink. 
 Though only drop by drop the watery tide it drink. 
 
 When thou art fain to trace a map of thine own heart, 
 As undiscovered land set down the largest part. 
 
 Envy detects the spots in the clear orb of light, 
 
 And Love the little stars in the gloomiest saddest night. 
 
 Eesigned are some to go : might we such grace attain 
 That we should need our resignation to remain. 
 
 The same rains rain from heaven on all the forest trees, 
 Yet those bring forth sweet fruits, and poisonous berries these. 
 
 A thousand blessings. Lord, to us Thou dost impart : 
 We ask one blessing more, Lord — a thankful heart. 
 
 All nature has a voice, and this the sunflower's word, 
 " I look unto the light — look thou unto the Lord." 
 
 Oh wherefore in such haste in men's sight to appear? 
 The cedar yields no fruit until its fiftieth year. 
 
 Richard Chenevix Trench. 
 342 
 
THE BANQUET. 
 
 Five hundred princely guests before 
 
 Haroun-Al-Easchid sate; 
 Five hundred princely guests or more 
 
 Admired his royal state; 
 
 For never had that glory been 
 
 So royally displayed, 
 Kor ever such a gorgeous scene 
 
 Had eye of man surveyed. 
 
 He, most times meek of heart, yet now 
 
 Of spirit too elate, 
 Exclaimed — "Before me Caesars bow. 
 
 On me two empires wait. 
 
 **Yet all our glories something lack, 
 We do our triumphs wrong, 
 
 Until to us reflected back 
 In mirrors clear of song. 
 
 " Call him then, unto whom this power 
 Is given, this skill sublime — 
 
 Now win from us some gorgeous dower 
 With song that fits the time." 
 
 "My King, as I behold thee now. 
 
 May I behold thee still, 
 While prostrate worlds before thee bow. 
 
 And wait upon thy will ! 
 343 
 
THE BANQUET. 
 
 " May evermore this clear blue heaven, 
 "Whence every speck and stain 
 
 Of trouble far away is driven, 
 Above thy head remain ! " 
 
 The Caliph cried — "Thou wishest well; 
 
 There waits thee golden store 
 For this — but, oh ! resume the spell, 
 
 I fain would listen more." 
 
 " Drink thou life's sweetest goblet up, 
 
 King, and may its wine. 
 For others' lips a mingled cup, 
 
 Be all unmixed for thine. 
 
 "Live long, — the shadow of no grief 
 
 Come ever near to thee; 
 As thou in height of place art chief. 
 
 So chief in gladness be." 
 
 Haroun-Al-Easchid cried again — 
 
 " I thank thee — but proceed, 
 And now take up a higher strain. 
 
 And win a higher meed." 
 
 Around that high magnific hall. 
 
 One glance the Poet threw. 
 On courtiers, king, and festival. 
 
 And did the strain renew. 
 
 — "And yet, and yet, — shalt thou at last 
 Lie stretched on bed of death : 
 
 Then, when thou drawest thick and fast 
 With sobs thy painful breath — 
 
 "When Azrael glides through guarded gate, 
 Through hosts that camp around 
 
 Their lord in vain, and will not wait, — 
 When thou art sadly bound 
 344 
 
THE BANQUET. 
 
 "Unto thine house of dust alone, 
 King, when thou must die, — 
 
 This pomp a shadow thou shalt own, 
 This glory all a lie." 
 
 Then darkness on all faces hung. 
 And through the banquet went 
 
 Low sounds the murmuring guests among 
 Of angry discontent ; 
 
 And him anon they fiercely urge — 
 " What guerdon shall be thine ? 
 
 What does it, this untimely dirge, 
 'Mid feasts, and flowers, and wine? 
 
 "Our lord demanded in his mirth, 
 
 A strain to heighten glee ; 
 But, lo ! at thine his tears come forth 
 
 In current swift and free." 
 
 — "Peace — not to him rebukes belong, 
 
 But rather highest grace; 
 He gave me what I asked, a song 
 
 To fit the time and place," 
 
 All voices at that voice were stilled ; 
 
 Again the Caliph cried — 
 "He saw our mouths with laughter filled. 
 
 He saw us drunk with pride ; 
 
 "And bade us know that every road, 
 
 By monarch trod, or slave. 
 Thick set with thorns, with roses strow'd. 
 
 Doth issue in the grave." 
 
 Trench. 
 
 3^45 
 
THE LENT JEWELS. 
 
 A JEWISH TALE, 
 
 In schools of wisdom all the day was spent; 
 His steps at eve the Eabbi homeward bent, 
 With homeward thoughts, which dwelt upon the wife 
 And two fair children who consoled his life. 
 She, meeting at the threshold, led him in, 
 And with these words preventing, did begin : 
 "Ever rejoicing at your wished return, 
 Yet am I most so now; for since this morn 
 I have been much perplexed and sorely tried 
 Upon one point which you shall now decide. 
 Some years ago, a friend into my care 
 Some jewels gave, rich precious gems they were ; 
 But having given them in my charge, this friend 
 Did afterward nor come for them, nor send. 
 But left them in my keeping for so long. 
 That now it almost seems to me a wrong 
 That he should suddenly arrive to-day, 
 To take those jewels, which he left, away. 
 What think you? Shall I freely yield them back, 
 And with no murmuring? — so henceforth to lack 
 Those gems myself, which I had learned to see 
 Almost as mine for ever, mine in fee." 
 346 
 
THE LENT JEWELS. 
 
 "What question can be here? Your own true heart 
 
 Must needs advise you of the only part ; 
 
 That may be claimed again which was but lent, 
 
 And should be yielded with no discontent. 
 
 !N'or surely can we find herein a wrong, 
 
 That it was left us to enjoy it long." 
 
 " Good is the word," she answered j " may we now 
 
 And evermore that it is good allow ! " 
 
 And, rising, to an inner chamber led, 
 
 And there she showed him, stretched upon one bed, 
 
 Two children pale, and he the jewels knew. 
 
 Which God had lent him, and resumed anew. 
 
 Trench. 
 
 P E A Y E E. 
 
 When prayer delights thee least, then learn to say, 
 Soul, now is greatest need that thou shouldst pray. 
 
 Say what is prayer, when it is prayer indeed? 
 The mighty utterance of a mighty need. 
 
 The man is praying, who doth press with might 
 Out of his darkness into God's own light. 
 
 All things that live from God their sustenance wait — 
 And sun and moon are beggars at His gate. 
 
 All skirts extended of thy mantle hold, 
 
 When angel hands from heaven are scattering gold. 
 
 Same. 
 347 
 
A LETTEE IN BLACK. 
 
 A FLOATING on the fragrant flood 
 
 Of summer, — fuller hour by hour, — 
 With all the sweetness of the bud 
 
 Crowned by the glory of the flower ; 
 My spirits with the season flowed; 
 
 The air was all a breathing balm; 
 The lake so softly sapphire glowed; 
 
 The mountains lay in royal calm. 
 
 Green leaves were lusty ; roses blusht 
 
 For pleasure in the golden time ; 
 The birds thro' all their feathers flusht 
 
 For gladness of their marriage prime : 
 Languid, among the lilies I threw 
 
 Me down, for coolness, 'mid the sheen : 
 Heaven — one smile of brooding blue, — 
 
 Earth — one large smile of basking green. 
 
 A rich suspended shower of gold 
 
 Hung o'er me, my Laburnum crown, 
 You look up heavenward and behold, 
 
 It glows, and comes in glory down! 
 There, as my thoughts of greenness grew 
 
 To fruitage of a leafy dream, — 
 There, friend, your letter thrill'd me thro', 
 
 And all the summer day was dim. 
 348 
 
A LETTER IN BLACK. 
 
 The world, so pleasant to the sight, 
 
 So full of voices blithe and brave. 
 And all her lamps of beauty alight 
 
 With life ! I had forgot the Grave : 
 And there it opened at my feet, 
 
 Eevealing a familiar face 
 Upturned, my whitened look to meet, 
 
 And very patient in its place. 
 
 My poor bereaven friend ! I know 
 
 ^N'ot how to word it, but would bring 
 A little solace for your woe, — 
 
 A little love for comforting : 
 And yet the best that I can say 
 
 Will only help to sum your loss ; 
 I can but look above, and pray 
 
 God help my friend to bear his Cross. 
 
 God knows, and we may some day know. 
 
 These hidden secrets of His love; 
 But now the stillness stuns us so; 
 
 Darkly, as in a dream, we move. 
 The glad life-pulses come and go, 
 
 Over our head and at our feet ; 
 Soft airs are sighing something low ; 
 
 The flowers are saying something sweet ; 
 
 And 'tis a merry world. The lark 
 
 Is singing over the green corn; 
 Only the house and heart are dark, — 
 
 Only the human world forlorn. 
 There, in the bridal chamber, lies 
 
 A dear bed-fellow all in white; 
 That purple shadow under the eyes. 
 
 Once swimming in their liquid night. 
 349 
 
A LETTER IN BLACK. 
 
 Sweet, slippery silver of her talk ; 
 
 The music of her laugh so dear, 
 Heard in home-ways, and wedded walk, 
 
 For many and many a golden year ; 
 The singing soul and shining face, 
 
 Daisy-like glad by roughest road ; 
 Gone ! with a thousand dearnesses 
 
 That hid themselves from us and glowed. 
 
 The waiting Angel, patient Wife, 
 
 All thro' the battle at our side. 
 That smiled her sweetness on our strife 
 
 For gain, and it was sanctified ! 
 When waves of trouble beat breast high 
 
 And the heart sank, she poured a balm 
 That stilled them ; and the saddest sky 
 
 Made clear and starry with her calm. 
 
 And when the world with harvest ripe 
 
 In all its golden fulness lay; 
 And God, it seemed, saw fit to wipe. 
 
 Even on earth, all tears away; 
 The good true heart that bravely won. 
 
 Must smile up in our face and fall ; 
 And all our happy days are done. 
 
 And this the end. And is this all ? 
 
 Our joy was all a drunken dream; 
 
 This is the truth at waking! we 
 Are swept out rootless by the stream 
 
 And current of Calamity — 
 Out on some lone and shoreless sea 
 
 Of solitude so vast and deep. 
 As 'twere a wrong Eternity, 
 
 Where God is not, or gone to sleep. 
 360 
 
A LETTER IN BLACK. 
 
 It seems as tho' our darling dead, 
 
 Startled at Death's so sudden call, 
 With falling hands and dear bowed head 
 
 Had, like a flower-filled lap, let fall 
 A hoard of treasures we have found 
 
 Too late ! so slow doth wisdom come ! 
 We for the first time look around 
 
 Eemembering this is not our home. 
 
 My friend, I see you with your cup 
 
 Of tears and trembling — see you sit ; 
 And long to help you drink it up,- 
 
 With useless longings infinite ! — 
 Sit rocking the old mournful thought. 
 
 That on the heart's-blood will be nurst 
 Unless the blessed tears be brought ; 
 
 Unless the cloudy sorrows burst. 
 
 The little ones are gone to rest, 
 
 And for awhile they will not miss 
 The Mother-wings above the nest; 
 
 But down a dream they feel her kiss, 
 And in their sleep will sometimes start, 
 
 And toss wild arms for her caress, 
 With moanings that might thrill a heart 
 
 In heaven with divine distress. 
 
 And Sorrow on your threshold stands. 
 
 The Dark Ladye in gloomy pall ; 
 I see her take you by the hands; 
 
 I feel her shadow over all. 
 Hers is no warm and tender clasp; 
 
 With silence solemn as the night. 
 And veiled face, and mighty grasp, 
 
 She leads her Chosen up the heights : 
 351 
 
A LETTER IN BLACK. 
 
 The cloudy crags are cold and gray, 
 
 You cannot scale tlieni without scars ; 
 How many Martyrs throng the way, 
 
 Who never reacht her tower of stars !- 
 But there her beauty shall be seen, 
 
 Her glittering face so meekly pure ; 
 And all her majesty of mien ; 
 
 And all her guerdon shall be sure. 
 
 Well ! 'Tis not written, God will give 
 
 To His Beloved only rest ! 
 The hard life of the Cross they live, 
 
 They strive, and suffer, and are blest. 
 The feet must bleed to reach their throne, 
 
 The brow must burn before it bear 
 One of the crowns that may be won. 
 
 By workers for immortal wear. 
 
 Dear friend, life beats tho' buried 'neath 
 
 Its long black vault of night ! and see 
 There trembles thro' this dark of death, 
 
 Starlight of immortality ! 
 And yet shall dawn the eternal day 
 
 To kiss the eyes of them that sleep ; 
 And He shall wipe all tears away 
 
 From tired eyes of them that weep. 
 
 'Tis something for the poor bereaven. 
 
 In such a weary world of care, 
 To think that we have friends in heaven, 
 
 Who helpt us here, may aid us there. 
 These yearnings for them set our arc 
 
 Of being widening more and more, 
 In circling sweep thro' outer dark 
 
 To-day more perfect than before. 
 352 
 
A LETTER IN BLACK. 
 
 So much was left unsaid, the soul 
 
 Must live in other worlds to be ; 
 On earth we cannot grasp the whole, 
 
 For that Love has eternity. 
 Love deep as death, and rich as rest ; 
 
 Love that was Love, with all Love's might 
 Level to needs the lowliest; 
 
 Will not be less Love at full-height. 
 
 Tho' earthly forms be far apart, 
 
 Spirit to spirit may be nigher; 
 The music chord the same at heart 
 
 Though one should range an octave higher. 
 Eyes watch us that we cannot see ; 
 
 Lips warn us which we may not kiss ; 
 They wait for us, and tenderly 
 
 Lean toward us from their Home of Bliss. 
 
 We cannot see them face to face, 
 
 But Love is nearness ; and they love 
 Us yet, nor change, with change of place, 
 
 In their more loving world above, 
 Where Love, once true, hath never ceast. 
 
 And dear eyes never lose their shine. 
 And there shall be a Marriage Feast, 
 
 Where Christ shall once more make the wine. 
 
 Gerald Massey. 
 
 353 
 
EASTER EVE. 
 
 All is o'er; — the pain, the sorrow, — 
 Human taunts, and fiendish spite ; 
 
 Death shall be despoil'd to-morrow 
 Of the prey he grasps to-night; 
 
 Yet once more, to seal his doom, 
 
 Christ must sleep within the tomb. 
 
 Close and stUl the cell that holds Him, 
 While in brief repose He lies ; 
 
 Deep the slumber that enfolds Him 
 Veil'd awhile from mortal eyes; — 
 
 Slumber such as needs must be 
 
 After hard-won victory. 
 
 Whither hath His soul departed? — 
 Roams it on some blissful shore, 
 
 Where the meek and faithful-hearted, 
 Yext by this world's hate no more, 
 
 Wait, until the trump of doom 
 
 Call their bodies from the tomb? 
 
 Or, on some benignant mission, 
 To the imprison'd spirits sent. 
 
 Hath He to their dark condition 
 Gleams of hope and mercy lent?- 
 
 Souls not wholly lost of old. 
 
 When o'er Earth the deluge roll'd ! 
 354 
 
EASTER EVE. 
 
 Ask no more ; — the abyss is deeper 
 E'en than angels' thoughts may scan ; 
 
 Come and watch the heavenly Sleeper; 
 Come and do what mortals can, 
 
 Reverence meet toward Him to prove, 
 
 Faith, and trust, and humble love. 
 
 Far away, amidst the regions 
 Of the bright and balmy east, 
 
 Guarded by angelic legions 
 
 Till Death's slumber shall have ceast, 
 
 (How should we its stillness stir?) 
 
 Lies the Saviour's sepulchre. 
 
 Far away; — yet thought would wander 
 (Thought by Faith's sure guidance led), 
 
 Farther yet to weep and ponder 
 Over that sepulchral bed. 
 
 Thither let us haste and flee 
 
 On the wings of phantasy. 
 
 Haste, from every clime and nation. 
 Fervent youth, and reverend age; 
 
 Peasant, prince, — each rank and station, 
 Haste, and join this pilgrimage. 
 
 East and west, and south and north. 
 
 Send your saintliest spirits forth. 
 
 Mothers, ere the curtain closes 
 
 Eound your children's sleep to-night, 
 
 Tell them how their Lord reposes, 
 Waiting for to-morrow's light; 
 
 Teach their dreams to Him to rove. 
 
 Him who loved them. Him they love. 
 356 
 
EASTER EVE. 
 
 Matron grave and blooming maiden, 
 Hoary sage and beardless boy, 
 
 Hearts with grief and care o'er-laden, 
 Hearts brimful of bope and joy. 
 
 Come and greet, in death's dark hall, 
 
 Him who felt with, felt for all. 
 
 Men of God, devoutly toiling 
 This world's fetters to unbind ; 
 
 Satan of his prey despoiling 
 In the hearts of human kind ; 
 
 Let, to-night, your labours cease, 
 
 Give your care-worn spirits peace. 
 
 Ye who roam o'er seas and mountains, 
 Messengers of love and light ; 
 
 Ye who guard Truth's sacred fountains 
 Weary day and wakeful night; 
 
 Men of labour, men of lore, 
 
 Give your toils and studies o'er. 
 
 Dwellers in the woods and valleys, 
 Ye of meek and lowly breast ; 
 
 Ye who, pent in crowded alleys, 
 Labour early, late take rest; 
 
 Leave the plough, and leave the loom, 
 
 Meet us at our Saviour's tomb. 
 
 Lo, His grave ! the grey rock closes 
 O'er that virgin burial-ground ; 
 
 Near it breathe the garden roses, 
 Trees funereal droop around ; 
 
 In whose boughs the small birds rest, 
 
 And the stock-dove builds her nest. 
 366 
 
EASTER EVE. 
 
 And the moon with floods of splendour 
 Fills the spicy midnight air; 
 
 Tranquil sounds and voices tender 
 Speak of life and gladness there. 
 
 Ne'er was living thing, I wot, 
 
 Wliich our Lord regarded not. 
 
 Bird, and beast, and insect rover, — 
 
 E'en the lilies of the field, 
 Till His gentle life was over. 
 
 Heavenly thought to Him could yield, 
 All that is to Him did prove 
 Food for Wisdom, food for Love. 
 
 But the hearts that bow'd before Him 
 Most of all to Him were dear ; 
 
 Let such hearts to-night watch o'er Him, 
 Till the day-spring shall appear; 
 
 Then a brighter sun shall rise 
 
 Than e'er kindled up the skies. 
 
 All night long, with plaintive voicing, 
 Chaunt His requiem, soft and low; 
 
 Loftier strains of loud rejoicing 
 From to-morrow's harps shall flow. 
 
 "Death and hell at length are slain, 
 
 Christ hath triumph'd, Christ doth reign." 
 
 John Moultrie. 
 
 367 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. 
 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the Autumn leaves lie dead; 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 
 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 
 
 And from the wood- top calls the crow^ through all the gloomy day : 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and 
 
 stood 
 In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 
 
 358 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 
 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 
 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, 
 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, 
 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are 
 
 still. 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. 
 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore. 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf. 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 
 
 William Cullen Bryant. 
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 They have not perished — no ! 
 Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, 
 
 Smiles, radiant long ago. 
 And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 
 
 All shall come back, each tie 
 Of pure affection shall be knit again; 
 
 Alone shall Evil die. 
 And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 
 
 Same. 
 359 
 
THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 
 
 I HAVE read, in some old marvellous tale, 
 Some legend strange and vague, 
 
 That a midniglit host of spectres pale 
 Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 
 
 Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
 With the wan moon overhead, 
 
 There stood, as in an awful dream, 
 The army of the dead. 
 
 White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
 
 The spectral camp was seen, 
 And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
 
 The river flowed between. 
 
 No other voice nor sound was there, 
 
 No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
 The mist-like banners clasped the air. 
 
 As clouds with clouds embrace. 
 
 But, when the old cathedral bell 
 Proclaimed the morning prayer. 
 
 The white pavilions rose and fell 
 On the alarmed air. 
 
 Down the broad valley fast and far 
 
 The troubled army fledj 
 Up rose the glorious morning-star. 
 
 The ghastly host was dead. 
 360 
 
THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 
 
 I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 
 
 That strange and mystic scroll. 
 That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
 
 Beleaguer the human soul. 
 
 Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 
 
 In Fancy's misty light, 
 Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 
 
 Portentous through the night. 
 
 Upon its midnight battle-ground 
 
 The spectral camp is seen. 
 And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
 
 Flows the River of Life between. 
 
 Xo other voice, nor sound is there, 
 
 In the army of the grave ; 
 No other challenge breaks the air, 
 
 But the rushing of Life's wave. 
 
 And when the solemn and deep church-bell 
 
 Entreats the soul to pray, 
 The midnight phantoms feel the spell. 
 
 The shadows sweep away. 
 
 Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 
 
 The spectral camp is fled; 
 Faith shineth as a morning-star, 
 
 Our ghastly fears are dead. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow 
 
 361 3 A 
 
EESTGNATION. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fire-side, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
 
 And mournings for the dead. 
 The heart of Eachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapours 
 
 Amid these earthly damps, 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection. 
 
 And Christ Himself doth rule. 
 362 
 
RESIGNATION. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian Angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken. 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 For when with raptures wild. 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child ; 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long supprest. 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 363 
 
ALL-SAINTS' DAY. 
 
 THE SAINTS OF GOD, 
 
 A FEW bright leaders of her host, 
 God's glory, and the Church's boast, 
 She hath set forth, and niark'd by name. 
 Fair in the lists of holy fame ; 
 To cheer the many with the few, 
 And show what grace in man can do. 
 
 Eack from their helms of Hope divine 
 Eeflected sunbeams flash and shine, 
 Marking where gallant warriors stand, 
 With buckler poised, and sword in hand, 
 First of the martyr army they, 
 To lead it on at dawn of day. 
 
 But as, behind those stars most bright 
 Which meet us in the front of night. 
 Myriads on myriads have their place, 
 Far in the hidden realms of space. 
 Unseen by man, but, to the eye 
 Of God, as bright as those more nigh;- 
 
 So in His Church have ever been 
 Thousands, whom none but He hath seen, 
 Yet in His eye as bright and fair. 
 As martyrs and apostles were. 
 Who, tho' their lives seem still and calm, 
 Shall wear the Martyr's Crown and Palm. 
 364 
 
ALL-SAINTS' DAY. 
 
 Here upon earth tliey were unknown, 
 But there's a Book before the Throne — 
 The Book of Life — in which the Lord 
 Doth all the lives of Saints record ; 
 And, in the day when He doth * spare,' 
 Their names shall be found written there. 
 
 what a blest 'communion' bond 
 Of fellowship most full and fond, 
 Christ's mystic body doth entwine, 
 'Together knit/ with words divine. 
 One life electric thro' them all. 
 On to the Judgment from the Fall. 
 
 One ' Family in heaven and earth,' 
 
 Bound by the ties of second birth ; 
 
 ]N^one dead, tho' some theu' work have done, 
 
 Their battle fought, their freedom won; 
 
 All in the Lord alive and blest, 
 
 Tho' some may toil, and some may rest. 
 
 Their earthly home a nameless spot, 
 Unknown, or haply long forgot ; 
 Where in some mountain village rude. 
 Or city's crowded solitude, 
 Their gentle lives did meekly move. 
 In the still ways of earnest love. 
 
 On beds of noisome sickness laid, 
 In poverty's depressing shade. 
 Struggling against the world's distress 
 With unrepining gentleness, 
 Their robes unspotted, tho' the road 
 Was deep and rough that led to God. 
 365 
 
ALL-SAINTS' DAY. 
 
 Their simple lives exalted high 
 By unaffected piety ; 
 Tho' sad and sombre in their hue, 
 And common-place in all they do. 
 This colouring of the rainbow take, 
 That all is done for Jesu's sake. 
 
 'Twas ever thus from earliest time, 
 That God's elect, in every clime, 
 Tho' hidden deep, and unobserved, 
 Like scatter'd salt, have still preserved 
 His blessing, (lest it turn again,) 
 To the rebellious sons of men. 
 
 And when in solemn judgment state 
 He holds His Court, a throng so great 
 Shall rise before th' astonish'd sight, 
 Bearing their palms, and 'clothed in white;' 
 *No man could number' those who'll stand, 
 In that great day, at God's right hand. 
 
 His scattered treasures He will claim, 
 So dear He knows them all by name ; 
 When He makes up the precious store. 
 And counts His 'jewels' o'er and o'er,— 
 Of all that were on earth His care, 
 Not one shall be found wanting there. 
 
 How solemn then this day's return 
 To all who for some loved one mourn ; 
 It soothes the heart, it sheds a grace 
 Of glory round that vacant place. 
 Which ever, on our brightest mood, 
 Will it& dull emptiness intrude. 
 366 
 
ALL-SAINTS' DAY. 
 
 It speaks of life's unfailing breath, 
 Where we, despondent, think of death ; 
 It tells of glory, and of gain. 
 Where we see loss and dreary pain ; 
 The upper world it doth reveal. 
 And what we see not makes us feel. 
 
 We breathe again the breath of flowers, 
 That round us bloomed in vanished hours ; 
 We commune with the spirit-band, 
 Walk with them thro' the happy land. 
 Still hear each old familiar tone. 
 And feel that they are still our own; — 
 
 And closer draw to Christ our Head, 
 Link of the living with the dead : 
 And, lifting up our hearts on high, 
 This All -Saints' benediction sigh — 
 "God give us grace, to see His face. 
 And meet our own in the happy place." 
 
 John S. B. Monsell. 
 
 ST. MATTHEW. 
 
 The tide of life was at its flow, 
 Kose higher day by day ; 
 
 But he a higher life would know 
 Then that which round him lay. 
 
 Saviour ! when prosperity 
 Makes this world hard to leave, 
 
 And all its * pomps and vanity' 
 Their meshes round us weave, 
 
 grant us grace, that to Thy call 
 
 We may obedient be ; 
 And, cheerfully forsaking all, 
 May follow only Thee ! 
 
 Same. 
 367 
 
TUESDAY IN WHITSUN-AVEEK. 
 
 All around the 
 
 Breath of Heav'n, of grace remind, 
 Whispering unto faith such reasons 
 
 As in Nature's Bock they find. 
 
 368 
 
TUESDAY IN WHITSUN-WEEK. 
 
 Gloomy Winter comes, and teaches 
 Unto all its tale of death, 
 
 Spring the Eesurrection preaches, 
 With its life-reviving breath. 
 
 Summer-blooms with glorious promise 
 Tell of manhood's opening day ; 
 
 Autumn comes, to gather from us 
 Golden harvests on life's way. 
 
 Gentle dews at evening falling 
 Tree, and leaf, and flow'r renew. 
 
 Grateful memory recalling 
 Of the Spirit's kindly dew. 
 
 God is all about us, guiding 
 Day by day His perfect plan. 
 
 And insensibly providing 
 
 For the thousand wants of man. 
 
 Stay the dews, or check the showers. 
 Let the sunshine cease to fall. 
 
 Wither hopes, and hearts, and flowers, 
 Buds and blossoms, wither all. 
 
 God is over, God is under, 
 
 God is all around our way. 
 Deeds of mercy, deeds of wonder, 
 
 Wait upon us day by day, 
 
 Not alone His Angels tend us. 
 With their kind and holy care, 
 
 Nature's influences befriend us. 
 Cherish faith, and answer prayer. 
 
 369 3 B 
 
TUESDAY IN WHITSUN-WEEK. 
 
 Messengers from Heaven, they teach us 
 All their wise and blessed parts, 
 
 If we only let them reach us 
 Thro' the doors of open hearts. 
 
 Thus not only in the shadow 
 
 Of His house, where we have knelt, 
 
 But in wood and sunny meadow, 
 Hill or dale, He's found and felt. 
 
 Wheresoe'er our footsteps wander, 
 Grace and Nature teach His love, 
 
 Guide us here, and lift us yonder, 
 Where He dwells in light above. 
 
 Holy Spirit ! morn and even, 
 
 Still and soft as gentle dew. 
 Drop into our souls from Heaven, 
 
 And their languid life renew. 
 
 Till each heart with Thee o'erflowing 
 
 Bends, like flowers surcharged with rain, 
 
 To arise, more glad and glowing, 
 In the light of HeaVn agam. 
 
 John S. B. Monsell. 
 
 370 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 At Salem, in America, two young Quakers, brother and sister, were fined ten pounds each, 
 for non-attendance at church, and were unable to pay. The General Court at Boston issued 
 an order empowering the Treasurer of the County "to sell the said persons to answer said 
 fines." The attempt to execute the order failed. 
 
 To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, 
 From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away, — 
 Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful Three, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free ! 
 
 Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, 
 Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars ; 
 In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night time. 
 My grated window whitened with Autumn's early rime. 
 
 Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; 
 Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; 
 No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be 
 The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea; 
 
 All night I sate unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow 
 The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, 
 Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, 
 Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold ! 
 
 Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there, — the shrinking and the shame ; 
 And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : 
 " Why sit'st thou thus forlornly ! " the wicked murmur said, 
 "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed? 
 
 371 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 *'Wliy sit'st thou here, Cassandra? Bethink thee with what mirth 
 Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth; 
 How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, 
 On eyes of mevTj girlhood, half hid in golden hair. 
 
 " And what a fate awaits thee ! a sadly toiling slave, 
 Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave ! 
 Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, 
 Ttie easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all ! " 
 
 Oh ! — ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears 
 "Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, 
 I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer 
 To feel — Oh, Helper of the weak ! that Thou indeed wert there ! 
 
 I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, 
 And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison-shackles fell. 
 Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an Angel's robe of white, 
 And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 
 
 Slow broke the cold gray morning; again the sunshine fell, 
 Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell ; 
 The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street 
 Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet. 
 
 At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast. 
 And slowly at the sheriff's side up the long street I passed ; 
 I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see. 
 How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me. 
 
 We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters brok'\ 
 On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock ; 
 The merchant ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high 
 Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky. 
 
 372 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped, and grave, and cold, 
 And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and bold. 
 And on his horse, with Eawson, his cruel clerk, at hand. 
 Sate dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. 
 
 Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff turning said : 
 "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker Maid] 
 In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore. 
 You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." 
 
 Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when again he cried, 
 
 " Speak out, my worthy seaman ! " no voice, no sign replied ; 
 
 But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear, — • 
 
 "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!" 
 
 A weight seemed lifted from my heart — a pitying friend was nigh, 
 I felt it in his hard, rough hand, I saw it in his eye; 
 And when again the sheriff spake, that voice so kind to me 
 Growled back his stormy answer like the roaring of the sea : 
 
 "Pile my ship with bars of silver — pack with coins of Spanish gold, 
 From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, 
 By the living God who made me ! I would sooner in your bay 
 Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away !" 
 
 "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" 
 
 Ean through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. 
 
 "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, 
 
 Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold'?" 
 
 I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, 
 Swept round the throng his lion-glare of bitter hate and scorn ; 
 Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back, 
 And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track. 
 
 373 
 
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 
 
 Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; 
 Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. 
 *'Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, 
 Judge ye if from their further work I be not well released." 
 
 Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay. 
 As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way ; 
 For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen. 
 And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. 
 
 Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, 
 A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, 
 A lovelier light on rock and hill, and stream and woodland lay, 
 And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. 
 
 Thanksgiving to the Lord of Life ! To Him all praises be. 
 Who from the hands of evil men hath set His handmaid free : 
 All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid. 
 Who takes the crafty in the snare, which for the poor is laid ! 
 
 Sing, oh, my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm 
 Uplift the loud thanksgiving — pour forth the grateful psalm ; 
 Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, 
 When of the Lord's good Angel the rescued Peter told. 
 
 And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, 
 The Lord shall smite the proud and lay His hand upon the strong. 
 Wo to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour ! 
 Wo to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour : 
 
 But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in heart be glad, 
 And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad, 
 For He who cooled the furnace and smoothed the stormy wave, 
 And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save. 
 
 374 John G. Whittier. 
 
MY PSALM. 
 
 All as God wills, who wisely heeds 
 
 To give or to withhold, 
 And knoweth more of all my needs 
 
 Than all my prayers have told ! 
 
 Enough that blessings undeserved 
 
 Have marked my erring track ; 
 That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, 
 
 His chastening turned me back ; 
 
 That more and more a Providence 
 
 Of love is understood, 
 Making the springs of time and sense 
 
 Sweet with eternal good : 
 
 That death seems but a covered way 
 
 Which opens into light, 
 Wherein no blinded child can stray 
 
 Beyond the Father's sight; 
 
 That care and trial seem at last. 
 
 Thro' Memory's sunset air, 
 Like mountain ranges over-past, 
 
 In purple distance fair : 
 
 That all the jarring notes of life 
 
 Seem blending in a psalm. 
 And all the angles of its strife 
 
 Slow rounding into calm. 
 
 And so the shadows fall apart, 
 
 And so the west winds play ; 
 And all the windows of my heart 
 
 I open to the day. WhiUier. 
 
 375 
 
THE AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 Behold the western evening light ! 
 
 It melts in deepening gloom ; 
 So calmly Christians sink away, 
 
 Descending to the tomb. 
 
 The winds breathe low ; the withering leaf 
 Scarce whispers from the tree ; 
 
 So gently flows the parting breath, 
 When good men cease to be. 
 
 How beautiful on all the hills. 
 The crimson light is shed ! 
 
 'Tis like the peace the Christian gives 
 To mourners round his bed. 
 376 
 
THE AUTUMN EVENING. 
 
 How mildly on the wandering crowd 
 
 The sunset beam is cast ! 
 'Tis like the memory left behind, 
 
 When loved ones breathe their last. 
 
 And now, above the dews of night, 
 
 The yellow star appears ; 
 So faith springs in the heart of those 
 
 Whose eyes are bathed in tears. 
 
 But soon the morning's happier light 
 
 Its glory shall restore, 
 And eyelids that are sealed in death 
 
 Shall wake, to close no more. 
 
 William Peahody. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP EAVENSCROFT. 
 
 The good old man is gone ! 
 He lies in his saintly rest, 
 
 And his labours all are done, 
 And the work that he loved the best. 
 
 The good old man is gone — 
 But the dead in the Lord are blest. 
 
 I stood in the holy aisle. 
 When he spake the solemn word 
 
 That bound him, through care and toil. 
 The servant of the Lord : 
 
 And I saw how the depths of his manly soul 
 By that sacred vow were stirred. 
 
 377 3 c 
 
ON THE DEATH OF BISHOP RAVENSCKOFT. 
 
 And nobly his pledge lie kept — 
 For the truth he stood up alone, 
 
 And his spirit never slept, 
 And his march was ever on ! 
 
 Oh ! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, 
 The brave old man that's gone. 
 
 There were heralds of the Cross, 
 By his bed of death that stood, 
 
 And heard how he counted all but loss, 
 For the gain of his Saviour's blood ; 
 
 And patiently waited his Master's voice, 
 Let it call him when it would. 
 
 The good old man is gone ! 
 An apostle's chair is void ; 
 
 There is dust on his mitre thrown, 
 And they break his pastoral rod ! 
 
 And the fold of his love he has left alone. 
 To account for its care to God. 
 
 The brave old man is gone ! 
 With his armour on he fell; 
 
 Nor a groan nor a sigh was drawn. 
 When his spirit fled, to tell ; 
 
 For mortal sufferings, keen and long, 
 Had no power his heart to quell. 
 
 The good old man is gone ! 
 He is gone to his saintly rest. 
 
 Where no sorrow can be known, 
 And no trouble can molest; 
 
 For his crown of life is won, 
 And the dead in Christ are blest ! 
 
 George W. Doane. 
 
 378 
 
FIELDS AND WOODS PEAISING GOD. 
 
 The kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field.— Matthew iii. 44. 
 
 All in a golden morning, 
 
 In the golden time of the year, 
 I roam, with the breeze upon my cheek, 
 
 And the lark's song in my ear : 
 The song of the musical lark ! 
 
 Falling fresh and clear, 
 Like a rain of tremulous melody 
 
 Through the dewy atmosphere ! 
 
 Sweet are earth's thousand voices, 
 
 Sweet are the songsters' lays, 
 Ringing around me as I stroll 
 
 Along the silent ways ; 
 And out of my heart's full happiness 
 
 I join the hymn of praise, 
 To Him that bought me for His own, " 
 
 And keepeth me all my days. 
 
 Oh ! wheresoever I wander, 
 
 By meadow, or stream, or lea. 
 Out on the open heath-lands. 
 
 Or under the greenwood tree, 
 Listing the strains of the country-side. 
 
 Or the roll of the stormy sea; 
 Teach me — Lord, my Master — 
 
 Teach me to think of Thee ! 
 379 
 
FIELDS AND WOODS PRAISING GOD. 
 
 Then, shut in the earth's deep bosom, 
 
 Let gems and treasures shine, 
 Brighter jewels shall gleam for me, 
 
 And a richer field be mine ; 
 Every voice of the beautiful earth 
 
 Shall chant me a song divine, 
 And the burden ever shall be, "0 Lord, 
 
 All that we have is Thine." 
 
 W. E, Littelwood. 
 
 380 
 
A BALLAD WITH A MOEAL. 
 
 Shaw mentions a well in Barbary with the inscription, Drink and away > the place 
 being infested by robbers. 
 
 Drink and away! 'twere sweet to lie 
 
 By fonntain-side, and dream 
 Of garden fair, of purple sky, 
 
 And ever-flowing stream ; 
 And pleasant now to weary limb 
 
 Tall grass in noon of day, 
 The shady palms so cool and dim — 
 
 But linger not. — Away ! 
 
 In Moorish land, on crystal well. 
 
 Lone traveller may see, 
 Where merchants sleep with camel bell. 
 
 The warning — " Drink and Flee." 
 Arrow from sounding bow may leap. 
 
 And wandering robber spear 
 Blaze on the tranquil hour of sleep. 
 
 By water soft and clear. 
 
 So Pilgrim o*er the waste of Earth 
 
 By Well of Pleasure lies. 
 And hears the wakeful harp of mirth. 
 
 Beholds the bright stars rise ; 
 Let him beware, in stealthy snare. 
 
 Foes of his soul at night 
 With poison'd darts may wound him there — 
 
 Drink ! — and away in flight ! 
 381 
 
A BALLAD WITH A MORAL. 
 
 In Hebrew land, by fountain brink, 
 
 Long vanish'd years ago, 
 A Holy Traveller stoop' d to drink 
 
 In summer evening's glow : — 
 He gave the stranger's lip a spring 
 
 That cheers in hottest day, 
 The Water of Life which Faith can bring, 
 
 Nor bids us, Drink ! — Away ! 
 
 Aris Willmott. 
 
 SATUEDAY EVENING. 
 
 From thy clear steep — Thought's border-tower- 
 While Mem'r/s rays th' horizon streak, 
 
 I gaze on brook, and tree, and flower. 
 That spot the journey of a week. 
 
 If but one fleeting hour well spent 
 
 The barren field of life inlays, 
 Like little sparkling streamlet, sent 
 
 To cheer worn grass in dusty ways : — 
 
 If one swift minute, upward turn'd 
 
 As leafy hamlet's sun-lit spire. 
 Lifted my heart to God, and burn'd 
 
 With one gleam of His hallow' d fire ! 
 
 While Folly's colour' d vapour flies, 
 
 And Pleasure's road winds out of sight, 
 
 I see that lustrous minute rise. 
 To gild thee with its parting light. 
 
 Thrice happy he whose foot ascends 
 
 Thy path o'er-shone by Sunday meek. 
 Dear Eve ! while calm and green extends 
 The fruitful landscape of the week ! 
 
 Same. 
 382 
 
THE LAST OF SEVEN. 
 
 Nat, be not angry, chide her not. 
 Although the child has err'd, 
 
 Nor bring the tears into her eyes. 
 By one ungentle word. 
 
 When that sweet linnet sang, before 
 
 Our summer roses died, 
 A sister's arm was round her neck, 
 
 A brother at her side. 
 383 
 
THE LAST OF SEVEK 
 
 But now in grief she walks alone, 
 
 By ev'ry garden bed ; 
 That sister's clasping arm is cold ; 
 
 That brother's voice is fled. 
 
 when she sits beside my chair, 
 With face so pale and meek, 
 And eyes bent o'er her book, I see 
 The tear upon her cheek. 
 
 Then chide her not ; but whisper now, 
 
 " Thy trespass is forgiven ; " — 
 How canst thou frown in that pale face 1 
 
 She is the last of seven ! 
 
 Aris WillmoU. 
 
 THE GOLDEN BOUGH. 
 
 The visit of iEneas to the Sibyl's cave, and the plucking of the Bough, which conducted 
 him to his father, are in the recollection of every reader. 
 
 The Dardan Wanderer, doom'd to flee 
 
 O'er ocean desert wide. 
 Still pin'd his father's face to see, 
 
 Still for his father sigh'd. 
 
 Long time he sigh'd, nor sigh'd in vain; 
 
 And now his heart beats high ; 
 Blest promise of the Sibyl-strain, 
 
 The lonely wood is nigh. 
 
 384 
 
THE GOLDEN BOUGH. 
 
 In doubt and fear he lingers — lo ! 
 
 He sees a shadow pass ; 
 Two doves in all their silver glow, 
 
 Alight upon the grass. 
 
 Dear messengers of hope from heaven, 
 
 Before his eyes they glide ; 
 And, look, — the sacred Bough is given ; 
 
 His father at his side ! 
 
 Sweet tale in fancy's colours drawn ; 
 
 And has the hand of Light 
 No moral of a fairer dawn 
 
 In picture-song to write 1 
 
 Have we no path of gloom to trace, 
 
 !N'o dark cave to descend, 
 No Bough death's gath'ring cloud to chase, 
 
 No Prophet for our friend ] 
 
 Have we no vanish'd face to seek 1 
 
 No hand that dried our tear 1 
 No lip that lov'd our childish cheek 1 
 
 No voice that sooth'd us here? 
 
 Though faded now the Eden rose. 
 
 Still, ever in its youth, 
 The Tree of Heavenly Wisdom grows. 
 
 In Paradise of Truth. 
 
 Pluck this bright Bough of gold ! and soon 
 
 By Dove of Beauty led. 
 Thy prayer shall reap a richer boon, 
 
 A Father crown thy head. 
 
 Arts Willmott. 
 
 386 3 D 
 
A CHILD TN PEAYEE. 
 
 Fold thy little hands in pray'r, 
 
 By thy listening mother's knee; 
 Now, while thy sunny face is fair, 
 Sweet-shining through thine auburn hair, 
 
 Thine eyes are frank and free ; 
 And loving thoughts, like garlands, bind 
 To thy dear home thy trusting mind. 
 
A CHILD IN PRAYER. 
 
 Thy young heart, as a summer bird, 
 
 All day warbles in its nest; 
 Nor evil thought, nor unkind word, 
 Life's chilling wintry winds, have stirr'd 
 
 The beauty of thy rest ; 
 But snow-time hastens, and decay 
 Will waste thy home, and numb thy lay. 
 
 Thy breast, a bower of bloom and dew, 
 
 Where Joy makes music at the door,- 
 And circled by her mirthful crew, 
 Hope, the May-queen, dances thro'. 
 
 Feeding thee with her sweet store. 
 Time those strings of joy will sever, 
 Hope may not dance on for ever. 
 
 Now thy fond mother's arm is spread 
 'Neath thy peaceful head at night, 
 
 And pausing feet creep round thy bed, 
 
 And o'er thy quiet face is shed 
 The taper's darken' d light ; 
 
 But that lov'd arm will pass away, 
 
 By thee no more those feet will stay, — 
 Then pray, Child, pray ! 
 
 Aris Willmott. 
 
 387 
 
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