CD GO C\J LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. GIFT OF THE SACRED POETS OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA, FOR THREE CENTURIES. EDITED BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD. Sllustratetr toftt Sbtel 'EiTflr NEW-YORK: D . A P P L E T N AND COMPANY, 200 BROADWAY. 1853. Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1848, B -^PLETON 21 JAMES BEATTIE. The Hermit 32J From an Elegy on the Death of a Lady 324 ANNE STEELE. A Morning Hymn 316 / Resignation 327 AUGUSTUS MONTAGUE TOPLADY. Hymn 388 JOHN SCOTT. TheSongofZion 329 The Tempestuous Evening 330 HANNAH MORE. Reflections of Hezekiah in his Sickness 331 Faith in Humble Life 336 Morning Hymn 336 ANNA LETIT1A BARBAULD. An Address to the Deity 338 Hymns 340 Love to God 341 For Easter Sunday 343 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. The Country Pastor 345 Prediction to Joshua relative to America 349 OHN QUINCY ADAMS. \ To a Bereaved Mother 351 Page The Hour-glass 353 / Lord of all Worlds 353 Why should I fear in Evil Days 355 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Intimations of Immortality, from Recollec- tions of Early Childhood 356 Ode to Duty 2 The Laborer's Noonday Hymn 363 Thought on the Seasons 364 Apostrophe to the Deity 365 To the Supreme Being 366 Jehovah the Provider 367 Latimerand Ridley 357 Exiled Reformers 367 New Churches 368 TheKirkofUlpha 363 The World is too much with us 36< JAMES MONTGOMERY. / The Grave 370 / The Stranger and his Friend 374 /On the Loss of Friends 375 Christ the Purifier 376 Life, Death, and Judgment 377 / WhatisPrayer 377 The Day after Judgment 378 Hallelujah 380 JAMES HOGG. The Covenanter's Scaffold Song 38 1 A Hebrew Melody 382 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. From " Religious Musings" 384 A Christmas Carol 388 ROBERT SOUTHEY. / Love 390 Affliction 391 / Remembrance 391 WILLIAM HERBERT. Hymn to Death 393 C. C. COLTON. Lite 396 REGINALD HEBER. The Passage of the Red Sea 398 / Thou art gone to the Grave 401 Hymn on the Creation 401 Hymn to the Seasons 402 The Followers of Christ 402 The Raising of the Widow's Son 403 Epiphany 404 Missions 405 BERNARD BARTON. Hiiman Life 406 Spiritual Worship 407 The Pool of Bethesda 408 Time's Takings and Leavings 410 Power and Benevolence 411 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. The Christian's Progress 418 Hymn 413 Sonnet 414 Faith 414 Lines written on Survey of the Heavens.... 415 CONTENTS. JOHN P1ERPONT. 'My Child Her Chosen Spot . . Jerusalem . . . Page .. 417 Page .. 482 GEORGE CROLY. The Stars 424 Jacob's Dream 425 A Dirge 426 ANDREWS NORTON. Written after the Death of Charles JEliot 428 Hymn 430 ''Fortitude 431 / Funeral Hymn 432 RICHARD H. DANA. Island oftheBucaniers 433 The Ocean 434 Daybreak 435 Intimations of Immortality 437 The Little Beach-bird 438 WILLIAM KNOX. Mortality 439 Youth and Age 441 The Atheist 442 To-morrow 443 JAMES A. H1LLHOUSE. Close of the Vision of Judgment 444 Hadad's Description of the City of Jerusalem. 446 Evening Music of tht Angels 447 HENRY HART M1LMAN. A Funeral Anthem 448 Hymn to the Saviour 449 The Crucifixion 451 The Judgment 452 The Merry Heart 453 BISHOP MA NT. Christian Consolation on the Death of Friends 454 True Knowledge 457 The Lord's Day 457 The House of God 457 The Village Church 458 The Church Bells 458 Social Worship 459 Prayer 459 FELICIA J1.3MANS. The Aged Patriarch 461 Christ stilling the Tempest 462 A Domestic Scene 463 I The Better Land 464 The Hour of Death 465 Hymn of the Mountain Christian 466 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Barzillai the Gileadite 468 I Death of an Infant 470 The Church Bell 470 The Tree of Love 471 Death of a Friend 472 / "Lord, remember us" 473 CARLOS WILCOX. The Sabbath 475 God's Omnipresent Agency 476 Rousseau and Cowp>r 477 The Cure of Melancholy 479 Live for Eternity ... ... 481 JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. The Restoration of Israel The Pneuma 483 Part of the Nineteenth Psalm 484 W. B. O. PEA BODY. Hymn of Nature 486 Death 488 Autumn Evening ... ...489 HERBERT KNOWLES. The Three Tabernacles. . GEORGE W. DOANE. 'The Voice of Rama The Waters of Marah What is that, Mother" " A Cherub Lines by the Lake-side ' The Christian's Death JOHN KEBLE. Morning .............. ; Autumn The Flowers of the Field Address to Poets The United States 497 499 500 508 503 505 509 511 512 514 ROBERT POLLOK. Byron Praise ............. Pride JOHN MOULTRIE. ' The Three Sons To the Rev. Dr. Chalmers GEORGE W. BETHUNE. f To my Mother .............................. 515 Night Study ............................... 517 Lines written on s?einr Thorwaldsen's bas- relief representing Night .................. 518 WILLIAM CROSWELL. The Synagogue ............................ 520 The Clouds ................................ 521 The Ordinal ................................ 522 Christmas Eve .............................. 524 The Death of Stephen ...................... 525 The Christmas Offering ..................... 5*5 JOHN G. WHITTIER. Palestine ................................... 526 The Female Martyr ......................... 528 SIR ROBERT GRANT. Lines Trust in the Saviour ........ .531 532 .132 Prayer WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ^ " Blessed are they that Mourn" 14 "No Man knoweth his Sepulchre" 53$ The Future Life 535 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. Hymn to the Redeemer 537 American Missions 539 Right glad was 1 540 Berkeley 541 Old Churches 542 The Heart 'sSonsr 543 The Chimes of England 544 ISAAC WILLIAMS. Translation of the Ancient Hymn, " Dies Irae, Dies Ilia" 546 THE SACRED POETS OF ENGLAND AND AMERICA GEORGE GASCOIGNE. THIS poet, who was born in 1540, is very justly placed among the worthies of early English poetical literature. He was bred to the law, but quitted it, and served with distinction against the Spaniards. His principal work is " The Fruits of War," which relates to the adven- tures of his voyage. In his youth he was a profligate, but he lived to amend his ways, and became a wise and good man. He died in a religious, calm, and happy frame of mind, in 1577. The writings of Gascoigne are more the result of observation than of creative genius. For the age in which he lived, the verse is uncommonly smooth, flowing, and unaffected. DE PROFUNDIS. FROM depth of dole, wherein my soul doth dwell, From heavy heart, which harbors in my breast, From troubled sprite, which seldom taketh rest, From hope of heaven, from dread of darksome hell, O gracious God, to thee I cry and yell : My God, my Lord, my lovely Lord, alone To thee I call, to thee I make my moan. And thou, good God, vouchsafe in grace to take This woful plaint Wherein I faint ; Oh ! hear me, then, for thy great mercy's sake. 10 GEORGE GASCOIGNE. Oh ! bend thine ears attentively to hear, Oh ! turn thine eyes, behold me how I wail ! Oh ! hearken, Lord, give ear for mine avail, Oh ! mark in mind the burdens that I bear ; See how I sink in sorrows everywhere. Behold and see what dolors I endure, Give ear and mark what plaints I put in ure ; ! Bend willing ears ; and pity therewithal My willing voice, Which hath no choice But evermore upon thy name to call. If thou, good Lord, shouldst take thy rod in hand, If thou regard what sins are daily done, If thou take hold where we our works begun, If thou decree in judgment for to stand, And be extreme to see our 'scuses 2 scanned ; If thou take note of every thing amiss, And write in rolls how frail our nature is, O glorious God, King, Prince of power ! What mortal wight May thus have light To feel thy power, if thou have list to lower ? But thou art good, and hast of mercy store, Thou not delight'st to see a sinner fall, Thou hearkenest first, before we come to call, Thine ears are set wide open evermore, Before we knock thou comest to the door ; \ Thou art more prest to hear a sinner cry Than he is quick to climb to thee on high. Thy mighty name be praised then alway, Let faith and fear True witness bear, How fast they stand which on thy mercy stay. 1 Use. * Excuses. GEORGE GASCOIGNE. 11 I look for thee, my lovely Lord, therefore For thee I wait, for thee I tarry still, Mine eyes do long to gaze on thee my fill. For thee I watch, for thee I pry and pore, My soul for thee attendeth evermore. My soul doth thirst to take of thee a taste, My soul desires with thee for to be placed. And to thy words, which can no man deceive, Mine only trust, My love and lust, In confidence continually shall cleave. Before the break or dawning of the day, Before the light be seen in lofty skies, Before the sun appear in pleasant wise, Before the watch, (before the watch, I say,) Before the ward that waits therefore alway, My soul, my sense, my secret thought, my sprite. My will, my wish, my joy, and my delight, Unto the Lorfl, that sits in heaven on high, With hasty wing From me doth fling, And striveth still unto the Lord to fly. Israel ! household of the Lord ! O Abraham's sons ! brood of blessed seed ! chosen sheep, that love the Lord indeed ! hungry hearts ! feed still upon his word, And put your trust in Him with one accord. For He hath mercy evermore at hand, His fountains flow, his springs do never stand ; And plenteously He loveth to redeem Such sinners all As on Him call, And faithfully his mercies most esteem. 12 EDMUND SPENSER. He 'will redeem our deadly, drooping state, He will bring home the sheep that go astray, He will help them that hope in Him alway, He will appease our discord and debate, He will soon save, though we repent us late. He will be ours, if we continue his, He will bring bale 1 to joy and perfect bliss ; He will redeem the flock of his elect From all that is Or was amiss Since Abraham's heirs did first his laws reject. EDMUND SPENSER. EDMUND SPENSER was born in London about 1553. He was edu- cated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge. He has been styled, by way of pre-eminence, the DIVINE POET OF ENGLAND. This may, perhaps, be somewhat incorrect ; his writings have, however, a pure, elevating, and beautiful spirit of humanity ; and his " Divine Hymns," it has been well remarked, are indeed divine. Spenser was made Secretary of Ireland, and he obtained a grant of lands forfeited in the county of Cork. On the breaking out of Tyrone's rebellion, he was obliged to abandon his home so abruptly, that one of his children perished in the flames which consumed his dwelling. He died shortly after, it is said of a broken heart, in 1599 ; and was buried, by his own desire, near the tomb of Chaucer, in Westminster Abbey. Spenser himself de- scribes his great poem, " The Fairy Queen," in a letter to Sir Walter Raleigh, as a continual allegory, or dark conceit ; the aim of " all the book" baing " to fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline." An edition of all the works of Spenser has re- cently been published in Boston, edited with great taste and judgment by Mr. George Hillard of that city. There is a discriminating article upon Spenser in the thirty-second volume of The Quarterly Review, by the author of " The Christian Year." 1 Misery. EDMUND SPENSER. 13 HEAVENLY LOVE. LOVE ! lift me up upon thy golden wings From this base world unto thy heaven's height, Where I may see those admirable things Which there thou workest by thy sovereign might, Far above feeble reach of earthly sight, That I thereof an heavenly hymn may sing Unto the God of Love, high heaven's King. Before this world's great frame, in which all things Are now contained, found any being place, Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas 1 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, moved in itself by love. It loved itself because itself was fair, (For fair is loved,) 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, was to be found, Whom He therefore with equal honor crowned. 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 Sprite, Whose kingdom's throne no thoughts of earthly wight Can comprehend, much less my trembling verse With equal words can hope it to rehearse. Eyas, young, newly fledged ; a young hawk uot fit for flight 2 14 EDMUND SPENSER. Yet, most blessed Spirit ! pure lamp of light, Eternal spring of grace and wisdom true, Vouchsafe to shed into my barren sprite Some little drop of thy celestial dew, That may my rhymes with sweet infuse imbrue, And give me words equal unto my thought, To tell the marvels by thy mercy wrought. 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 glist'ning glorious in their Maker's light. To show the heaven's illimitable height, (Not this round heaven which we from hence behold,} Adorned 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 arid night. Both day and night is unto them all one, For He his beams doth unto them extend, That darkness there appeareth never none ; Nor hath their day, nor hath their bliss, an end, But there their timeless time in pleasure spend ; Nor ever should their happiness decay Had they not dared the Lord to disobey. EDMUND SPENSER. l5 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, e'en the child of light, Drew millions more against their God to fight. The Almighty, seeing their so bold assay, Kindled the flame of his consuming 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, Next to Himself in glorious degree, Degenering 1 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 ? 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 these angels' fall, Cast to supply the same, and to install A new and unknown colony therein, Whose root from earth's base groundwork should begin. Therefore of clay, base, vile, and next to naught, Yet formed by wondrous skill, and by his might, According to an heavenly pattern wrought, Which He had fashioned in his wise foresight, He man did make, and breathed a living sprite Degenerating. EDMUND SPENSER. 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. But man, forgetful of his Maker's grace, No less than angels whom he did ensue, 1 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 forever 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 accursed In that deep horror of despairing hell, Him wretch in dole 2 would let no longer dwell, But cast out of that bondage to redeem And pay the price, all 3 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 demiss 4 And abject thrall, in flesh's frail attire, That He for him might pay sin's deadly hire, And him restore into that happy state In which he stood before his hapless fate. 1 Follow. * Sorrow. Although. * Humble. EDMUND SPENSER. 1*7 In flesh at first the guilt committed was, Therefore in flesh it must be satisfied ; Nor spirit, nor angel, though they man surpass, Could make amends to God for man's misguide, But only man himself, whose self did slide : So taking flesh of sacred virgin's womb, For man's dear sak He did a man become. And that most blessed body, which was born Without all blemish or reproachful blame, He freely gave to be both rent and torn Of cruel hands, who, with despiteful shame Reviling Him that them most vile became, At length Him nailed on a gallow-tree, And slew the just by most unjust decree. 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 belight, 1 How can we thee requite for all this good ? Or what can prize that thy most precious blood ? Yet naught thou ask'st in lieu of all this love But love of us, for guerdon 2 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 again ? He gave us life, He it restored lost ; Then life were least that us so little cost. But He our life hath left unto us free, Free that was thrall, and blessed that was banned, 3 Nor aught demands but that we loving be, As He himself hath loved us aforehand, And bound thereto with an eternal band 1 Named. a Reward. ' Cursed 2* 18 EDMUND SPENSER. 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 seconfl death did save ; And cast 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 we 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. 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 is his last bequest He to us spake, 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 1 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. 1 Counsel. EDMCND SPENSER. 19 Then rouse thyself, Earth ! out of thy soil, in which thou wallowest 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, 1 That thou in sovereign bounty mayst behold, And read through love his mercies manifold. Begin from first where He encradled was In simple cratch, 2 wrapped in a wad of hay Between the wilful ox and humble ass ; And in what rags, and in how base array, The glory of our heavenly riches lay, When Him the silly shepherds came to see, Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee. From thence read in the story of his life His humble carriage, his unfaulty ways, His cankered foes, his fights, his toil, his strife, His pains, his poverty, his sharp assays, Through which He passed his miserable days, Offending none, and doing good to all, Yet being maliced both of great and small. And look, at last, how of most wretched wights He taken was, betrayed, and false accused ; How with lies, scornful taunts, and fell despites He was reviled, disgraced, and foul abused ; How scourged, how crowned, how buffeted, how bruised ; And lastly, how 'twixt robbers crucified, With bitter wound 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 1 Eyes. 2 Manger. 20 EDMUND SPENSER. At sight of his most sacred heavenly corse, So torn and mangled with malicious force ; And let thy soul, whose sins and sorrows wrought, Melt into tears, and groan in grieved thought. With sense thereof, while thy so softened spirit Is inly touched and humbled 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 with 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 possessed, And ravished 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. Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee die, And all earth's glory on which men do gaze Seem dust 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 sprite. EDMUND SPENSER. 21 Then shall thy ravished soul inspired be, With heavenly thoughts, far above human skill ; And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see Th' 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. FROM THE HYMN OF HEAVENLY BEAUTY. BUT whoso may, thrice happy man him hold, Of all on earth, whom God so much doth grace, And lets his own beloved to behold ; For in the view of her celestial face All joy, all bliss, all happiness have place : Not aught on earth can want unto'the wight, Who of herself can win the wishful sight. For she out of her secret treasury Plenty of riches forth on him will pour, E'en heavenly riches, which there hidden lie, Within the closet of her chastest bower, Th' eternal portion of her precious dower, Which mighty God hath given to her free, And to all those which thereof worthy be. None thereof worthy be but those whom she Vouchsafeth to her presence to receive, And letteth them her lovely face to see, Whereof such wondrous pleasures they conceive, And sweet contentment, that it doth bereave Their soul of sense, through infinite delight, And them transport from flesh into the sprite ; In which they see such admirable things, As carries them into an ecstasy, And hear such heavenly notes and carolings 22 EDMUND SPENSER. Of God's high praise, that fills the brazen sky, And feel such joy and pleasure inwardly, That maketh them all worldly cares forget, And only think on that before them set. Nor from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense, Or idle thought of earthly things, remain ; But all that erst seemed sweet seems now offence, And all that pleased erst now seems to pain ; Their joy, their comfort, their desire, their gain, Is fixed all on that which now they see ; All other sights but feigned shadows be. And that fair lamp, which useth to inflame The hearts of men with self-consuming fire, Thenceforth seems foul and full of sinful blame ; And all that pomp to which proud men aspire By name of honor, and so much desire, Seems to them baseness, and all riches dross, And all mirth sadness, and all lucre loss. So full their eyes are of that glorious sight, And senses fraught with such satiety, That in naught else on earth they can delight, But in th' respect of that felicity, Which they have written in their inward eye, On which they feed, and in their fattened mind, All happy joy and full contentment find. Ah, then, my hungry soul ! which long hast fed On idle fancies of thy foolish thought, And, with false beauties' flattering bait misled, Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought, Which all are fled, and now have left thee naught But late repentance, through thy follies' prief ;' Ah ! cease to gaze on matter of thy grief, 1 Proof. EDMUND SPENSER. And look at last up to that Sovereign Light, From whose pure beams all perfect beauty springs, That kindleth love in every godly sprite, Even the love of God, which loathing brings Of this vile world and these gay-seeming things ; With whose sweet pleasures being so possessed, Thy straying thoughts henceforth forever rest. THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. AND is there care in heaven, and is there love In Jieavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move ? There is, else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts. But, oh ! th' exceeding grace Of highest God that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercy doth embrace, /That blessed angels He sends to and fro \To serve to wicked men, to serve his wicked foe ! How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succor us, that succor want ! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! They for us fight, they watch, and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant, And all for love, and nothing for reward : Oh ! why should heavenly God to man have such regard ! WISDOM, TRUE RICHES. Ix vain do men The heavens of their fortune's fault accuse, Sith they know best what is the best for them ; For they to each such fortune do diffuse As they do know each can most aptly use. 24 MICHAEL DRAYTON. For not that which men covet most is best, Nor that thing worst which men do most refuse ; But fittest is, that all contented rest With that they hold : each hath his fortune in his breast. It is the mind that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch 1 or happy, rich or poor ; For some that hath abundance at his will, Hath not enough, but wants in greater store ; And other, that hath little, asks no more, But in that little is both rich and wise ; For wisdom is most riches : fools therefore They are which fortune do by vows devise, Sith each unto himself his life may fortunize. MICHAEL DRAYTON. THIS poet was born at Harshull, in the county of Warwick, about the year 1563. We can only discover these facts concerning his life : that in boyhood he was placed as page with some honorable person, that he studied at Oxford, that Sir Henry Gooden, of Poles- worth, was his patron, that in his latter days, Sir Walter Aston, of Tixal, Staffordshire, loved his company, and was his friend ; and that he was made Laureate, to which office, at that time, there was no emolument attached. His principal works are the " Poly-Olbion," " The Barons' Wars," " England's Heroic Epistles," " Legends," and " Minor Poems," among which is " The Birth and Miracles of Moses," all of which bear abundant proofs of erudition and genius. He died in 1631. MOSES MEETING THE DAUGHTERS OF JETHRO. To Midian now his pilgrimage he took, Midian, earth's only paradise for pleasures ; Where many a soft rill, many a sliding brook, Through the sweet valleys trip in wanton measures ; 1 Wretched. MICHAEL DRAYTON. 25 Where as the curled groves and flowery fields To his free soul so peaceable and quiet, More true delight and choice contentment yields Than Egypt's braveries and luxurious diet : And wandering long he happened on a well, Which he by paths frequented might espy, Bordered with trees where pleasure seemed to dwell, Where, to repose him easily, down doth lie : Where the soft winds did mutually embrace In the cool arbors nature there had made, Fanning their sweet breath gently in his face, Through the calm cincture of the amorous shade : Till now it nighed the noon-stead of the day, When scorching heat the gadding herds do grieve, When shepherds now, and herdsmen every way, Their thirsting cattle to the fountain drive : Amongst the rest seven shepherdesses went Along the way for watering of their sheep, Whose eyes him seemed such reflections sent As made the flocks more white that they did keep Girls that so goodly and delightful were, The fields were fresh and fragrant in their view, Winter was as the spring-time of the year, The grass so proud that in their footsteps grew : Daughters they were unto a holy man, (And worthy, too, of such a sire to be,) Jethro, the priest of fertile Midian, Few found so just, so righteous man as he. But see the rude swain, the untutored slave, Without respect or reverence to their kind, Away their fair flocks from the water drave ; Such is the nature of the barbarous hind. 3 MICHAEL DRAYTON. The maids, perceiving where a stranger sat, Of whom those clowns so basely did esteem, Were in his presence discontent thereat, Whom he perhaps improvident might deem ; Which he perceiving, kindly doth entreat, Reproves the rustics for that offered wrong, Averring it an injury too great ; To such, of right, all kindness did belong. But finding well his oratory fail, His fists about him frankly he bestows ; That where persuasion could not late prevail, He yet compelleth quickly by his blows. Entreats the damsels their abodes to make, With courtly semblance and a manly grace, At their fair pleasures quietly to take What might be had by freedom of the place. Whose beauty, shape, and courage they admire, Exceeding these the honor of his mind ; For what in mortal could their hearts desire That in this man they did not richly find ? Returning sooner than their usual hour, All that had happened to their father told : That such a man relieved them by his power, As one all civil courtesy that could : Who full of bounty, hospitably meek, Of his behavior greatly pleased to hear ; Forthwith commands his servants him to seek, To honor him by whom his honored were : Gently receives him to his goodly seat, Feasts him, his friends and families among, And with him all those offices entreat, That to his place and virtues might belong : MICHAEL DUAYTON. 27 Whilst in the beauty of those goodly dames, Wherein wise nature her own skill admires, He feeds those secret and unpiercing flames, Nursed in fresh youth and gotten in desires : Won with this man, this princely priest to dwell, For greater hire than bounty could devise ; For her whose praise, makes praise itself excel, Fairer than fairness, and as wisdom wise : In her, her sisters severally were seen, Of every one she was the rarest part, Who in her presence any time had been, Her angel eye transpierced, not her heart. For Zipporah, a shepherd's life he leads, And in her sight deceives the subtil hours ; And for her sake oft roves the flowery meads With those sweet spoils to enrich her rural bowers. Up to Mount Horeb with his flock he took, The flock wise Jethro willed him to keep ; Which well he guarded with his shepherd's crook, Goodly the shepherd, goodly were the sheep : To feed and fold full warily he knew, From fox and wolf his wandering flocks to free. The goodliest flowers that in the meadows grew, Were not more fresh and beautiful than he. Gently his fair flocks lessowed he along, Through the trim pastures freely at his leisure, Now on the hills, the valleys then among, Which seem themselves to offer to his pleasure ; Whilst feathered sylvans from each blooming spray, With murmuring waters whistling as they creep, Make him such music to abridge the way, As fits a shepherd company to keep. 28 MICHAEL DRAYTOlf. When, lo ! that great and fearful God of might To that fair Hebrew strangely doth appear, In a bush, burning visible and bright, Yet unconsuming, as no fire there were : With hair erected, and upturned eyes, Whilst he, with great astonishment admires, Lo ! that Eternal Rector of the skies Thus breathes to Moses from those quickening fires : " Shake off thy sandals," saith the thundering God, " With humbled feet my wondrous power to see ; For that the soil where thou hast boldly trod, Is most select and hallowed unto me : " The righteous Abraham for his God me knew, Isaac and Jacob trusted in my name, And did believe my covenant was true, Which to their seed shall propagate the same. " My folk that long in Egypt had been barred, Whose cries have entered heaven's eternal gate, Our zealous mercy openly hath heard, Kneeling in tears at our Eternal State ; " And am come down, then, in the land to see, Where streams of milk through fruitful valleys flow, And luscious honey dropping from the tree, Load the full flowers that in their shadows grow : " By thee my power am purposed to try, That from rough bondage shalt the Hebrews bring, Bearing that great and fearful embassy To that monarchaic and imperious king. " And on this mountain, standing in thy sight, When thou returnest from that conquered land, Thou hallowed altars unto me shalt light, This for a token certainly shall stand." MICHAEL DRAYTON. 29 VIRTUE NOT HEREDITARY. THAT height and godlike purity of mind Resteth not still where titles most adorn ; With any, not peculiarly confined To names, and to be limited doth scorn : Man doth the most degenerate from kind, Richest and poorest, both alike are born ; And to be always pertinently good, Follows not still the greatness of our blood. Pity it is, that to one virtuous man That mark him lent, to gentry to advance, Which, first by noble industry he wan, His baser issue after should enhance ; And the rude slave not any good that can Such should thrust down by what is his by chance. As had not he been first that him did raise, Ne'er had his great heir wrought his grandsire's praise. You that but boast your ancestor's proud style, And the large stem whenqe your vain greatness grew; When you yourselves are ignorant and vile, Nor glorious thing dare actually pursue, That all good spirits would utterly exile, Doubting their worth should else discover you, Giving yourselves unto ignoble things Base, I proclaim you, though derived from kings. Virtue, but poor, God in this earth doth place, 'Gainst this rude world to stand upon his right; To suffer sad affliction and disgrace, Not ceasing to pursue her with despite : Yet when of all she is accounted base, And seeming in most miserable plight, Out of her power new life to her doth take : Least then dismayed, when all do her forsake. 3* 30 SIR HENRY WOTTON. That is the man of an undaunted spirit, For her dear sake that offereth him to die ; For whom when him the world doth disinherit, Looketh upon it with a pleased eye ; What's done for virtue thinking it doth merit, Daring the proudest menaces defy ; More worth than life, howe'er the base world rate him, Beloved of heaven, although the world doth hate him. SIR HENRY WOTTON. THIS elegant writer was born in Kent, in 1 568. He was appointed to several public offices in the reign of Elizabeth ; but after a while he fell into disgrace, and then he lived abroad, till the accession of James I., when he was appointed ambassador to Venice. He was the author of a variety of works, chiefly upon political subjects ; of some of a re- ligious character, and of a few poetical pieces of great beauty. He died in 1640. FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD. FAREWELL, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ; Farewell, ye honored rags, ye glorious bubbles ; Fame's but a hollow echo ; gold, pure clay ; Honor, the darling but of one short day ; Beauty, the eye's idol, a damasked skin ; State, but a golden prison to live in, And torture free-born minds ; embroidered trains, Merely but pageants for proud swelling veins ; And blood allied to greatness is alone Inherited, not purchased, nor our own : Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth, Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. SIR HENRY WOTTON. 31 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, while 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 ; scorned, if poor ; Great, feared ; fair, tempted ; high, still envied more, I have wished all ; but now I wish for neither Great, high, rich', wise, nor fair, -poor I'll be rather. 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, bowed knees, strike justice dumb, As well as blind and lame, or give a tongue To stones by epitaphs ; be called " Great Master," In the loose rhymes of every poetaster ; Could I be more than any man that lives, Great, fair, rich, wise, in all 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 winged people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring ; A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass, In which I will adore sweet Virtue's face. 32 SIR HENRY WOTTON. Here dwell no hateful looks, no palace-cares, No broken vows dwell here, nor pale-faced 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. THE HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will, Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill ! Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the worldly care Of public fame or private breath. Who envies none that chance doth raise, Or vice ; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good. Who hath his life from rumors freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat, Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great. Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands ; And having nothing, yet hath all. BARNABE BARNES. 33 BARNABE BARNES. THIS Poet, who was flattered by his friends with the title of " Pe- trarch's Scholar," was a younger son of Dr. Richard Barnes, bishop of Durham, and was bora about the year 1569. He left Oxford with- out a degree, and afterwards accompanied the expedition sent into France under the Earl of Essex, in 1591. He was then a little more than twenty-one years of age, and in the bur years of his absence he wrote his " Divine Centurie of Spiritual Sonnets," first published in 1595. CONTENT. AH ! sweet Content, where is thy mild abode ? Is it with shepherds and light-hearted swains, Which sing upon the downs and pipe abroad, Leading their flocks and calling unto plains ! Ah ! sweet Content, where dost thou safely rest ? In heaven with angels which the praises sing Of Him that made and rolls at his behest, The minds, and parts of every living thing ! Ah ! sweet Content, where doth thine harbor hold ? Is it in churches with religious men Which praise the Gods with prayers manifold, And in their studies meditate it then ? Whether thou dost in heaven or earth appear, Be where thou wilt, thou wilt not harbor here. PRAYER. UNTO my spirit lend an angel's wing, By which it might mount to that place of rest, Where Paradise may me relieve oppressed : Lend to my tongue an angel's voice to sing TSiy praise my comfort ; and forever bring My notes thereof from the bright East to West ; Thy mercy lend unto my soul distressed, 34 SIR JOHN DAVIES. Thy grace unto my wits ; then shall the sling Of righteousness that monster Sathan kill, Who with despair my dear salvation dared ; And, like the Philistine, stood breathing still Proud threats against my soul for heaven prepared. At length I like an angel shall appear In spotless white, an angel's robe to wear. SIR JOHN DAVIES. SIR JOHN DAVIES was born at Tisbury in Wiltshire, in 1570. Ho was educated at Oxford, and after having been called to the bar, he was expelled, and returned to the University. While here, he com- posed his principal work, a poem entitled " The Immortality of the Soul." A few years after he was sent to Parliament, and restored to his rank at the bar. He filled several judicial offices in Ireland, under James I., and was finally appointed Chief Justice of the King's Bench, but he died before he could undertake the duties of the office. This happened in 1626. He was the author of several works upon histori- cal and legal subjects, but is here noticed on account of his noble poem, " The Immortality of the Soul," which is remarkable for the clear and logical conduct of the argument, and, considering the age in which it was written, for the smooth and equable flow of the verse. Mr. Wilmot observes, " While Shakspere was peopling the stage with picturesque pageantry, and Spenser, in the zenith of his reputation, was irradiating the intellectual atmosphere with the sunshine of his beautiful imagination, Davies struck into a path in which he had no forerunner, and cannot be said to have had any successor." FALSE AND TRUE KNOWLEDGE. WHY did my parents send me to the schools, That I with knowledge might enrich my mind, Since the desire to know first made men fools, And did corrupt the root of all mankind ? SIR JOHN DAVIE3. 35 For when God's hand had written in the hearts Of the first parents all the rules of good, So that their skill infused, did pass all arts That ever were, before, or since the flood ; And when their reason's eye was sharp and clear, And (as an eagle can behold the sun) Could have approached the eternal light as near As th' intellectual angels could have done ; E'en then to show, the spirit of lies suggests, That they were blind because they saw not ill ; And breathed into their uncorrupted breasts A curious wish which did corrupt their will. For that same ill they did desire to know, Which ill being naught but a defect of good, In all God's works the devil could not show, While man their lord in his perfection stood. So that themselves were first to do the ill, Ere they thereof the knowledge could attain, Like him that knew not poison's power to kill, Until (by tasting it) himself was slain. E'en so by tasting of that fruit forbid, Where they sought knowledge, they did error find ; 111 they desired to know, and ill they did ; And to give passion eyes, made reason blind. For then their minds did first in passion see Those wretched shapes of misery and wo Of nakedness, of shame, of poverty, Which then their own experience made them know. But then grew reason dark, that she no more Could the fair forms of good and truth discern ; Bats they became, that eagles were before, And this they got by their desire to learn. 36 SIR JOHN DAVIES. But we, their wretched offspring, what do we ? Do not we still taste of the fruit forbid, Whilst with fond fruitless curiosity In books profane we seek for knowledge hid ? What is this knowledge, but thj sky-stolen fire, For which the thief still chained in ice doth sit ? And which the poor rude satyr. did admire, And needs would kiss, but burnt his lips with it ? In fine, what is it, but the fiery coach, Which the youth sought and found his death withal ? Or the boy's wings, which when he did approach The sun's hot beams, did melt and let him fall ? And yet, alas, when all our lamps are burned, Our bodies wasted, and our spirits spent ; When we have all the learned volumes turned Which yield men's wits both help and ornament ; What can we know ? or what can we discern, When error chokes the windows of the mind ? The divers forms of things, how can we learn, That have been even from our birthday blind ? When Reason's lamp, which (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 these beams of knowledge clear* Which were infused in the first minds by grace ? So might the heir, whose father hath in play Wasted a thousand pounds of ancient rent, By painful earnings of one groat a day, Hope to restore the patrimony spent. SIR JOHN DAVIES. 37 The wits that dived most deep and soared 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." For this the wisest of all mortal men Said, he knew naught, but that he naught did know ; And the great mocking-master mocked not then When he said truth was buried deep below. For how may we to other things attain, When none of us his own soul understands ? For which the devil mocks our curious brain, When " Know thyself," his oracle commands. For why should we the busy soul believe When boldly she concludes of that and this, When of herself she can no judgment give, Nor how, nor whence, nor where, nor what she is ? All things without, which round about we see, We seek to know and how therewith to do ; But that whereby we reason, live, and be, Within ourselves, we strangers are thereto. We seek to know the moving of each sphere, And the strange cause of th' ebbs and floods of Nile But of that clock within our breasts we bear, The sable motions we forget the while. We that acquaint ourselves with every zone, And pass both tropics, and behold each pole, When we come home, are to ourselves unknown, And unacquainted still with our own soul. We study speech, but others we persuade ; We leech-craft learn, but others cure with it ; We interpret laws which other men have made, But read not those which in our hearts are writ. 4 38 SIR JOHN DAVIES. Is it because the mind is like the eye, Through which it gathers knowledge by degrees, Whose rays reflect not, but spread outwardly, Not seeing itself, when other things it sees ? No, doubtless ; for the mind can backward cast Upon herself her understanding's light ; But she is so corrupt and so defaced, "As her own image doth herself affright. As is the fable of the lady fair, Which for her sin was turned into a cow, When thirsty to a stream she did repair, And saw herself transformed, she knew not how : At first she startles, then she stands amazed ; At last with terror she from thence doth fly, And loathes the watery glass wherein she gazed, And shuns it still, though she for thirst doth die : E'en so man's soul, which did God's image bear, And was, at first, fair, good, and spotless pure, Since with her sins her beauties blotted were, Doth of all sights her own sight least endure : For e'en at first reflection she espies Such strange chimeras, and such monsters there, Such toys, such antics, and such vanities, As she retires, and shrinks for shame and fear ; And as the man loves least at home to be That hath a sluttish house, haunted with sprites, So she, impatient her own faults to see, Turns from herself and in strange things delights. For this few know themselves : for merchants broke View their estate with discontent and pain ; And seas are troubled when they do revoke Their flowing waves into themselves again. SIR JOHN DAVIES. 39 And while the face of outward things we find Pleasing and fair, agreeable and sweety 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 touched, seek their web's 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 all books, Or all the learned schools that ever were. This mistress lately plucked me by the ear, And many a golden lesson hath me taught ; Hath made my senses quick and reason clear, Reformed my will and rectified my thought. So do the winds and thunder cleanse the air ; So working lees settle and purge the wine ; So lopped and pruned trees do flourish fair ; So doth the fire the drossy gold refine. Neither Minerva, nor the learned muse, Nor rules of art, nor precepts of the wise, Could in my brain those beams of skill infuse, As but the glance of this dame's angry eyes. She within lists my ranging mind hath brought, That now beyond myself I will not go ; Myself am centre of my circling thought, Only myself I study, learn, and know. 40 SIR JOHN DAVIES. I know my body's of so frail a kind, As force without, powers within, can kill ; I know the heavenly nature of my mind, But 'tis corrupted both in wit and will. I know myself hath power to know all things, Yet is she blind and ignorant in all ; I know I'm one of nature's little kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. I know my life's a pain, and but a span ; I know my sense is mocked in every thing ; And to conclude, I know myself a man, Which is a proud, and yet a wretched thing. THE SOUL. THE lights of heaven (which are the world's fair eyes) Look down into the world, the world to see ; And as they turn or wander in the skies, Survey all things that on this centre be. And yet the lights which in my tower do shine, Mine eyes which view all objects nigh and far, Look not unto this little world of mine, Nor see my face wherein they fixed are. Since nature fails in us no needful thinw. G " Why want I means my inward self to see ? Which sight the knowledge of myself might bring, Which to true wisdom is the first degree. That power which gave my eyes the world to view, To view myself infused an inward light, Whereby my soul, as by a mirror true, Of her own form may take a perfect sight. But as the sharpest eye discerneth naught Except the sunbeams in the air do shine ; So the best soul with her reflecting thought Sees not herself without some light divine. SIR JOHN DAVIES. 41 Oh ! Light which makest the light, which makes the day ! Which settest the eye without, and mind within, Lighten my soul with one clear heavenly ray, Which now to view itself doth first begin. For her true form how can my spark discern, Which, dim by nature, art did never clear, When the great wits, of whom all skill we learn, Are ignorant both what she is, and where ? One thinks the soul is air ; another, fire ; Another, blood diffused about the heart; Another saith the elements conspire, And to her essence each doth give a part. Musicians think our souls are harmonies ; Physicians hold that they complexions be ; Epicures 1 make them swarms of atomies Which do by chance into our bodies flee. Some think our general soul fills every brain, As the bright sun sheds light in every star ; And others think the name of soul is vain, And that we only well-mixed bodies are. In judgment of her substance thus they vary, And thus they do in judgment of her seat : For some her chain up to the brain do carry, Some thrust it down into the stomach's heat ; Some place it in the root of life, the heart ; Some in the river, fountain of his veins ; Some say she's all in all, in every part ; Some say she's not contained, but all contains. Thus these great clerks their little wisdom show, While with their doctrines they at hazard play ; Tossing their light opinions to and fro, To mock the lewd, 2 as learned in this as they. 1 Epicureans. 3 Ignorant. 4* 42 SIR JOHN DAVIES. For no crazed brain could ever yet propound, Touching the soul, so vain and fond a thought ; But some among these masters have been found, Which in their schools the self-same thing have taught. God, only wise, to punish pride of wit, Among men's wits hath this confusion wrought ; As the proud tower whose points the clouds did hit, By tongues' confusion was to ruin brought. / But Thou, which didst man's soul of nothing make, And when to nothing it was fallen again, " To make it new, the form of man didst take, And God with God becamest a man with men." Thou that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours, So that she is by double title thine, Thou only knowest her nature and her powers ; Her subtle form Thou only canst define. To judge herself, she must herself transcend, As greater circles comprehend the less ; But she wants power her own powers to extend, As fettered men cannot their strength express. But Thou bright morning star, Thou rising sun, Which in these later times hast brought to light Those mysteries, that since the world begun Lay hid in darkness and eternal night, Thou (like the sun) dost with an equal ray Into the palace and the cottage shine ; And showest the soul both to the clerk and lay, By the clear lamp of oracle divine. This lamp through all the regions of my brain, Where my soul sits, doth spread such beams of grace, As now methinks I do distinguish plain Each subtle line of her immortal face. SIR JOHN DAVIE8. 43 The soul a substance and a spirit is, Which God Himself doth in the body make, Which makes the man ; for every man from this The nature of a man and name doth take. And though this spirit be to the body knit As an apt means her powers to exercise, Which are life, motion, sense, and will and wit ; Yet she survives although the body dies. THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL SHOWN FROM THE UNSAT- ISFYING NATURE OF EARTHLY ENJOYMENTS. AT first her mother earth she holdeth dear, And doth embrace the world, and worldly things ; She flies close by the ground, and hovers here, And mounts not up with her celestial wings : Yet under heaven she cannot light on aught That with her heavenly nature doth agree ; She cannot rest, she cannot fix her thought, She cannot in this world contented be. For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth, Or pleasure of the sense, contentment find ? Who ever ceased to wish when he had wealth ? Or having wisdom was not vexed in mind ? Then as a bee, which among weeds doth fall, Which seem sweet flowers with lustre fresh and gay, She lights on that and this, and tasteth all ; But pleased with none, doth rise and soar away : So when the soul finds here no true content, And like Noah's dove can no sure footing take, She doth return from whence she first was sent, And flies to Him that first her wings did make. 44 SIR JOHN DAVIES. THE WORTH OF THE SOUL. OH ! ignorant, poor man ! what dost thou bear Locked up within the casket of thy breast ? What jewels, and what riches, hast thou there ? What heavenly treasure in so weak a chest ? Look in thy soul, and thou shalt beauties find, Like those which drowned Narcissus in the flood ; Honor and pleasure both are in thy mind, And all that in the world is counted good. Think of her worth, and think that God did mean This worthy mind should worthy things embrace ; Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean, Nor her dishonor with thy passion base. Kill not her quickening power with surfeitings ; Mar not her sense with sensuality ; Cast not her serious wit on idle things ; Make not her free-will slave to vanity. And when thou thinkest of her eternity, Think not that death against our nature is ; Think it a birth, and when thou goest to die, Sing a like song as if thou wentest to bliss. And thou, my soul, which turnest with curious eye, To view the beams of thine own form divine ; Know that thou canst know nothing perfectly, While thou art clouded with this flesh of mine. Take heed of overweening, and compare Thy peacock's feet with thy gay peacock's train ; Study the best and highest things that are, But of thyself an humble thought retain. FRANCIS DAVISON. 45 Cast down thyself, and only strive to raise The glory of thy Maker's sacred name , Use all thy powers that blessed Power to praise, Which gives the power to be, and use the same. FRANCIS DAVISON WAS the son of William Davison, the unfortunate secretary of Queen Elizabeth. After travelling on the continent, he turned his at- tention to poetry, and in 1602 he published the first edition of the " Po- litical Rhapsody." He was one of the authors of a version of " Selected Poems," and Mr. Wilmot gives the following specimens by him. PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXIII. GOD, who the universe doth hold In his fold, Is my shepherd kind and heedful, Is my shepherd, and doth keep Me his sheep, Still supplied with all things needful. He feeds me in fields which bin 1 Fresh and green, Mottled with Spring's flowery painting, Through which creep, with murmuring crooks, Crystal brooks, To refresh my spirits fainting. When my soul from heaven's way Went astray, With earth's vanities seduced, For his namesake, kindly He, Wandering me To his holy fold reduced. 2 'Be ' Reduced, led back. 46 FRANCIS DAVISON. Yea, though I stray through Death's vale, Where his pale Shades did on each side enfold me, Dreadless, having Thee for guide, Should I bide, For thy rod and staff uphold me. Thou my board with messes large Dost surcharge ; My bowls full of wine thou pourest, And before mine enemies' Envious eyes, Balm upon mine head thou showerest. Neither dures thy bounteous grace For a space, But it knows nor bound, nor measure ; So my days, to my life's end, Shall I spend In thy courts with heavenly pleasure. PARAPHRASE OF PSALM LXXXVI. SAVE my soul which Thou didst cherish Until now, now like to perish, Save Thy servant that hath none Help, nor hope, but Thee alone ! After Thy sweet- wonted fashion, Shower down mercy and compassion, On me, sinful wretch, that cry Unto Thee incessantly. Send, send, relieving gladness, To my soul oppressed with sadness, Which, from clog of earth set free, Winged with zeal springs up to Thee. FRANCIS DAVISON. 47 Let thine ears which long have tarried Barred up, be now unbarred, That my cries may entrance gain, And being entered, grace obtain. For Thou, darter of dread thunders, Thou art great, and workest wonders. Other gods are wood and stone, Thou the living God alone. Heavenly Tutor, of thy kindness, Teach my dulness, guide my blindness, That my steps Thy paths may tread Which to endless bliss do lead. In knots to be loosed never, Knit my heart to Thee forever, That I to Thy name may bear, Fearful love and loving fear. Lord, my God, thou shalt be praised, With my heart to heaven raised, And whilst I have breath to live, Thanks to Thee my breath shall give. Mighty men with malice endless, Band 1 against me helpless, friendless, Using, without fear of Thee, Force and fraud to ruin me. But Thy might then- malice passes, And Thy grace Thy might surpasses, Swift to mercy, slow to wrath, Bound nor end Thy goodness hath. Thy kind look no more deny me, But with eyes of mercy eye me ; 1 Unite. 48 FRANCIS DAVISON. O give me, Thy slave, at length, Easing aid, or bearing strength. And some gracious token show me, That my foes that watch t' o'erthrow me, May be shamed and vexed to see Thee to help and comfort me. PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XTII. LORD, how long, how long wilt Thou Quite forget and quite neglect me ? How long with a frowning brow Wilt Thou from thy sight reject me ? How long shall I seek a way From this range of thoughts perplexed, Where my grieved mind, night and day, Is with thinking tired and vexed ! How long shall my stormful foe, On my fall his greatness placing, Build upon my overthrow, And be graced by my disgracing ? Hear, Lord and God, my cries, Mock my foe's unjust abusing, And illuminate mine eyes, Heavenly beams in them infusing. Lest my woes too great to bear, And too infinite hi number, Rock me soon, 'twixt Hope and Fear, Into Death's eternal slumber. These black clouds will overblow, Sunshine shall have his returning, And my grief-dulled heart, I know, Into joy shall change his mourning. JOSEPH BRYAN. 49 JOSEPH BRYAN WAS apparently a contemporary of Davison. There is much beauty in the following PARAPHRASE OF PSALM LXV. DWELLERS beyond Thule's bands, In fair lands, At thy signs shall be affrighted. Morn's bright gate, and ruddy west, By their guest, Are with light and heat delighted. Furrows else ploughed, sowed in vain, By thy rain Are with blades and ears maintained. Thou sendest rain into thy dales, And the vales, Pranking them with curious flowers ; And the stiffened earth mak'st soft With thy oft Sweet and soft descending showers. Thou dost speed the seedman's hand, In the land His dead- seeming seed reviving ; And the tender bud, unless Thou didst bless, Blasts and frosts would keep from thriving. There thy gracious showers still Fall, and fill With thy blessing barren places ; And the lesser hills are seen, Fresh and green, Decked with Flora's various graces. 5 50 JOHN DONNE. JOHN DONNE. JOHN DONNE was born in London, in 1573. He entered Hertford College at the early age of eleven, and became a prodigy of learning. He was bred a Catholic, but early in life he became a Protestant minis- ter. He died, Dean of St. Paul's, in 1631. Without being in the strictest sense a sacred poet, Donne is one of those writers who have shown their reverence of religion with the warmth and sincerity of genuine feeling. He is frequently rugged and obscure, yet he displays a depth of sentiment and an originality of thought, which entitle him to a rank among the truest poets. SACRED SONNETS. THOU hast made me, and shall thy work decay ? Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste ; I run to death, and death meets me as fast, And all my pleasures are like yesterday. I dare not move my dim eyes any way ; Despair behind, and death before, doth cast Such terror, and my feeble flesh doth waste By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh, Only Thou art above, and when towards Thee, By thy leave I can look, I rise again ; But our old subtle foe so tempteth me, That not one hour myself I can sustain ; Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art, And Thou like adamant draw mine iron heart. n. THIS is my play's last scene ; here heavens appoint My pilgrimage's last mile ; and my race Idly yet quickly run, hath this last pace ; My span's last inch, my minute's latest point ; JOHN DONNE. 51 And gluttonous death will instantly unjoint My body and my soul, and I shall sleep a space ; But my ever-waking part shall see that face Whose fear already shakes my every joint : Then as my soul, to heaven, her first seat, takes flight, And earth-born body, in the earth shall dwell, So fall my sins, that all may have their right, To where they're bred, and would press me to hell. Impute me righteous, thus purged of evil, For thus I leave the world, the flesh, the devil. in. Ax the round earth's imagined corners, blow Your trumpets, angels, and arise, arise From death, your 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 wo : 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. IV. DEATH, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ; For those whom thou thinkest thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor Death ; nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture be, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow : And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou'rt slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 52 JOHN DONNE. And poppy or charms, can make us sleep as well, And better, than thy stroke ; why swellest thou then ? One short sleep past, we wake eternally ; And death shall be no more ; Death ! thou must die. ODE. VENGEANCE will sit above our faults ; but till She there do sit We see her not, nor them. Thus blind, yet still We lead her way ; and thus, whilst we do ill, We suffer it. Unhappy he whom youth makes not beware Of doing ill : Enough we labor under age and care : In number, th' errors of the last place are The greater still. Yet we, that should the ill we now begin As soon repent, (Strange thing !) perceive not ; our faults are not seen, But past us ; neither felt, but only in The punishment. But we know ourselves least ; mere outward shows Our minds so store, That our souls, no more than our eyes, disclose But form and color ; only he who knows Himself, knows more. HYMN TO CHRIST. AT THE AUTHOR'S LAST GOING INTO GERMANY. IN what torn ship soever I embark, That ship shall be my emblem of thy ark ; What sea soever swallow me, that flood Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood ; 5* JOHN DONNE. 53 Though Thou with clouds of anger do disguise Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes, Which, though they turn away sometimes, They never will despise. I sacrifice this island unto Thee, And all whom I loved there, and who loved me ; When I have put our seas 'twixt them and me, Put Thou thy seas betwixt my sins and Thee. As the tree's sap doth seek the root below In winter, in my winter now I go, Where none but Thee, th' eternal root Of true love, I may know. Not Thou nor thy religion, dost control The amorousness of an harmonious soul ; But Thou would st have that love Thyself : as Thou Art jealous, Lord, so am I jealous now, Thou lovest not, till from loving more, Thou free My soul : who ever gives, takes liberty : Oh ! if Thou carest not whom I love, Alas ! Thou lovest not me. Seal, then, this bill of my divorce to all On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ; Marry those loves which in youth scattered be On Fame, Wit, Hope, (false mistresses,) to Thee. Churches are best for prayer, that have least light : To see God only, I go out of sight, And to 'scape stormy days, I choose An everlasting night. HYMN TO GOD, MY GOD. SINCE I am coming to that holy room Where with the choir of saints for evermore I shall be made thy music, as I come I tune the instrument here at the door, And what I must do then think here before. 54 JOHN DONNE. Whilst my physicians by their love are grown Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown That this is my southwest discovery, Per f return febris, by these straits to die ; I joy that in these straits I see my west ; For though those currents yield return to none, What shall my west hurt me ? as west and east In all flat maps (and I am one) are one, So death doth touch the resurrection. We think that Paradise and Calvary, Christ's cross and Adam's tree, stood in one place, Look, Lord ! and find both Adams met in me : As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face, May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace. So in his purple wrapped receive me, Lord, By these his thorns give me his holy crown, And as to others' souls I preached thy word, Be this my text, my sermon to mine own ; Therefore, that He may raise, the Lord throws down BEN JONSON. 55 BEN JONSON. THIS eminent poet was born in London in 1574. Though like many other poets of his day, Jonson too briefly and too rarely forsook the service of the profaner muse for that of religion, the religious poetry he has left behind him is of a very high, order. He died in 1637. E U P II E M E ' S 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. JSTot that your art I do refuse, But here I may no colors use ; Beside, your hand will never hit To draw a thinsr that cannot sit. D You could make shift to paint an eye, An eagle tow'ring in the sky, The sun, a sea, or soundless pit ; But these are like a mind, not it. No ; to express a mind to sense Would ask a heaven's intelligence ; Since nothing can report that flame, But what's of kin to whence it came. A mind so pure, so perfect, fine, As 'tis not radiant, but divine ; And, so disdaining any tryer, 'Tis got where it can try the fire. There, high exalted in the sphere, As it another nature were, It moveth all, and makes a flight As circular as infinite. 56 BEN JONSON. 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 were 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 wiry. Is it because it sees us dull, And stuck in clay here, it would pull Us forth by some celestial flight, 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 to inhabit ? There is it. Thrice happy house, that hast receipt For this so lofty form, so straight, So polished, perfect, round, and even, As it slid moulded off from heaven. Not swelling like the ocean proud, But stooping gently as a cloud : As smooth as oil poured forth, and calm As showers, and sweet as drops of balm. Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood Where it may run to any good ; And where it stays, it there becomes A nest of odorous spice and gums. THOMAS CAREW. 57 In action, winged as the wind. In rest, like spirits left behind Upon a bank, or field of flowers, Begotten by that wind and showers. In thee, fair mansion, let it rest, Yet know with what thou art possessed ; Thou entertaining in thy breast But such a mind, makest God thy guest. THE GOOD LIFE, LONG LIFE. IT is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make man better be ; Or standing long an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere ; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night ; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be. THOMAS CAREW. Tins poet was born about 1577. He received his education at Cor- pus Christi College, Oxford, where his genius and abilities early at- tracted notice. He was introduced to court, probably by his brother, and appointed Gentleman of the Privy Chamber, and sewer in ordinary to King Charles the First ; which posts he retained till his death, in 1639. Carew was the author of miscellaneous poems, not, unfortu- nately, all of a religious nature ; but those that are so, have great beauty and simplicity. PLEASURE. BEWITCHING syren ! golden rottenness ! Thou hast with cunning artifice displayed 58 THOMAS CAREW. Th' enamelled outside, and the honeyed verge Of the fair cup, where deadly poison lurks. Within, a thousand sorrows dance the round ; And, like a shell, pain circles thee without. Grief is the shadow waiting on thy steps, Which, as thy joys 'gin towards their west decline, Doth to a giant's spreading form extend Thy dwarfish stature. Thou thyself art pain, Greedy, intense desire ; and the keen edge Of thy fierce appetite oft strangles thee, And cuts thy slender thread ; but still the terror And apprehension of thy hasty end Mingles with gall thy most refined sweets. Yet thy Circean charms transform the world. Captains that have resisted war and death, Nations that over fortune have triumphed, Are by thy magic made effeminate ; Empires, that know no limits but the poles, Have in thy wanton lap melted away. Thou wert the author of the first excess That drew this reformation on the gods ; Canst thou, then, dream those powers that from heaven Banished the effect, will there enthrone the cause ? To thy voluptuous den fly, witch, from hence ; There dwell, forever drowned in brutish sense. GEORGE SANDYS. 59 GEORGE SANDYS. THIS poet was the seventh son of Edwin Sandys, archbishop of York, and was born at Bishopsthorp in 1577. He was matriculated at Oxford in his eleventh year, but Wood supposes he did not take a degree. In 1610, he set out on his travels, during which he visited the most interesting cities of Europe, and went to Egypt and the Ho- ly Land. He was afterwards treasurer of the English Company in Virginia, but it is not known how long he remained in this country. He published an account of his travels, in London, in 1615, and from this time, except during his residence in America, he passed most of his time with his sister, Lady Wenman, in Oxfordshire. In 1636, he published his translation of the Psalms, which the editor of the " Gems of British Sacred Poetry 1 ' thinks " incomparably the most poetical in the English language," though at the present day scarcely known. Two years after he published his Paraphrase of Job and Ecclesiastes, a metrical version of the Song of Solomon, and a translation of a Latin tragedy of Grotius the Passion of Christ. Sandys died in March, 1643. DEO OPT. MAX. WRITTEN ON REVIEW OF GOD'S MERCIES TO THE AUTHOR IN HIS TRAVELS. THOU who all things hast of nothing made, Whose hand the radiant firmament displayed, With such an undiscerned swiftness hurled 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 hungest the solid earth in fleeting air, Veined with clear springs which ambient seas repair : In clouds the mountains wrap their heavy heads ; Luxurious valleys clothed with flowery meads : 60 GEORGE SANDYS. Her trees yield fruit and shade ; with liberal breasts All creatures she (their common mother) feasts. Then man thy image hadst ; 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 food produced ; all creatures were His subjects, serving more for love than fear. He knew no lord but Thee. But when he fell From his obedience, all at once rebel, And in his ruin exercise their might : Concurring elements against him tight : 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 armed with power, lust, rapine, slaughter reigned , And nattered Vice the home of Virtue gained. The 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 godlike beauty lost sin's wretched thrall No spark of their Divine original Left unextinguished ; all enveloped With darkness ; in their bold transgressions dead ; When Thou didst from the earth 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 prepared To heaven, and those long chained-up doors unbarred. 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 honor by our sins. Oh ! who hath tasted of thy clemency In greater measure or more oft than I ! GEORGE SANDYS. 81 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 1 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 excelled : There where the virgin's Son his doctrine taught, His miracles and our redemption wrought ! Where I, by Thee inspired, his praises sung, And on his sepulchre my offering hung. Which way soe'er I turn my face or feet, 1 see thy glory and thy mercy meet Met on the Thracian shores, when in the strife Of frantic Simooms Thou preservedst my life ; So when Arabian thieves belayed us round, And when by all abandoned, Thee I found. That false Sidonian wolf, whose craft put on A sheep's soft fleece, and me Bellerophon To ruin by his cruel letter sent, Thou didst by thy protecting hand prevent. Thou savedst me from the bloody massacres Of faithless Indians, from their treacherous wars, From raging fevers, from the sultry breath Of tainted air, which cloyed the jaws of death ; Preserved from swallowing seas, when towering waves Mixed with the clouds and opened their deep graves ; From barbarous pirates ransomed, by those taught, Successfully with Salian Moors we fought. Then broughtest me home in safety, that this earth Might bury me, which fed me from my birth. 1 A fabulous country of antiquity whence frankincense was said to be procured. It here signifies Arabia. 6 62 GEORGE SANDYS. Blest with a healthful age, a quiet mind, Content with little, to this work designed, Which I at length have finished by thy aid, And now my vows have at thy altar paid. HYMN. WRITTEN AT THE HOLY SEPULCHRE IN JERUSALEM SAVIOUR of mankind, Man, Emmanuel ! Who sinless died for sin ; who vanquished hell ; The first-fruits of the grave ; whose life did give Light to our darkness ; in whose death we live : Oh ! strengthen Thou my faith, convert my will, That mine may thine obey ; protect me still, So that the latter death may not devour My soul, sealed with thy seal. So in the hour When Thou, (whose body sanctified this tomb, Unjustly judged,) a glorious judge shalt come To judge the world with justice, by that sign I may be known and entertained for thine. PSALM XLVI. GOD is our refuge, our strong tower, Securing by his mighty power, When dangers threatened to devour. Thus armed, no fears shall chill our blood, Though earth no longer steadfast stood, And shook our hills into the flood. Although the troubled ocean rise, In foaming billows to the skies, And mountains shake with horrid noise ; Clear streams purl from a crystal spring, Which gladness to God's city bring, The mansion of th' Eternal King. GEORGE SANDYS. 63 He in her centre takes his place : What foe can her fair towers deface, Protected by his early grace ? Tumultuary nations rose, And armed troops our walls enclose, And his feared voice unnerved our foes. The Lord of hosts is on our side ; The God by Jacob magnified ; Our strength on whom we have relied. Come, see the wonders He hath wrought, Who hath to desolation brought Those kingdoms which our rum sought. He makes destructive war surcease ; The earth, deflowered of her increase, Restores with universal peace. He breaks their bows, unarms their quivers, The bloody spear in pieces shivers, Their chariots to the flame delivers. Forbear, and know that I the Lord Will by all nations be adored Praised with unanimous accord. The Lord of Hosts is on our side ; The God by Jacob magnified ; Our strength on whom we have relied. PSALM XLII. LORD ! as the hart embossed with heat Brays after the cool rivulet, So sighs my soul for thee. 64 GEORGE SANDYS. My soul thirsts for the living God : When shall I enter his abode, And there his beauty see ? Tears are my food both night and day ; While, Where's thy God ? they daily say ; My soul in plaints I shed ; When I remember, how in throngs We filled thy house with praise and songs ; How I their dances led. My soul, why art thou so depressed ? Why, ! thus troubled in my breast ? With grief so overthrown ? With constant hope on God await : I yet his name shall celebrate, For mercy timely shown. My fainting heart within me pants : My God, consider my complaints ; My songs shall praise thee still, Even from the vale where Jordan flows ; Where Hermon his high forehead shows, From Mitzar's humble hill. Deeps unto deeps enraged call, When thy dark spouts of waters fall, And dreadful tempest raves : For all thy floods upon me burst, And billows after billows thrust To swallow in their graves. But yet by day the Lord will charge His ready mercy to enlarge My soul, surprised with cares ; He gives my songs their argument : God of my life, I will present By night to thee my prayers : GEORGE SANDYS. 65 And say, My God, my Rock, why Am I forgot, and mourning die, By foes reduced to dust ? Their words, like weapons, pierce my bones While* still they echo to my groans, Where is the Lord thy trust ? My soul, why art thou so depressed ? why so troubled in my breast ? Sunk underneath thy load ! With constant hope on God await : For I his name shall celebrate, My Saviour and my God. PSALM CXXXVll. As on Euphrates' shady banks we lay, And there, Sion, to thy ashes pay Our funeral tears, our silent harps unstrung, And unregarded on thy willows hung, Lo ! they who had thy desolation wrought, And captive Judah unto Babel brought, Deride the tears which from our sorrows spring ; And say, in scorn, A song of Sion sing. Shall we profane our harps at their command, Or holy hymns sing in a foreign land ? Solyma ! thou that art now become A heap of stones, and to thyself a tomb, When I forget thee, my dear mother, let My fingers their melodious skill forget ; "\\ nen I a joy disjoined from thine receive, Then may my tongue unto my palate cleave. Remember Edom, Lord, their cruel pride, Who in the sack of wretched Salem cried, Down with their buildings, rase them to the ground, Nor let one stone be on another found. 6* 66 GEORGE SANDYS. Thou, Babylon, whose towers now touch the sky, That shortly shalt as low in ruins lie, Oh ! happy ! Oh ! thrice happy they who shall With equal cruelty revenge our fall I That dash thy children's brains against the stones, And without pity hear their dying groans. PSALM XC. THOU, the Father of us all, Our refuge from th' original ; That wert our God before The airy mountains had their birth, Or fabric of the peopled earth ; And art for evermore. But frail man daily dying, must At thy command return to dust ; Or should he ages last, Ten thousand years are in thy sight But like a quadrant of the night, Or as a day that's past. We, by thy torrent swept from hence, An empty dream which mocks the sense, And from the fancy flies ; Such as the beauty of the rose, Which in the dewy morning blows, Then hangs the head and dies. Through daily anguish we expire , Thy anger a consuming fire, To our offences due. Our sins (although by night concealed By shame and fear) are all revealed, And naked to thy view. GEORGE SANDYS. 67 Thus in thy wrath our years we spend, And like a sad discourse they end, Nor but to seventy last ; Or if to eighty they arrive, We then with age and sickness strive, Cut off with winged haste. Who knows the terror of thy wrath, Or to thy dreadful anger hath Proportioned his due fear ? Teach us to number our frail days, That we our hearts to Thee may raise, And wisely sin forbear. Lord, oh ! how long ! at length relent ! And of our miseries repent ; Thy early mercy show, That we may unknown comforts taste ; For those long days in sorrow past As long of joy bestow. The works of thy accustomed grace Show to thy servants; on their race Thy cheerful beams reflect Oh ! let on us thy beauty shine ! Bless our attempts with aid divine, And by thy hand direct. HANNAH S THANKSGIVING 1 SAMUEL II. GOD hath raised my head on high : O my heart, enlarge my joy ! God hath now my tongue untied, To retort their scorn and pride. In thy grace I will rejoice ; Praise Thee while I have a voice, 68 GEORGE SANDYS. Who so holy as our Lord ! Who but He to be adored ! Who such wonders can effect ! Who so strongly can protect ! Be no longer arrogant, Nor in folly proudly vaunt : God our secret thoughts displays ; All our works his balance weighs. Giants' bows his forces break ; He with strength invests the weak. Who were full, now serve for bread ; Those who served, enfranchised. Barren wombs with children flow ; Fruitful mothers childless grow. God frail man of life deprives ; Those who sleep in death, revives : Leads us to our silent tombs, Brings us from those horrid rooms : Riches sends ; sends poverty : Casteth down and lifts on high. He, from the despised dust, From the dunghill, takes the just ; To the height of honor brings ; Plants them on the throne of kings. God earth's mighty pillars made ; He the world upon them laid. He his servants' feet will guide : Wicked souls, who swell with pride, Will in endless darkness chain, Since all human strength is vain. He shall grind his enemies ; Blast with lightning from the skies : Judge the habitable earth, All of hiofh and humble birth : O Shall with strength his King renown, And his Christ with glory crown. GEORGE SANDYS. 69 THE LAMENTATION OF DAVID OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN. 2 SAMUEL I. THY beauty, Israel, is fled, Sunk to the dead ; How are the valiant fallen ! the slain Thy mountains stain. Oh ! let it not in Gath be known, Nor in the streets of Ashkelon ! Lest that sad story should excite Their dire delight ! Lest in the torrent of our wo, Their pleasure flow : Lest their triumphant daughters ring Their cymbals, and their Paeans sing. Yon hills of Gilboa, never may You offerings pay ; No morning dew, nor fruitful showers, Clothe you with flowers : Saul and his arms there made a spoil, As if untouched with sacred oil. The bow of noble Jonathan Great battles wan ; His arrows on the mighty fed, With slaughter red. Saul never raised his arm in vain, His sword still glutted with the slain. How lovely ! how pleasant ! when They lived with men ! Than eagles swifter ; stronger far Than lions are : Whom love in life so strongly tied, The stroke of death could not divide. 70 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul ; Lament his fall, Who fed you with the earth's increase, And crowned with peace ; With robes of Tyrian purple decked, And gems which sparkling light reflect. How are thy worthies by the sword Of war devoured ! O Jonathan ! the better part Of my torn heart ! The savage rocks have drunk thy blood My brother ! how kind ! how good ! Thy love was great ; never more To man, man bore ! No woman when most passionate, Loved at that rate ! How are the mighty fallen in flght I They, and their glory, set in night ! SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, elder brother of Francis Boaumont, the dra- matist, was the son of Francis Beaumont, one of the judges of the Court of Common Pleas in the time of Queen Elizabeth ; he was born in 1584, and was educated at Oxford. Besides an historical poem styled "Bosworth Field," he was the author of " The Crown of Thorns," and other poems on sacred subjects, which, though Hub known, possess great merit. He was created a baronet in 1626, and died in 1628. A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE WORLD, A PILGRIM, AND VIRTUE. PILGRIM. WHAT darkness clouds my senses ? Hath the day Forgot his season, and the sun his way ? SIR JOHN BEACMOXT. 71 Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might, And works no more with his fair creature light, While heaven and earth for such, alas ! complain, And turn to rude unformed heaps again ? My paces with entangling briers are bound, And all this forest in deep silence drowned ; Here must my labor and my journey cease, By which, in vain, I sought for rest and peace , But now perceive that man's unquiet mind In all his ways can only darkness find. Here must I starve and die, unless some light Point out the passage from this dismal night. WORLD. Distressed Pilgrim, let not causeless fear Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near, Which thy dull heart with splendor shall inspire, And guide thee to thy period of desire. Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes ; See how my glittering palace open lies For weary passengers, whose desperate case I pity, and provide a resting-place. PILGRIM. Oh thou ! whose speeches sound, whose beauties shine, Xot like a creature, but some power divine, Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare, Whose glories in this desert hidden are. WORLD. I am thine end ; Felicity my name ; The best of wishes, pleasures, riches, fame, Are humble vassals, which my throne attend, And make you mortals happy when I send : In my left hand delicious fruits I hold, To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old ; Afraid to lose the fleeting days and oughts, They seize on time, and spend it in delights. 72 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT. My right hand with triumphant crowns is stored, Which all the kings of former times adored : These gifts are thine : then enter where no strife, No grief, no pain, shall interrupt thy life. VIRTUE. Stay, hasty wretch, here deadly serpents swell, And thy next step is on the brink of hell : Wouldst thou, poor weary man, thy limbs repose ? Behold my house, where true contentment grows ; Not like the baits which this seducer gives, Whose bliss a day, whose torment ever lives. WORLD. Regard not these vain speeches, let them go: This is a poor worm, my contemned foe, Bold, threadbare Virtue, who dare promise more From empty bags, than I from all my store ; Whose counsels make men draw unquiet breath, Expecting to be happy after death. VIRTUE. Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made, Thy servants happy in those things that fade ? Hear this my challenge : One example bring Of such perfection ; let him be the king Of all the world, fearing no outward check, And finding others by his voice or beck ; Yet shall this man at every moment find More gall than honey in his restless mind. No, monster, since my words have struck thee dumb, Behold this garland, whence such virtues come, Such glories shine, such piercing beams are thrown As make thee blind, -and turn thee to a stone. And thou, whose wandering feet were running down The infernal steepness, look upon this crown : PHIXEAS FLETCHER. 73 Within these folds He hidden no deceits, No golden lures on which perdition waits ; But when thine eyes the prickly thorns have past, See in the circle boundless joys at last. PILGRIM. These things are now most clear, thee I embrace : Immortal wreath, let worldlings count thee base ; Choice is thy matter, glorious is thy shape, Fit crown for them who tempting dangers 'scape. PHINEAS FLETCHER. PHINEAS FLETCHER, a brother of Giles Fletcher, was born in 1584. He was elected from Eton to King's College, and Sir Henry WiJ- loughby gave him the living of Hilgay, in Norfolk, which he held twenty-nine years ; when it is supposed he died, 1650. The princi- pal poem of this author is " Ths Purple Island," in twelve cantos, containing an allegorical description both of the body and soul of man. It has been truly said, that no degree of skill in the poet could render this subject agreeable, as a whole, to the modern reader. It abounds, however, with picturesque passages, and touches of natural and pleasing sentiment. INVOCATION. FROM CANTO XL OF THE PURPLE ISLAND. THE early morn lets out the peeping day, And strewed his paths with golden marigolds : The moon grows Avan, and stars fly all away, Whom Lucifer locks up in wonted folds, Till light is quenched and heaven in seas hath flung- The headlong day : to the hill the shepherds throng, And Thirsil now began to end his task and song. 74 PHINEAS FLETCHER. Who now, alas ! shall teach my humble vein, That never yet durst peep from covert gLide ; But softly learnt for fear to sigh and plain, And vent her griefs to silent myrtle's shade ? Who now shall teach to change my oaten quill For trumpet 'larms, or humble verses fill With graceful majesty and lofty rising skill ? Ah, thou dread Spirit ! shed thy holy fire, Thy holy flame into my frozen heart ; Teach thou my creeping measures to aspire And swell in bigger notes, and higher art ; Teach my low muse thy fierce alarms to ring, And raise my soft strain to high thundering : Tune thou my lofty song ; thy battles must I sing. Such as thou wert within the sacred breast Of that thrice famous poet shepherd-king ; And taught'st his heart to frame his cantos best, Of all that e'er thy glorious works did sing ; Or as those holy fishers once amongs, Thou flamedst bright with sparkling parted tongues, And brought'st down heaven to 'earth in those all- conquering songs. AN APOSTROPHE TO THE FALLEN EMPIRES OF THE WORLD, FOND man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found ! For all our good we hold from heaven by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound ; Nor can we pay the fine and rentage due : Though now bui writ, and sealed, and given anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, At every loss 'gainst heaven's face repining ? Do but behold where glorious cities stood, With gilded tops and silver turrets shining ; PHINEAS FLETCHER. 75 Tliere now the hart, fearless of greyhound, feeds, And loving pelican in safety breeds : There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty stedes. 1 Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide, That all the east once grasped in lordly paw ? Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw ? Or he who 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions fared, And to his greedy whelps his conquered kingdoms shared ? Hardly the place of such antiquity, Or note of those 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 nursed in Tiber's fen, Did all the world with hideous shape affray ; That filled with costly spoil his gaping den, And trod down all the rest to dust and clay ; His battering horns, pulled out by civil hinds, And iron teeth lie scattered on the sands ; Backed, bridled by a monk, with seven heads yoked stands. And that black vulture, which with dreadful w r ing O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight Frightened the muses from their native spring, Already stoops, and flags with weary flight : Who then shall look for happiness beneath ? Where each new day proclaims, chance, change, and death, And life itself 's as fleet as is the air we breathe. Places. 76 PHINEAS FLETCHER. THE TRIUMPH OF THE CHURCH. WITH that a thundering noise seemed shake the sky, As when with iron wheels through stony plain A thousand chariots to the battle fly ; Or when with boisterous rage the swelling main, Puffed up by mighty winds, does hoarsely roar, And breaking with his waves the trembling shore, His sandy girdle scorns, and breaks earth's rampart door. And straight an angel, full of heavenly might, (Three several crowns circled his royal head,) From northern coast heaving his blazing light, Through all the earth his glorious beams dispread, And open lays the beast and Dragon's shame ; For to this end the Almighty did him frame, And therefore from supplanting gave his ominous name. A silver trumpet oft he loudly blew, Frighting the guilty earth with thundering knell ; And oft proclaimed, as round the world he flew, " Babel, great Babel, lies as low as hell. Let every angel loud his trumpet sound, Her heaven-exalted towers in dust are drowned ; Babel, proud Babel's fallen, and lies as low as ground !" The broken heavens dispart with fearful noise, And from the breach outshoots a sudden light ; Straight shrilling trumpets, with loud-sounding voice, Give echoing summons to new bloody fight : Well knew the Dragon that all-quelling blast, And soon perceived that day must be his last, Which struck his frightened heart and all his troops aghast Yet full of malice and of stubborn pride, Though oft had strove, and had been foiled as oft, Boldly his death and certain fate defied ; And, mounted on his flaggy sails aloft, PHINEAS FLETCHER. 77 With boundless spite he longed to try again A second loss, and new death ; glad and fain To show his poisonous hate, though ever showed hi vain. So up he arose upon his stretched sails, Fearless expecting his approaching death ; So up he arose, that the air starts and fails, And overpressed, sinks his load beneath ; So up he arose, as doth a thunder-cloud, Which all the earth with shadows black doth shroud ; So up he arose, and through the weary air he rowed. Xow his Almighty foe far off he spies, Whose sun-like arms dazzled the eclipsed day, Confounding with their beams less glittering skies, Firing the air with more than heavenly ray, Like thousand suns in one : such is their light, A subject only for immortal sprite, Which never can be seen but by immortal sight. His threatening eyes shine like that dreadful flame With which the Thunderer arms his angry hand : Himself had fairly wrote his wondrous name, Which neither earth nor heaven could understand : A hundred crowns, like towers, be set around His conquering head ; well may they there abound, When all his limbs and troops with gold are richly crowned. His armor all was dyed in purple blood, (In purple blood of thousand rebel kings,) In vain their stubborn powers his aim withstood ; Their proud necks chained he now in triumph brings, And breaks their spears and cracks their traitor-swords ; Upon whose arms and thigh in golden words Was fairly writ, " The King of longs, and Lord of lords." His snow-white steed was born of heavenly kind, Begot by Boreas on the Thracian hills, 7* 78 PH1NEAS FLETCHER. More strong and speedy than his parent wind, And (which his foes with fear and horror fills) Out from his mouth a two-edged sword he darts, Whose sharpest steel the bone and marrow parts, And with his keenest point unbreast the naked hearts. The Dragon, wounded with his flaming brand, They take, and in strong bonds and fetters tie : Short was the fight, nor could he long withstand Him whose appearance is his victory. So now he's bound in adamantine chain : He storms, he roars, he yells for high disdain ; His net is broke, the fowl go free, the fowler's ta'en. Soon at this sight the knights revive again, As fresh as when the flowers from winter's tomb, When now the sun brings back his nearest train, Peep out again from their fresh mother's womb : The primrose, lighted new, her flame displays, And frights the neighbor hedge with fiery rays ! And all the world renew their mirth and sportive plays. The prince, who saw his long imprisonment Now end in never-ending liberty, To meet the victor from his castle went, And falling down, clasping his royal knee. Pours out deserved thanks in grateful praise : But him the heavenly Saviour soon doth raise- And bids him spend in joy his never-ending days. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 79 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. DRUMMOND of Hawthornden, the first Scottish poet who wrote well in English, was born in 1585. He was bred at Edinburgh, and studied the civil law at Bourges ; but on the death of his father he forsook that pursuit, and retired to his patrimony, there to enjoy a literary life. During the civil wars he was compelled by the ruling party to furnish his quota of men, to fight against the king, whom he loved ; and when the monarch was put to death by the conquering faction, the spirit of Drummond was so broken, that it brought him to the grave. This happened in 1649. As a poet, Drummond has much sweetness and classic elegance, but little fancy or vigor. His sonnets are, perhaps, the best of his performances. These have been pronounced by the best critics as some of the most finished specimens of this kind of compo- sition. AN HYMN OF TRUE HAPPINESS. AMIDST the azure clear Of Jordan's sacred streams Jordan, of Lebanon the offspring dear When zephyrs flowers unclose, And sun shine with new beams, With grave and stately grace a nymph arose. Upon her head she wore Of amaranths a crown ; Her left hand palms, her right a torch did bear ; Unveiled skin's whiteness lay, Gold hairs in curls hung down, Eyes sparkled joy, more bright than star of day. The flood a throne her reared Of waves, most like that heaven Where beaming stars in glory turn unsphered ; 80 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. The air stood calm and clear, No sigh by winds was given, Birds left to sing, herds feed, her voice to hear. " World- wandering, sorry wights, Whom nothing can content Within these varying lists of days and nights, Whose life ere known amiss, In glittering griefs is spent, Come learn," said she, " what is your choicest bliss " From toil and pressing cares How ye may respite find ; A sanctuary from soul-thralling snares, A port, to harbor sure, In spite of waves and wind, Which shall, when time's swift glass is run, endure. " Not happy is that life, Which you as happy hold ; No, but a sea of fears, a field of strife, Charged on a throne to sit With diadems of gold, Preserved by force, and still observed by wit. " Huge treasures to enjoy, Of all her gems spoil Inde, And Sere's silk in garments t' employ, Deliciously to feed, The Phoenix' plume to find, To rest upon or deck your purple bed. " Frail beauty to abuse, And wanton Sybarites, On past or present touch of sense to muse, Never to hear of noise, But what the ear delights, Sweet music's charms, or charming flatterer's voice. WILLIAM DRUMMONO. 81 " Nor can it bliss you bring, Hid nature's depths to know, Why matter changeth, whence each form doth spring : Nor that your fame should range, And after worlds it blow From Tanais to Nile, from Nile to Gange. " All these have not the power To free the mind from fears, Nor hideous horror can allay one hour, When death in stealth doth glance, In sickness lurks, or years, And wakes the soul from out her mortal trance. "No ; but blest life is this, With chaste and pure desire, To turn unto the load-star of all bliss ; On God the mind to rest, Burnt up by sacred fire, Possessing Him, to be by Him possessed : " When to the balmy east, Sun doth his light impart, Or when he diveth in the lowly west, And ravisheth the day, With spotless hand and heart, Him cheerfully to praise, and to Hun pray. " Take heed each action to, As ever in his sight ; More fearing doing ill, or passive wo ; Not to seem other thing, Than what ye are aright ; Never to do what may repentance bring. " Not to be blown with pride, Nor moved at glory's breath, Which shadow-like on wings of time doth glide , 82 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. So malice to disarm, And conquer hasty wrath, As to do good to those that work you harm. " To hatch no base desires, Or gold, or land to gain, Well pleased with that which virtue fair acquires ; To have the wit and will, Consorting in one strain, Than what is good, to have no higher skill. " Never on neighbor's goods, With cockatrice's eye, To look, nor make another's heaven your hell ; Nor to be beauty's thrall, All fruitless love to fly, Yet loving still, a love transcendent all. " A love, which while it burns The soul with fairest beams, To that increated sun, the soul, it turns, And makes such beauty prove, That, if sense saw her gleams, All lookers on would pine and die for love. " Who such a life doth live, You happy e'en may call, Ere ruthless death a wished end may give, And after then when given, More happy by his fall, For human's earth, enjoying angel's heaven. " Swift is your mortal race, And glassy is the field ; Vast are desires not limited by grace : Life a weak taper is ; Then while it light doth yield, Leave flying joys, embrace this lasting bliss/* WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 83 This when the nymph had said. She dived within the flood. Whose face with smiling curls long after staid ; Then sighs did zephyrs press, Birds sang from every wood, And echoes rang, This was true happiness. \0 TRUST IN TIME. LOOK how the flower, which lingeringly doth fade, The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green, As high as it did raise, bows low the head : Just so, the pleasures of my life, being dead, Or in then* contraries but only seen, With swifter speed declines than erst it spread, And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been. Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night Hastes darkly to imprison on his way, Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright Of what's yet left of life's wasting day : The sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, And twice it is not given thee to be born. RETIREMENT. THRICE happy he, who by some shady grove, Far from the clamorous world, doth live his own, Though solitary, who is not alone, But doth converse with that eternal love. Oh ! how more sweet is bird's harmonious moan, Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove, Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne, Which good make doubtful, do the evil approve ! Oh ! how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath, And sighs embalmed which new-born flowers unfold, 84 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. Than that applause vain honor doth bequeath ! How sweet are streams, to poison drank in gold ! The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights ; Woods' harmless shades have only true delights. THE NIGHTINGALE. SWEET bird, that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past, or coming, void of care, Well pleased with delights which present are ; Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare. A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick, which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven ? Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres ; yes, and to angels' lays. APPLES OF SODOM. As are those apples, pleasant to the eye, But full of smoke within, which used to grow Near that strange lake, where God poured from the sky Huge showers of flame, worse flame to overthrow : Such are their works, that with a glaring show Of humble holiness, in virtue's dye Would color mischief, while within they glow With coals of sin, though none the smoke descry. Bad is that angel that erst fell from heaven, But not so bad as he, nor in worse case, Who hides a traitorous mind with smiling face, And with a dove's white feathers clothes a raven : Each sin some color has it to adorn ; Hypocrisy, Almighty God doth scorn. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 85 MADRIGAL. THIS life, which seems so far, Is like a bubble blown up in the air By sporting children's breath, Who chase it everywhere, And strive who can most motion it bequeath. And though it sometimes seems of its own might, Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there, And firm to hover in that empty height, That only is because it is so light. But in that pomp it doth not long appear ; For, when 'tis most admired in a thought, Because it erst was naught, it turns to naught. THE CRUCIFIXION. IF in the east, when you do there behold Forth from his crystal bed the sun to rise, With rosy robes, and crowns of flaming gold ; If, gazing on that empress of the skies, That takes so many forms, and those fair brands Which blaze in heaven's high vault, night's watchful eyes; If, seeing how the sea's tumultuous bands Of bellowing billows have their course confined, How unsustained the earth still steadfast stands ; Poor mortal wights, you e'er formed in your mind A thought that some great king did sit above, Who had such laws and rites to them assigned : A king who fixed the poles, made spheres to move, All wisdom, pureness, excellency, might, All goodness, greatness, justice, beauty, love ; With fear and wonder hither turn your sight, See, see, alas ! Him now, not in that state Thought could forecast Him into reason's light. 8 86 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. Now eyes with tears, now hearts with grief make great, Bemoan this cruel death and ruthful case, If ever plaints just wo could aggravate : From sin and hell to save us human race, See this great King nailed to an abject tree, An object of reproach and sad disgrace, O unheard pity ! love in strange degree ! He his own life doth give, his blood doth shed, For wormlings base, such worthiness to see. Poor wights ! behold his visage, pale as lead, His head bowed to his breast, locks sadly rent, Like a cropped rose that languishing doth fade. Weak nature, weep ! astonished world, lament ! Lament, you winds ! yon heaven, that all contains, And thou, my soul, let naught thy griefs relent ! Those hands, those sacred hands, which held the reins Of this great all, and kept from mutual wars The elements, bare rent for thee their veins : Those feet which once must tread on golden stars, For thee with nails would be pierced through and torn ; For thee heaven's king from heaven's self debars : This great heart-quaking dolor wail and mourn, Ye that long since Him saw by might of faith, Ye now that are, and ye yet to be born. Not to behold his great Creator's death, The sun from sinful eyes hath veiled his light, And faintly journeys up heaven's sapphire path ; And cutting from her brows her tresses bright, The moon doth keep her Lord's sad obsequies, Impearling with her tears her robe of night ; All staggering and lazy lour the skies ; The earth and elemental stages quake ; The long-since dead from bursted graves arise. And can tilings wanting sense yet sorrow take, And bear a part with Him who all them wrought, And man (though bora with cries) shall pity lack ? Think what had been your state, had he not brought To these sharp pangs Himself, and prized so high WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 87 Your souls, that with his life them life He bought ! What woes do you attend, if still ye lie Plunged in your wonted follies, wretched bro*od ! Shall for your sake again God ever die ? Oh ! leaye deluding shows, embrace true good ; He on you calls, forego sin's shameful trade ; With prayers now seek ye heaven, and not with blood, Let not the lambs more from their dams be had, Nor altars blush for sin ; live every thing ! That long-time longed-for sacrifice is made. All that is from you craved by this great King, Is to believe : a pure heart incense is. What gift, alas ! can we Him meaner bring ? Haste, sin-sick souls ! this season do not miss, Now while remorseless time doth grant you space, And God invites you to your only bliss : He who you calls, will not deny you grace, But low deep bury faults, so ye repent ; His arms, lo ! stretched are, you to embrace. When days are done, and life's small spark is spent, So you accept what freely here is given, Like brood of angels deathless, all content, Ye shall forever live with Him in heaven. THE ASCENSION. BRIGHT portals of the sky, Embossed with sparkling stars ; Doors of eternity, With diamantine bars, Your arras rich uphold : Loose all your bolts and springs, Ope wide your leaves of gold, That in your roofs may come the King of kings, Scarfed in a rosy cloud, He doth ascend the air, Straight doth the moon Him shroud With her resplendent hair ; 88 WILLIAM DRUMMOND, The next encry stalled light Submits to Him its beams, And He doth trace the height Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty streams. He towers those golden bounds He did to sun bequeath ; The higher wandering rounds Are found his feet beneath : The milky- way comes near, Heaven's axle seems to bend Above each turning sphere, That robed in glory, heaven's King may ascend. Well-spring of this All ! Thy Father's image vive, Word, that from naught did call What is, doth reason live ! The soul's eternal food, Earth's joy, delight of heaven, All truth, love, beauty, good, To Thee, to Thee, be praises ever given. What was dismarshalled late, To this thy noble frame, And last the prime estate Hath reobtained the same, Is now more perfect seen ; Streams which diverted were (And troubled, stayed unclean) From their first source by Thee home-turned are. By Thee that blemish old Of Eden's leprous prince, Which on his race took hold, And him exile from thence, Now put away is far ; With sword in ireful guise, No cherub more shall bar Poor man the entrance into paradise. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. 89 Now each ethereal gate, To Him hath opened been ; And glory's King in state His palace enters in : Now come is this High priest To the most holy place, Not without blood addressed, With glory heaven, the earth to crown with grace. Stars which all eyes were late. And did with wonder burn His name to celebrate, In naming tongues their turn : Their orby crystals move More active than before, And entheate 1 from above, Their sovereign Prince laud, glorify, adore. The choirs of happy souls Waked with that music sweet, Whose descant care controls, Their Lord in triumph meet : The spotless spirits of light, His trophies do extol, And arched in squadrons bright, Greet their great Victor in his capitol. glory of the heaven ! sole delight of earth ! To Thee all power be given, God's uncreated birth ; Of mankind lover true, Endurer of his wrong, Who dost the world renew, Still be Thou our salvation and our song, From top of Olivet, such notes did rise, When man's Redeemer did ascend the skies. 1 Divinely inspired. 8* 90 GILES FLETCHER. GILES FLETCHER, NEPHEW of Richard Fletcher, bishop of London ; son of Giles fletch- er, LL.D., and brother of Phineas Fletcher, a poet of kindred genius, was born in London about the year 1586, and was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, where his poem ,f " Christ's Victorie and Tri- umph" appeared in 1610. Little more is known of him, except that he was settled in the rectory of Alderton, in Suffolk, where, we are told by Fuller, in his quaint manner, his " clownish and low-parted parish- ioners (having nothing but their shoes high about them) valued not their pastor according to his worth, which disposed him to melancholy and hastened his dissolution." He died about the year 1623. THE INTERPOSITION OF JUSTICE. BUT Justice had no sooner Mercy seen Smoothing the wrinkles of her Father's brow, But up she starts, and throws herself between ; As when a vapor from a moory slough Meeting with fresh Eons, that but now Opened the world which all in darkness lay, Doth heaven's bright face of his rays disarray, And sads the smiling orient of the springing day. She was a virgin of austere regard, Not as the world esteems her, deaf and blind, But as the eagle, that hath oft compared Her eye with heaven's, so, and more brightly shined Her lamping sight ; for she the same could wind Into the solid heart, and with her ears The silence of the thought loud speaking hears, And in one hand a pair of even scales she wears. No riot of affection revel kept Within her breast, but a still apathy Possessed all her soul, which softly slept, GILES FLETCHER. 91 Securely, without tempest ; no sad cry Awakes her pity, but wronged Poverty Sending her eyes to heaven swimming in tears, And hideous clamors ever struck her ears, Wetting the blazing sword that in her hand she bears. The winged lightning is her Mercury, And round about her mighty thunders sound ; Impatient of himself lies pining by Pale sickness, with his kerchered head up wound, And thousand noisome plagues attend her round ; But if her cloudy brow but once grow foul, The flints do melt, the rocks to water roll, And airy mountains shake, and frightened shadows howl. Famine, and bloodless Care, and bloody War, Want, and the want of knowledge how to use Abundance, Age, and Fear that runs afar Before his fellow Grief, that aye pursues His winged steps ; for who would not refuse Grief's company, a dull and raw-boned spright, That lanks the cheeks and pales the freshest sight, Unbosoming the cheerful breast of all delight. Before this cursed throng goes Ignorance, That needs will lead the way it cannot see ; And, after all, Death doth his flag advance, And, in the midst, Strife still would roguing be, Whose ragged flesh and clothes did well agree ; And round about amazed Horror flies, And over all, Shame veils his guilty eyes, And underneath Hell's hungry throat still yawning lies. THE SHAME OF NOT LOVING GOD. WERE he not wilder than the savage beast, Prouder than haughty hills, harder than rocks, Colder than fountains from their springs released, 92 GILES FLETCHER. Lighter than air, blinder than senseless stocks, More changing than the river's curling locks ; If reason would not, sense would soon reprove him, And unto shame, if not to sorrow, move him, To see cold floods, wild beasts, dull stocks, hard stones, outlove him. " TO WHOM ELSE CAN WE FLY f SHOULD any to himself for safety fly ? The way to save himself, if anywhere, Were to fly from himself ; should he rely Upon the promise of his wife ? but there What can he see but that he most may fear, A syren sweet to death ? upon his friends ? Who, that he needs, or that he hath not, lends ? Or wanting aid himself, aid to another sends ? His strength ? but dust : his pleasure ? cause of pain : His hope ? false courtier : youth or beauty ? brittle : Entreaty ? fond : repentance ? late and vain : Just recompense ? the world were all too little : Thy love ? he hath no title to a tittle : Hell's force ? in vain her furies hell shall gather : His servants, kinsmen, or his children rather ? His child, if good, shall judge ; if bad, shall curse his father , His life ? that brings him to his end and leaves him : His end ? that leaves him to begin his wo : His goods ? what good in that, that so deceives him ? His gods of wood ? their feet, alas ! are slow To go to help, that must be helped to go : Honor ? great worth ? ah ! little worth they be Unto their owners : wit ? that makes him see He wanted wit, that thought he had it wanting Thee. GILES FLETCHER. 93 The sea to drink him quick ? that casts his dead : Angels to spare ? they punish : night to hide ? The world shall burn in light : the heavens to spread Their wings to save him ? heaven itself shall slide And roll away, like melting stars that glide Along their oily threads : his mind pursues him : His house to shroud, or hills to fall and bruise him ? As sergeants both attach and witnesses accuse him. MERCY. As when the cheerful sun enlamping 1 wide, Glads all the world with his uprising ray, And woos the widowed earth afresh to pride, And paints her bosom with the flowery May, His silent sister 2 steals him quite away ; Wrapped in a sable cloud from mortal eyes, The hasty stars at noon begin to rise ; And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies. But soon as he again disshadowed is, Restoring the blind world his blemished sight, As though another day were newly his, The cozened birds busily take their flight, And wonder at the shortness of the night : So Mercy once again herself displays Out from her sister's cloud, and open lays Those sunshine looks, whose beams would dim a thousand days. THE SPEECH OF MERCY. SUCH when as Mercy her beheld from high, In a dark valley, drowned with her own tears, 1 Spreading his rays like a lamp. a The Moon. 94 GILES FLETCHER. One of her Graces she sent hastily, Smiling Irene, 1 that a garland wears Of gilded olive on her fairer hairs, To crown the fainting soul's true sacrifice ; Whom when as sad Repentance coming spies, The holy desperado wiped her swollen eyes. But Mercy felt a kind remorse to run Through her soft veins, and therefore hying fast To give an end to silence, thus begun : " Ay, honored Father, if no joy thou hast But to reward desert, reward at last The devil's voice spoke with a serpent's tongue, Fit to hiss out the words so deadly stung, And let him die, death's bitter charms so sweetly sung. He was the father of that hopeless season, That to serve other gods forgot their own : The reason was, Thou wast above their reason : They would have any gods rather than none, A beastly serpent or a senseless stone ; And these as Justice hates, so I deplore ; But the up-ploughed heart, all rent and tore, Though wounded by itself, I gladly would restore. He was but dust : why feared he not to fall ? And being fallen, why should he fear to die ? Cannot the hand that made him first restore him ? Depraved of sin, should he deprived lie Of grace ? Can He not hide infirmity That gave him strength ? Unworthy the forsaking He is, who eve^r weighs without mistaking, Or Maker of the man, or manner of his making. Who shall thy temple incense any more, Or at thy altar crown the sacrifice, 1 Peace. GILES FLETCHER. 95 Or strew with idle flowers the hallowed floor, Or what should prayer deck with herbs and spice, Her vials breathing orisons of price ? If all must pay that which all cannot pay, Oh ! lirst begin with me, and Mercy slay, And thy thrice-honored Son that now beneath doth stray ! But if or He or I may live and speak, And heaven can joy to see a sinner weep, Oh ! let not Justice' iron sceptre break A heart already broke, that low doth creep, And with proud humblesse her feet's dust doth sweep. Must all go by desert ? is nothing free ? Ah ! if but those who only worthy be, None should Thee ever see, none should Thee ever see. What man hath done that man shall not undo, Since God to him is grown so near akin? Did his foes slay him ? He shall slay his foe : Hath he lost all ? He all again shall win : Is sin his master ? He shall master sin. Too hardy soul, with sin the field to try : The only way to conquer was to fly ; But thus long death hath lived, and now death's self shall die. He is a path, if any be misled ; He is a robe, if any naked be ; If any chance to hunger, He is bread ; If any be a bondman, He is free ; If any be but weak, how strong is He ! To dead men life He is, to sick men health ; To blind men sight, and to the needy wealth ; A pleasure without loss, a treasure without stealth. Who can forget never to be forgot The time that all the world in slumber lies, 90 GILES FLETCHER. When like the stars the singing angels shot To earth, and heaven awaked all his eyes To see another sun at midnight rise On earth ? was never sight of pareil fame, For God before man like Himself did frame, But God Himself now like a mortal man became. A child He was, and had not learned to speak, That with his word the world before did make ; His mother's arms Him bore, He was so weak, That with one hand the vaults of heaven could shake. See how small room my infant Lord doth take, Whom all the world is not enough to hold ! Who of his years or of his age hath told ? Never such age so young, never a child so old. And yet but newly He was inf anted, And yet already He was sought to die ; Yet scarcely born, already banished ; Not able yet to go, and forced to fly ; But scarcely fled away, when, by and by, The tyrant's sword with blood is all defiled, And Rachel, for her sons, with fury wild, Cries, thou cruel king ! and, my sweetest child ! Egypt his nurse became, where Nilus springs, Who straight to entertain the rising sun, The hasty harvest in his bosom brings ; But now for drought the fields were all undone, And now with waters all is overrun : So fast thy Cynthian mountains poured their snow, When once they felt the sun so near them glow, That Nilus Egypt lost, and to a sea did grow. The angels carolled loud their song of peace ; The cursed oracles were stricken dumb ; To see their Shepherd the poor shepherds press ; To see their King the kingly sophics come ; And then, to guide unto his master's home, GILES FLETCHER. 97 A star comes dancing up the orient, That springs for joy over the strawy tent ; When gold to make their prince a crown they all present. Young John, glad child, before he could be born, Leaped in the womb, his joy to prophesy ; Old Anna, though with age all spent and worn, Proclaims her Saviour to posterity ; And Simeon fast his dying notes doth ply. Oli, how the blessed souls about him trace ! It is the sire of heaven thou dost embrace : Sing, Simeon, sing sing, Simeon, sing apace." With that the mighty thunder dropt away From God's unwary arm, now milder grown, And melted into tears ; as if to pray For pardon and for pity, it had known That should have been for sacred vengeance thrown ; There, too, the armies angelic devowed Their former rage, and all to Mercy bowed ; Then* broken weapons at her feet they gladly strowed. Bring, bring, ye Graces, all your silver flaskets, Painted with every choicest flower that grows, That I may soon unflower your fragrant baskets, To strow the fields with odors where He goes ; Let whatsoe'er He treads on be a rose. So down she lets her eyelids fall to shine Upon the rivers of bright Palestine, Whose woods drop honey, and her rivers skip with wine, 9 98 GILES FLETCHER. CHRIST AND THE TEMPTER UPON ASTR^EA. HERE did Presumption her pavilion spread Over the temple, the bright stars among ; (Ah ! that her foot should trample on the head Of that most reverend place !) and a lewd throng Of wanton boys sung her a pleasant song, Of love, long life, of mercy, and of grace ; And every one her dearly did embrace, And she herself enamored were of her own face. A painted face belied with vermeil store, Which light Euelpis every day did trim, That in one hand a gilded anchor wore, Not fixed on the rock, but on the brim Of the wide air she let it loosely swim : Her other hand a sprinkle carried, And ever, when her lady wavered, Court holy-water all upon her sprinkled. Poor fool ! she thought herself in wondrous price With God, as if in Paradise she were ; But were she not in a fool's Paradise, She might have seen more reason to despair : But him she like some ghastly fiend did fear ; And therefore as that wretch hewed out his cell Under the bowels in the heart of hell, So she above the moon amid the stars Avould dwell. Her tent with sunny clouds was ceiled aloft, And so exceeding shone with a false light, That heaven itself to her it seemed oft, Heaven without clouds to her deluded sight : But clouds withouten heaven it was aright ; And as her house was built, so did her brain Build castles in the air, with idle pain, But heart she never had in all her body vain. GILES FLETCHER. 99 Like as a ship in which no balance lies, Without a pilot on the sleeping waves, Fairly along with wind and water flies, And painted masts with silken sails embraves, That Neptune's self the bragging vessel saves. To laugh awhile at her so proud array ; Her waving streamers loosely she lets play, And flagging colors shine as bright as smiling day. But all so soon as heaven his brows doth bend, She veils her banners, and pulls in her beams ; The empty bark the raging billows send Up to the Olympic waves, and Argus seems Again to ride upon our lower streams : Right so Presumption did herself behave, Tossed about with every stormy wave, And in white lawn she went most like an angel brave. CHRIST AND THE TEMPTER UPON THE MOUNTAIN. ALL suddenly the hill his snow devours, In lieu whereof a goodly garden grew ; As if the snow had melted into flowers, Which their sweet breath in subtle vapors threw, That all about perfumed spirits flew ; For whatsoe'er might aggravate 1 the sense, In all the world, or please the appetence, Here it was poured out in lavish affluence. Not lovely Ida might with this compare, Though many streams his banks besilvered, Though Xanthus with his golden sands he bore ; Nor Hybla, though his thyme depastured, As fast again with honey blossomed ; 1 Used in the sense of " heighten," or " give pleasure to." 100 GILES FLETCHER. Nor Rhodope, nor Tempo's flowery plain ; Adonis' garden was to this but vain, Though Plato on his beds a flood of praise doth rain. The garden like a lady fair was cut, That lay as if she slumbered in delight, And to the open skies her eyes did shut ; The azure fields of heaven were sembled right In a large round, set with the flowers of light ; The flowers-de-luce, and the round sparks of dew That hung upon their azure leaves, did shew Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue. AMBITION AND VAIN GLORY. THEREFORE above the rest Ambition sate ; His court with glittering pearl was all inwalled ; And round about the wall, in chairs of state, And most majestic splendor, were installed A hundred kings, whose temples were impalled In golden diadems, set here and there With diamonds, and gemmed everywhere ; And of their golden verges none desceptred were. High over all Vain Glory's blazing throne, In her bright turret, all of crystal wrought, Like Phoebus' lamp, in midst of heaven shone ; Whose starry top, with pride infernal fraught, Self-arching columns to uphold were taught ; In which her image still reflected was By the smooth crystal, that, most like her glass, In beauty and in frailty did all others pass. A silver wand the sorceress did sway, And for a crown of gold, her hair she wore, Only a garland of rosebuds did play About her locks, and in her hand she bore A hollow globe of glass, that long before GILES FLETCHER. 1Q1 The fall of emptiness had bladdered, And all the world therein depictured, Whose colors, like the rainbow, ever vanished. Such watery orbicles young boys do blow Out from their soapy shells, and much admire The swimming world, which tenderly they row, With easy breath, till it be waved higher ; But if they chance but roughly once aspire, The painted bubble instantly doth fall. THE REMORSE OF JUDAS. FOR him a waking bloodhound, yelling loud, That in his bosom long had sleeping laid, A guilty Conscience, barking after blood, Pursued eagerly, nor ever stayed, Till the betrayer's self it had betrayed. Oft changed the place, in hope away to wind ; But change of place could never change his mind : Himself he flies to lose, and follows for to find. With that a naming brand a Fury catched, And shook, and tossed it round in his wild thought, So from his heart all joy, all comfort snatched, With every star of hope ; and as he sought (With present fear, and future grief distraught) To fly from his own heart, and aid implore Of him, the more he gives, that hath the more, Whose storehouse is the heavens, too little for his store : And when wild Pentheus, grown mad with fear, Whole troops of hellish hags about him spies ; Two bloody suns stalking the dusky sphere, And twofold Thebes runs rolling in his eyes ; Or through the scene staring Orestes flies, 9* 102 U1LE3 FLETCHER. With eyes flung back upon his mother's ghost, That with infernal serpents all embossed, And torches quenched in blood, doth her stern son accost. Such horrid gorgons, and misformed forms Of damned fiends, flew dancing in his heart, That, now, unable to endure their storms, " Fly, fly, (he cries) thyself, whate'er thou art, Hell, hell, already burns in every part." So down into his Torturer's arms he fell Yet oft he snatched, and started as he hung : So when the senses half enslumbered lie, The headlong body, ready to be flung By the deluding fancy from some high And craggy rock, recovers greedily, And clasps the yielding pillow, half asleep, And, as from heaven it tumbled to the deep, Feels a cold sweat through every member creep. REDEMPTION. WHEN I remember Christ our burden bears, I look for glory, but find misery ; I look for joy, but find a sea of tears ; I look that we should live, and find Him die ; I look for angels' songs, and hear Him cry : Thus what I look, I cannot find so well ; Or, rather, what I find I cannot tell ; These banks so narrow are, these streams so highly swell. Christ suffers, and in this his tears begin ; Suffers for us and our joys spring in this ; Suffers to death here is his manhood seen ; Suffers to rise and here his Godhead is ; For man, that could not by himself have ris', GILES FLETCHER. 103 Out of the grave doth by the Godhead rise ; And lived, that could not die, in manhood dies, That we in both might live by that sweet sacrifice. A tree was first the instrument of strife, Where Eve to sin her soul did prostitute ; A tree is now the instrument of life, Though ill that trunk and this fair body suit : Ah ! fatal tree, and yet blessed fruit ! That death to Him, this life to us doth give ; Strange is the cure, when things past cure revive, And the Physician dies to make his patient live. Sweet Eden was the arbor of delight, Yet in his honey flowers our poison blew ; Sad Gethsemane, the bower of baleful night, Where Christ a health of poison for us drew. Yet all our honey in that poison grew : So we from sweetest flowers could suck our bane, And Christ from bitter venom could again Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain. A man was first the author of our fall, A Man is now the author of our rise : A garden was the place we perished all, A garden is the place He pays our price : And the old serpent, with a new device, Hath found a way himself for to beguile ; So he, that all men tangled in his wile, Is now by one Man caught, beguiled with his own guile. The dewy night had with her frosty shade Immantled all the world, and the stiff ground Sparkled in ice ; only the Lord that made All for Himself, Himself dissolved found, Sweat without heat, and bled without a wound ; Of heaven and earth, and God and man forlore, Thrice begging help of those whose sins he bore, And thrice denied of one, not to deny had swore. 104 GILES FLETCHER. THE JOYS OF THE REDEEMED. 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 destruction is destroying. 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 night 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 ? Far from the world that might their quiet break, Here the glad souls the face of beauty kiss, Poured 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. Their sight drinks lovely fires in at their eyes, Their brain sweet incense with fine breath accloys, That on God's sweating altar burning lies ; Their hungry ears feed on their heavenly noise That angels sing to tell their untold joys ; Their understanding, naked truth, their wills, The all and self-sufficient goodness fills, That nothing here is wanting but the want of ills. GILES FLETCHER. 105 No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow ; No bloodless malady empales then- 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 then- 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 they do on food bestow. For things that pass are past, and in this field The indeficient spring no winter fears ; The trees together fruit and blossoms yield, The unfading lily leaves of silver bears, And crimson rose a scarlet garment wears ; And all of these on the saints' bodies grow, Not, as they wont, on baser earth below : Three rivers here, of milk, and wine, and honey flow. About the holy 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 seemed to have, On which soft streaming manna like pure snow did wave. 106 GILES FLETCHER. In midst of this city celestial, Where the eternal temple should have rose. Lightened 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 contained, 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-tuned harmony ; Ambrosia, for to feast the appetite, Or flowery odor mixed 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 odor, light, embrace, in which the soul doth rest. 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 embrace That no satiety can e'er unlace ; Ingraced into so high a favor 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 ; KEXRY K1XG. 107 Here may your weary spirits rest from toil, Spending your endless evening that remains Among those white flocks and celestial trains That feed upon their Shepherd's eyes, and frame That heavenly music of so wondrous frame, Psalming aloud the holy honors of his name ! HENEY KING. HENRY KING was born in 1591. He was successively chaplain to James the First, Dean of Rochester, and Bishop of Chichester. He died in 1669. An edition of his "Poems and Psalms" was published in London in 1843, with an interesting Biography by the Rev. J. Han- nah. B. A. THE ANNIVERSARY. AN ELEGY. So soon grown old ! hast thou been six years dead ? Poor earth, once by my love inhabited ! And must I live to calculate the time To which thy blooming youth could never climb, But fell in the ascent ! yet have not I Studied enough thy losses' history. How happy were mankind, if Death's strict laws Consumed our lamentations like the cause ! Or that our grief, turning to dust, might end With the dissolved body of a friend ! But sacred Heaven ! O, how just thou art Tn stamping death's impression on that heart, Which through thy favors would grow insolent, Were it not physicked by sharp discontent. If, then, it stand resolved in thy decree, That still I must doomed to a desert be, Sprung out of my lone thoughts, which know no path But what my own misfortune beaten hath : 108 HENRY KING. If thou wilt bind me living to a course, And I must slowly waste ; I then of force Stoop to thy great appointment, and obey That will which naught avails me to gainsay. For whilst in sorrow's maze I wander on, I do but follow life's vocation. Sure we were made to grieve : at our first birth, With cries we took possession of the earth ; And though the lucky man reputed be Fortune's adopted son, yet only he Is nature's true-born child, who sums his years (Like me) with no arithmetic but tears. THE DIRGE. WHAT is the existence of man's life But open war or slumbered strife, Where sickness to his sense presents The combat of the elements, And never feels a perfect peace, Till death's cold hand signs his release ? It is a storm, where the hot blood Outvies in rage the boiling flood : And each loose passion of the mind Is like a furious gust of wind, Which beats his bark with many a wave, Till he casts anchor in the grave. It is a flower, which buds and grows, And withers as the leaves disclose, Whose spring and fall faint seasons keep, Like fits of waking before sleep ; Then shrinks into that fatal mould, Where its first being was enrolled. It is a dream, whose seeming truth Is moralized in age and youth ; Where all the comforts he can share, As wandering as his fancies are ; HENRY KING. 109 Till in a mist of dark decay The dreamer vanished quite away. It is a dial, which points out The sunset as it moves about ; And shadows out in lines of night, The subtle stages of time's flight ; Till all-obscuring earth hath laid His body in perpetual shade. It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include : The world the stage, the prologue tears, The acts vain hopes and varied fears ; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but death. sic VIT A . LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flight of eagles are, Or like the fresh Spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood : Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies ; The Spring entombed in Autumn lies-, The dew dries up, the star is shot, The flight is past and man forgot. 10 110 JAMES SHIRLEY. JAMES SHIRLEY WAS born in London, in 1594, and after studying at both Oxford and Cambridge, had a curacy for some time at St. Albans, but embracing the Roman religion, gave up his profession, and after a short career as a schoolmaster, went to London, and became a writer of plays. There are thirty-five pieces in Dyce's edition of his Dramatic Works, recently published. He and his wife died, of grief, or exposure, the day after the great fire in London. DEATH'S CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armor against fate, Death lays his icy hands on kings : Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, 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 murm'ring breath, When they pale captives creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds ; All hands must come To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just, Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. GEORGE WITHER. Ill GEORGE WITHER. THIS poet was born of a good family at Bentworth, near Alton, in 1588, and at sixteen was sent to Oxford, where, says Campbell, he had just begun to fall in love with the mysteries of logic, when his father called him home to hold the plough. He was even afraid of being put to some mechanical trade, when he contrived to escape to London, and with great simplicity had proposed to try his fortune at court. He was surprised to find that to succeed he must be a flatterer ; and so, to show his independence, wrote his " Abuses Whipt and Stript," for which he was sent to prison, where he was visited by some of the finest geniuses of the time, and where he wrote his " Shepherd's Hunting." After a while he was liberated, but he continued to be an active religious and political partisan ; and though King James, to whom he dedicated his " Hymns and Songs of the Church," made him a captain of horse, and quartermaster-general of his regiment, in the expedition against the Scots, under the Earl of Arundel, no sooner had the civil war broke out than he sold his estate to raise a troop for the Parliament. He was not very fohunate as a soldier, but Crom- well made him a major-general of the horse and foot for the county of Surrey. Upon the restoration, the estates he had acquired were taken from him, and he was cast into prison, where, after being treated with great severity for three years, he died in 1677. Mr. Wilmot has shown, in his "Laves of the Sacred Poets," that there has been very little intelligent criticism of Wither, and that he was a much truer poet and more worthy man than it has been the custom to represent him. The reader of the following extracts will agree to a high estimate of his abilities. EXTRACT FROM A PRISONER S LAY. FIRST think, my soul, if I have foes That take a pleasure in my care, And to procure those outward woes Have thus enwrapt me unaware.; Thou shouldst by much more careful be, Since greater foes lay wait for thee. 112 GEORGE WITHER. By my late hopes that now are crossed, Consider those that firmer be, And make the freedom I have lost, A means that may remember thee. Had Christ not thy Redeemer been, What horrid state hadst thou been in ! Or when through me thou seest a man Condemned 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 feared to die (Past hope) doth see his pardon brought, Read 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 ! THE MARIGOLD. WHEN with a serious musing I behold The grateful and obsequious marigold, How duly, every morning she displays Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays : How she observes him in his daily walk, Still bending towards him her small slender stalk ; How when he down declines, she droops and mourns, Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns ; GEORGE WITHER. 113 And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, As if she scorned to be looked on By an inferior eye ; or did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him ; When this I meditate, methinks the flowers Have spirits far more generous than ours, And give us fair examples to despise The servile fawnings and idolatries, therewith we court these earthly things below, vVhich merit not the service we bestow. But, oh ! my God, though grovelling I appear, Upon the ground, and have a footing here, Which hales me downward, yet in my desire To that which is above me I aspire ; And all my best affections I profess To Him that is the Sun of Righteousness. Oh ! keep the morning of his incarnation, The burning noontide of his bitter passion, The night of his descending, and the height Of his ascension, ever in my sight : That imitating Him in what I may, I never follow an inferior way. PSALM CXLVIII. COME, oh ! come, with sacred lays, Let us sound the Almighty's praise ; Hither bring in true consent, Heart and voice, and instrument. Let the orpharion 1 sweet, With the harp and viol meet : To your voices tune the lute : Let not tongue nor string be mute : Not a creature dumb be found, That hath either voice or sound. Let such things as do not live, In still music praises give ; 1 All ancient stringed instrument, somewhat resembling the guitar. 10* 114 GEORGE WITHER. Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep On the earth or in the deep ; Loud aloft your voices strain, Beasts and monsters of the main ; Birds, your warbling treble sing ; Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; Sun and moon exalted higher, And you stars, augment the quire. Come, ye sons of human race, In this chorus take your place, And amid this mortal throng, Be you masters of the song. Angels and celestial powers, Be the noblest tenor yours. Let in praise of God the sound, Run a never-ending round, That our holy hymn may be Everlasting as is He. From the earth's vast hollow womb, Music's deepest base shall come. Sea and floods from shore to shore Shall the counter-tenor roar. To this concert, when we sing, Whistling winds, your descant bring : Which may bear the sound above Where the orb of fire doth move, And so climb from sphere to sphere, Till our song the Almighty hear. So shall He from heaven's high tower On the earth his blessing shower ; All this huge wide orb we see, Shall one quire, one temple be ; There our voices we will rear, Till we fill it everywhere : And enforce the fiends that dwell In the air, to sink to hell. Then, oh ! come, with sacred lays, Let us sound the Almighty's praise. GEORGE WITHER. 115 THE VIRTUOUS MAN. 1 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, and 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 through obscurity, and thee 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 venomed 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 splendors to their shame appear. A PRAYER FOR SEASONABLE WEATHER. LORD, should the sun, the clouds, the wind, The air and seasons be To us so froward and unkind As we are false to Thee ; All fruits would quite away be burned, Or lie in water drowned, Or blasted be, or overturned, Or chilled on the ground. 1 This poem was illustrated by an Emblem representing a flame upon a mountain, driven to and fro by tempestuous winds, yet continually gather- ing strength and brightness. 116 GEORGE WITHER. But from our duty though we swerve, Thou still dost mercy show, And deign Thy creatures to preserve That men might thankful grow ; Yet, though from day to day we sin, And Thy displeasure gain, No sooner we to cry begin, But pity we obtain. The weather now Thou changed hast, That put us late to fear, And when our hopes were almost past, Then comfort did appear. The heaven the earth's complaint hath heard, They reconciled be ; And Thou such weather hast prepared, As we desired of Thee. DIVERS PROVIDENCES. WHEN all the year our fields are fresh and green, And while sweet showers and sunshine, every day, As oft as need requireth, come between The heavens and earth, they heedless pass away. The fulness and continuance of a blessing Doth make us to be senseless of the good ; And if sometimes it fly not our possessing, The sweetness of it is not understood ; Had we no winter, summer would be thought Not half so pleasing : and if tempests were not, Such comforts by a calm could not be brought ; For things, save by their opposites, appear not. Botn health and wealth are tasteless unto some, And so is ease and every other pleasure, Till poor or sick, or grieved, they become, And then they relish these in ampler measure. God, therefore, full of kind, as He is wise, So tempereth all the favors He will do us, GEORGE WITHER. 117 That we his bounties may the better prize, And make his chastisements less bitter to us. One while a scorching indignation burns The flowers and blossoms of our hopes away, Which into scarcity our plenty turns, And chaugeth new-mown grass to parched hay ; Anon his fruitful showers and pleasing dews, Commixed with cheerful rays, He sendeth down. And then the barren earth her crops renews, Which with rich harvests hills and valleys crown ; For, as to relish joys, He sorrow sends, So comfort on temptation still attends. THE GLORY OF CHRIST UNDER THE FIGURE OF SOLOMON. CANTICLES III. WHAT'S he that from the desert there Doth like those smoky pillars come, Which from the incense and the myrrh, And all the merchant's spices fume ? His bed, which lo ! is Solomon's, Threescore stout men about it stand ; They are of Israel's valiant ones, And all of them with swords in hand. All those are men expert in fight, And each man on his thigh doth wear A sword, that terrors of the night May be forbid from coming there. King Solomon a goodly place With trees of Lebanon did rear, Each pillar of it silver was, And gold the bases of them were. With purple covered he the same, And all the pavement, throughout, Oh ! daughters of Jerusalem, For you with charity is wrought. 118 GEORGE WITHER. Come, Sion's daughters ! come away, And crowned with his diadem, King Solomon behold you may. That crown his mother set on him, When he a married man was made, And in his heart contentment had. FROM A POEM ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HIS MARRIAGE DAY. LORD, living here are we As fast united yet, As when our hands and hearts by Thee Together first were knit. And in a thankful song Now sing we will Thy praise, , For that Thou dost as well prolong Our loving, as our days. The frowardness that springs From our corrupted kind, Or from those troublous outward things, Which may distract the mind ; Permit not thou, Lord, Our constant love to shake ; Or to disturb our true accord. Or make our hearts to ache. FROM A HYMN FOR A WIDOWER. THE voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key ; Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day : Those now by me, as they have been, Shall never more be heard or seen : But what I once enjoyed in them, Shall seem hereafter as a dream. GEORGE WITHER. 119 PRAYER FOR HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN, WRITTEN IN NEWGATE. THEREOF be therefore heedful, Them favor not the less, Supply with all things needful In this our great distress. And when Thou me shalt gather, Out of this Land of Life, Be Thou my children's Father, A Husband to my wife. When I to them must never Speak more with tongue or pen, And they be barred forever To see my face again Preserve them from each folly, Which, ripening into sin, Makes root and branch unholy, And brings destruction in. Let not this world bewitch them With her besotting wine, But let Thy grace enrich them With faith and love divine. And whilst we live together, Let us upon Thee call, Help to prepare each other, For what may yet befal. : So just, so faithful-hearted, So constant let us be, That when we here are parted, We may all meet in Thee. 120 ROBERT HERRICK. ROBERT HERRICK. ROBERT HERRICK was born in London, in 1591. He was educated at Cambridge, and was presented by Charles the First to the vicar- age of Dean Prior, in Devonshire, in 1629; from which, during the troubles of the times, he was ejected. The time of his death is un- known. The works of Herrick do not offer much serious poetry for choice, but what little there is is worth preserving. He is known and admired as the writer of gay Anacreontic songs, for which, in his ripe age, he prayed for absolution in the following verses : FOR these my unbaptized rhymes, Writ in my wild unhallowed times, For every sentence, clause, and word, That's not inlaid with thee, Lord, Forgive me, God, and blot each line Out of my book that is not thine ; But if 'mongst all thou findest one Worthy thy benediction, That one of all the rest shall be The glory of my work, and me. 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 at heart, and sick at head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep ; Sweet Spirit, comfort me. ROBERT HERRICK. When the passing bell doth toll, And the furies in a shoal Come to fright a parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When God knows I'm tossed about, Either with despair or doubt, Yet before the glass be out, 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. When the priest his last hath prayed, And I nod to what is said, 'Cause my speech is now decayed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the tempter me pursueth 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 revealed, And that opened which was sealed, When to Thee I have appealed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. TO BLOSSOMS. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Four date is not so past, 11 122 ROBERT HERRICK. But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night ? 'Twas pity nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But ye are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave ; And after they have shown their pride, Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave. TO DAFFODILS. FAIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon ; As yet the early rising sun Has not attained its noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song : And having prayed together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay as you ; We have as short a spring, As quick a growth to meet decay, As you or any thing : We die As your hours do ; and dry Away Like to the summer-rain, Or as the pearls of morning-dew, Ne'er to be found again. FRANCIS QUARLES. 123 FRANCIS QUARLES. I THIS celebrated poet was born in 1592, at Stewards, near Romford, in Essex, and after receiving a degree at Cambridge, in 1608, he went to Lincoln's Inn, where he " studied the laws of England, not so much," says his widow, " out of desire to benefit himself thereby, as his friends and neighbors, and to compose suits and differences be- tween them." He was introduced at court, and obtained the place of Cupbearer to the Queen of Bohemia, after quitting whose service he went to Ireland, as Secretary to Archbishop Usher. On the break- ing out of the rebellion he was obliged to fly to England for safety. He had already been pensioned by Charles, and made Chronologer to the city of London, but in the general ruin of the royal cause his prop- erty was confiscated, and his books and manuscripts, which he valued more, were plundered. His misfortunes are supposed to have hasten- ed his death, which occurred in 1644. Mr. Montgomery says, " There is not in English Literature a name more wronged than that of Quarles, wronged, too, by those who , ought best to have discerned, and most generously acknowledged his merits, in contradistinction to his defects." Quarles certainly was a writer of great learning, lively fancy, and profound piety. His writings are deformed by quaint conceits, but his beauties abundantly atone for his defects. His chief works are " Argalus and Parthenia," " The Quintessence of Meditation," " Sion's Elegies," " Emblems," " Hiero- glyphics," The Enchiridon," " Divine Fancies," and " The Shepherd's Oracles." PRAYER FOR DIVINE INSPIRATION. THOU Alph# and Omega, before whom Things past, and present, and things yet to come, Are all alike ; prosper my designs, And let thy spirit enrich my feeble lines. Revive my passion ; let mine eye behold Those sorrows present, which were wept of old ; Strike sad my soul, and give my pen the art To move, and me an understanding heart. O, let the accent of each word make known, I mix the tears of Sion with my own ! 124 FRANCIS aUARLES. THE WORLD. SHE is empty : hark ! she sounds : there's nothing there ; But noise to fill thy ear ; Thy vain inquiry can at length but find A blast of murmuring wind ; It is a cask that seems as full as fair, But merely tunned with air. Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds ; The soul that vainly founds Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She is empty : hark ! she sounds : there's nothing in't ; The spark-engendering flint Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce 1 shall first Dissolve and quench the thirst, Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast With smooth-faced alms of rest. Thou mayst as well expect meridian light From shades of black-mouthed Night, As in this empty world to find a full delight. She is empty : hark ! she sounds : 'tis void and vast What if some flattering blast Of flatuous honor should perchance be there, And whisper in thine ear ? It is but wind, and blows but where it list, And vanisheth like mist. Poor honor earth can give ! What generous mind Would be so base to bind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind ? She is empty : hark ! she sounds : 'tis but a ball For fools to play withal ; The painted film but of a stronger bubble, That's lined with silken trouble. 1 A dry crust FRANCIS QUARLES. 125 It is a world whose work and recreation Is vanity and vexation ; A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, A quest-house of complaint. It is a saint, a fiend ; worse fiend when most a saint. She is empty : hark ! she sounds : 'tis vain and void. What's here to be enjoyed, But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Drawn now and crossed to-morrow 9 Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, Revived with living death ? Fond youth, build thy hopes on surer grounds Than what dull flesh propounds : Trust not this hollow world ; she is empty : hark ! she sounds. GLORYING IN THE CROSS. CAN nothing settle my uncertain breast, And fix my rambling love ? Can my affections find out nothing best, But still and still remove ? Has earth no mercy ? Will no ark of rest Receive my restless dove ? Is there no good than which there's nothing higher To bless my full desire, With joys that never change ; with joys that ne'er expire ? I wanted wealth, and at my dear request, Earth lent a quick supply ; i wanted mirth to charm my sullen breast ; And who more brisk than I ? I wanted fame to glorify the rest ; My fame flew eagle-high ; My joy not fully ripe, but all decayed, Wealth vanished like a shade ; My mirth began to flag, my fame began to fade. 11* 126 FRANCIS aUARLES. My trust is in the Cross ; there lies my rest, My fast, my sole delight. Let cold-mouthed Boreas, or the hot-mouthed east, Blow till they burst with spite : Let earth and hell conspire their worst, their best, And join their twisted might ; Let showers of thunderbolts dart round and wound me, And troops of fiends surround me : All this may well confront ; all this shall ne'er confound me, '" FALSE WORLD, THOU LIEST." FALSE world, thou liest : thou canst not lend The least delight : Thy favors cannot gain a friend, They are so slight : Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night. Poor are the wants that thou suppliest ; And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou viest With heaven ; fond earth, thou boast'st ; false world, thou liest. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure ; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure. Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her. There's none can want where thou suppliest, There's none can give where thou deniest. Alas ! fond world, thou boast'st ; false world, thou liest. What well-advised ear regards What earth can say ? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay ; Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thou canst not play. FRANCIS aUARLES. 127 Thy game at weakest, still thou viest If seen, and then revied, deniest Thou art not^svhat thou seem'st ; false world, thou liest. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure, A paradise that has no stint, No change, no measure ; A painted cask, but nothing in't. Nor wealth, nor pleasure. Vain earth ! that falsely thus compliest With man ; vain man ! that thou reliest On earth ; vain man, thou dot'st ; vain earth, thou liest. What mean dull souls, in this high measure, To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Is dross and trash ? The height of whose enchanting pleasure Is but a flash ? , Are these the goods that thou suppliest Us mortals with ? Are these the highest ? Can these bring cordial peace ? False world, thou liest. DELIGHT IN GOD ONLY. I LOVE (and have some cause to love) the earth, She is my Maker's creature, therefore good : She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; She is my tender nurse, she gives me food : But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee ? Or what's my mother or my nurse to me ? I love the air ; her dainty fruits refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; Her shrill-mouthed choirs sustain me with their flesh, And with their polyphonian notes delight me ; But what's the air, or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared with Thee ? 128 FRANCIS aUAKLES. I love the sea ; she is my fellow- creature, My careful purveyor, she provides me store ; She walls me round ; she makes my <4iet greater ; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore ; But, Lord of oceans, when compared with Thee, What is the ocean or her wealth to me ? To heaven's high city I direct my journey, Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky ; But what is heaven, great God, compared with Thee ? Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven 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, heaven itself no pleasure ; If not possessed, if not enjoyed in Thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ? The highest honor that the world can boast, Are subjects far too low for my desire; Its 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 compared with Thee. Without thy presence, wealth is bags of care ; Wisdom but folly ; joy, disquiet sadness ; Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness. Without Thee, Lord, things be not what they be, Nor have their being when compared with Thee. In having all things and not Thee, what have I ? Not having Thee, what have my labors got ? Let me enjoy but Thee, what further crave I? And having Thee alone, what have I not ? FRANCIS aUARLES. 129 I wish not sea nor land ; nor would I be Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of Thee. FLEEING FROM WRATH. O WHITHER shall I fly ? what path untrod Shall I seek out to 'scape the flaming rod Of my offended, of my angry God ? Where shall I sojourn ? What kind sea will hide My head from thunder ? Where shall I abide Until his flames be quenched 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 springs away, The wings of vengeance clip 1 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 rock, nor cave, Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, What flame-eyed fury means to smite, can save. The seas will part, graves open, rocks will split, The shield will cleave, the frighted shadows flit ; Where Justice aims, her fiery dart must hit. No, no, if stern-browed Vengeance means to thunder, There is no place above, beneath, or under, So close but will unlock, or rive in sunder. Fly. 130 FRANCIS aUARLES. '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 9 'Tis vain to flee, till gentle Mercy show Her better eye ; the farther off we go, The swing of Justice deals the mightier blow. The ingenuous child, corrected doth not fly His angry mother's hand ; but climbs 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, Thou that 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 by 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 shall I go ? Then work thy will ; if passion bid me flee, My reason shall obey ; my wings shall be Stretched out no farther than from Thee to Thee. THE NEW HEART. So now the soul's sublimed, her sour desires Are recalcined in heaven's well-tempered fires s The heart restored, and purged from drossy nature, Now finds the freedom of a new-born creature ; FRANCIS dUARLES. 131 It lives another life, it breathes new breath, It neither fears nor feels the sting of death. Like as the idle vagrant, (having none,) That bold adopts each house he views his own, Makes every purse his chequer, and at pleasure, Walks forth and taxes all the world like Caesar ; At length, by virtue of a just command, His sides are lent to a severer hand ; Whereon his pass, not fully understood, Is taxed in a manuscript of blood ; Thus passed trom town to town, until he come, A sore repentant to his native home : E'en so the rambling heart, that idly roves From crimes to sin, and uncontrolled, removes From lust to lust, when wanton flesh invites, From old worn pleasures, to new choice delights. At length, corrected by the filial rod Of his offended, and his gracious God, And lashed from sins to sighs, and by degrees From sighs to vows, from vows to bended knees ; From bended knees, to a true pensive breast ; From thence to torments, not by tongues expresed, Returns ; and (from his sinful self exiled) Finds a glad Father ; He, a welcome child : Oh ! then it lives ! Oh ! then it lives involved In secret raptures ; pants to be dissolved : The royal offspring of a second birth, Sets ope to heaven, and shuts the door to earth. If lovesick Jove commanded clouds should hap To rain such showers as quickened Danae's lap ; Or dogs (far kinder than their purple master) Should lick his sores, he laughs nor weeps the faster. If earth, heaven's rival, dart her idle ray, To heaven 'tis wax, and to the world 'tis clay. If earth present delights, it scorns to draw ; But like the jet unrubbed, disdains that straw : No hope deceives it, and no doubt divides it, No grief disturbs it, and no error guides it, 132 FIIANCIS QUARLE8. No good contemns it, and no virtue blames it, No guilt condemns it, and no folly shames it, No sloth besots it, and no lust enthrals it, No scorn afflicts it, and no passion galls it ; It is a carcanet 1 of immortal life, An ark of peace, the lists of sacred strife, A purer piece of endless transitory, A shrine of grace, a little throne of glory, A heaven-born offspring of a new-born birth, An earthly heaven, an ounce of heavenly earth. THE SHORTNESS OF LIFE. AND what's a life ? a weary pilgrimage, Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage With childhood, manhood, and decrepit 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 shortlived winter's day ; hour eats up hour ; Alas, the total's but from eight to four. Behold these lilies, (which thy 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-aged day already points to noon ; How simple is my suit, how small my boon ! Nor do I beg this slender inch to wile The time away, or safely to beguile My thoughts with joy ; here's nothing but a smile. 1 A necklace or collar of jewels. FRANCIS QUARLES. 133 THE PILGRIM. THUS I, the object of the world's disdain, With pilgrim face surround the weary earth ; I only relish what the world counts vain ; Her mirth's my grief, her sullen grief my mirth ; Her light my darkness, and her truth my error ; Her freedom is my jail, and her delight my terror. Fond earth ! proportion not my seeming love To my long stay ; let not 'thy thoughts deceive thee ; Thou art my prison, and my home's above ; My life's a preparation but to leave thee. Like one that seeks a door, I walk about thee : With thee I cannot live ; I cannot live without thee. The world's a labyrinth, whose anfractuous ways Are all composed of rubs and crooked meanders ; No resting here ; he's hurried back, that stays Athought ; and he that goes unguided, wanders : Her way is dark, her path untrod, uneven, So hard's the way from earth, so hard's the way to heaven. This gyring labyrinth is betrenched about, On either hand, with streams of sulphurous fire, Streams closely sliding, erring in and out, But seeming pleasant to the fond deceiver ; Where, if his footsteps trust their own invention, He falls without redress, and sinks without dimension. Where shall I seek a guide ? where shall I meet Some lucky hand to lead my trembling paces ? What trusty lantern will direct my feet To 'scape the danger of these dangerous places ? What hopes have I to pass without a guide ? Where one gets safely through, a thousand fall beside. An unrequested star did gently slide Before the wise men to a greater light ; 12 134 FRANCIS QUARLES. Backsliding Israel found a double guide, A pillar and a cloud by day, by night ; Yet in my desperate dangers, which be far More great than theirs, I have no pillar, cloud, nor star. Oh ! that the pinions of a clipping dove Would cut my passage through the empty air ; Mine eyes being sealed, how would I mount above The reach of danger and forgotten care ! My backward eyes should ne'er commit that fault, Whose lasting guilt should build a monument of salt. Great God ! Thou art the flowing spring of light ; Enrich mine eyes with thy refulgent ray : Thou art my path ; direct my steps aright, I have no other light, no other way ; I'll trust my God, and Him alone pursue ; His law shall be my path, his heavenly light my clue. THE LONG-SUFFERING OF GOD. EVEN as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace Can hardly lead his foot from place to place, Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go, Nor does uphold him for a step or two : But when she finds that he begins to fall, She holds him up, and kisses him withal ; So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand, But when he sees his feeble strength begin To fail, he gently takes him up again. THE LAST TRUMPET. SEE how the latter trumpet's dreadful blast Affrights stout Mars his trembling son ! See how he startles, how he stands aghast, And scrambles from his melting throne ! FRANCIS aUARLES. 135 Hark how the direful hand of vengeance tears The sweltering clouds, whilst heaven appears A circle filled with flame, and centered with his fears. THE BREVITY OF LIFE. BEHOLD, How short a span Was long enough of old, To measure out the life of man ; In those well-tempered days, his time was then Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten. Alas! And what is that ! They come, and slide, and pass, Before my pen can tell thee what ; The posts of time are swift, which, having run Their seven short stages o'er, their shortlived task is done. Our days Begun, we lend To sleep, to antic plays And toys, until the first stage end: Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give To unrecovered loss, we rather breathe than live. We spend A ten years' breath Before we apprehend What 'tis to live, or fear a death : Our childish dreams are filled with painted joys, Which please our sense awhile, and waking prove but toys. How vain, How wretched is Poor man, that doth remain A slave to such a state as this ! His days are short at longest, few at most : They are but bad at best ; yet lavished out, or lost. 136 FRANCIS QUARLES. They be The secret springs, That make our minutes flee On wheels more swift than eagles' wings : Our life's a clock, and every gasp of death Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a death. How soon Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon And this, how soon, to gray-haired night ! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast. They end When scarce begun ; And ere we apprehend That we begin to live, our life is done : Man, count thy days, and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last. AGE. So have I seen the illustrious prince of light Rising in glory from his crocean bed, And trampling down the horrid shades of night, Advancing more and more his conquering head ; Pause first, decline, at length begin to shroud His fainting brows within a coal-black cloud. So have I seen a well-built castle stand Upon the tiptoes of a lofty hill, Whose active power commands both sea and land, And curbs the pride of the beleaguerer's will : At length her aged foundation fails her trust, And lays her tottering ruins in the dust. So have I seen the blazing taper shoot Her golden head into the feeble air ; FRANCIS QUARLES. 137 Whose shadow-gilding ray, spread round about, Makes the foul face of black-browed darkness fair ; Till at the length her wasting glory fades, And leave the night to her inveterate shades. E'en so this little world of living clay, The pride of nature glorified by art ; Whom earth adores, and all her hosts obey, Allied to heaven by his diviner part ; Triumphs awhile, then droops, and then decays, And worn by age, death cancels all his days. That glorious sun, that whilome shone so bright, Is now e'en ravished from our darkened eyes ; That sturdy castle, manned with so much might, Lies now a monument of her own disguise ; That blazing taper, that disdained the puff Of troubled air, scarce owns the name of snuff. Poor bedrid man ! where is that glory now, Thy youth so vaunted ? where that majesty, Which sat enthroned upon thy manly brow ? Where, where that braving arm ? that daring eye ? Those buxom tunes ? those bacchanalian tones ? Those swelling veins ? those marrow-flaming bones ? Thy drooping glory's blurred, and prostrate lies, Grovelling in dust ; and frightful horror now Sharpens the glances of thy gashful eyes, Whilst fear perplexes thy distracted brow ; Thy panting breast vents all her breath by groans, And death enerves thy marrow-wasted bones. Thus man that's born of woman can remain But a short time his days are full of sorrow His life's a penance, and his death's a pain ! Springs like a flower to-day, and fades to-morrow ! His breath's a bubble, and his day's a span : 'Tis glorious miser}- to be born a man ! 138 FRANCIS aUARLES. VAIN BOASTING. CAN he be fair, that withers at a blast ? Or he be strong, that airy breath becast ? Can he be wise, that knows not how to live ? Or he be rich, that nothing hath to give ? Can he be young, that's feeble, weak, and wan ? So fair, strong, wise, so rich, so young, is man. So fair is man, that death (a parting blast) Blasts his fair flower, and makes him earth at last ; So strong is man, that with a gasping breath He totters and bequeaths his strength to death ; So wise is man, that if with death he strive, His wisdom cannot teach him how to live ; So rich is man, that (all his debts being paid) His wealth's the winding-sheet wherein he's laid ; So young is man, that (broke with care and sorrow) He's old enough to-day to die to-morrow. Why bragg'st thou then, thou worm of five foot long ? Thou'rt neither fair, nor strong, nor wise, nor rich, nor young. FAREWELL THOSE EYES. FROM ELEGIES ON DR. AYLMER. FAREWELL those eyes, whose gentle smiles forsook No misery, taught Charity how to look. Farewell those cheerful eyes, that did erewhile Teach succored Misery how to bless a smile : Farewell those eyes, whose mixed aspect of late Did reconcile humility and state. Farewell those eyes, that to their joyful guest Proclaimed their ordinary fare, a feast. Farewell those eyes, the loadstars late whereby The graces sailed secure from eye to eye. Farewell, dear eyes, bright lamps who can tell Your glorious welcome, or our sad farewell ! FRANCIS QUAi: : 139 NOTHING PERFECT OX EARTH. EVEN as the soil (which April's gentle showers Have filled with sweetness and enriched with flowers) Rears up her sucking plants, still shooting forth The tender blossoms of her timely birth ; But if denied the beams of cheerly May, They hang their withered heads, and fade away : So man, assisted by the Almighty's hand, His faith doth flourish and securely stand ; But left awhile, forsook, as in a shade, It languishes, and nipped with sin, doth fade. No gold is pure from dross, though oft refined ; The strongest cedar's shaken with the wind ; The fairest rose hath no prerogative Against the fretting canker-worm ; the hive No honey yields unblended with the wax ; The finest linen hath both soil and bracks ; The best of men have sins, none live secure. In nature nothing's perfect, nothing pure. JERUSALEM IN R U I FROM SIGN'S ELEGIES. WOUNDED and wasted by th' eternal hand Of heaven, I grovel on the ground ; my land Is turned a Golgotha ; before mint Unsepulchred my murdered people lie ; My dead lie rudely scattered on the stones, My causeways all are paved with dead men's bones ; The fierce destroyer doth alike forbear The maiden's trembling, and the matron's tear ; The imperial sword spares neither fool nor v, The old man's pleading, nor the infan; Vengeance is deaf and blind, and she respects young, nor old, nor wise, nor fool, nor sex. 140 FRANCIS aUARLES. MERCY TEMPERING JUSTICE. HAD not the milder hand of Mercy broke The furious violence of that fatal stroke Offended Justice struck, we had been quite Lost in the shadows of eternal night. Thy mercy, Lord, is like the morning sun, Whose beams undo what sable night hath done ; Or like a stream, the current of whose course, Restrained awhile, runs with a swifter force. Oh ! let me glow beneath those sacred beams, And after bathe me in those silver streams ; To Thee alone my sorrows shall appeal : Hath earth a wound too hard for heaven to heal ? HOPE IN GOD. IN thee, dear Lord, my pensive soul respires, Thou art the fulness of my choice desires ; Thou art that sacred spring, whose waters burst In streams to him that seeks with holy thirst. Thrice happy man, thrice happy thirst, to bring Thy fainting soul to so, so sweet a spring ; Thrice happy he, whose well-resolved breast Expects no other aid, no other rest ; Thrice happy he, whose downy age has been Reclaimed by scourges from the pride of sin, And early seasoned with the taste of truth, Remembers his Creator in his youth. DECAY OF LIFE. THE day grows old, the low-pitched lamp hath made 'No less than treble shade, And the descending damp doth now prepare T' uncurl bright Titan's hair ; FRANCIS QUARLES. 141 Whose western wardrobe now begins to unfold Her purples fringed with gold, To clothe his evening glory, when th' alarms Of rest shall call to rest in Thetis' arms. Nature now calls to supper, to refresh The spirits of all flesh. The toiling ploughman drives his thirsty teams To taste the slippery streams ; The droyling swineherd knocks away, and feasts His hungry whining guests ; The box-bill ouzel, and the dappled thrush, Like hungry rivals meet at their beloved bush. And now the cold autumnal dews are seen To cobweb every green ; And by the low-shorn rowans doth appear The fast-declining year ; The sapless branches doff their summer-suits, And wain their winter-fruits ; And stormy blasts have forced the quaking trees To wrap their trembling limbs in suits of mossy frieze. Our wasted taper now hath brought her light To the next door to night ; Her sprightless flame, grown great with snuff, doth turn Sad as her neighboring urn ; Her slender inch, that yet unspent remains, Lights but to further pains ; And in a silent language bids her guest Prepare his weary limbs to take eternal rest. Now careful age hath pitched her painful plough Upon the furrowed brow ; And snowy blasts of discontented care Have blanched the falling hair ; Suspicious envy, mixed with jealous spite, Disturbs his weary night ; 142 FRANCIS UUARLE3. He threatens youth with age ; and now, alas ! He owns not what he is, but vaunts the man he was. Gray hairs, peruse thy days, and let thy past Read lectures to thy last : Those hasty wings that hurried them away, Will give these days no day ; The constant wheels of nature scorn to tire, Until her works expire : That blast that nipped thy youth will ruin thee, That hand that shook the branch will quickly strike the tree. THE MARTYR RIDLEY. READ in the progress of this blessed story Rome's cursed cruelty and Ridley's glory : Rome's sirens' song ; but Ridley's careless ear Was deaf: they charmed, but Ridley would not hear. Rome sung preferment, but brave Ridley's tongue Condemned that false preferment which Rome sung. Rome whispered wealth ; but Ridley (whose great gain Was godliness) he waved it with disdain. Rome threatened durance ; but great Ridley's mind Was too, too strong for threats or chains to bind. Rome thundered death ; but Ridley's dauntless eye Stared in Death's face, and scorned Death standing by : In spite of Rome, for England's faith he stood, And in the flames he sealed it with his blood. THOMAS HEYWOOD. 143 THOMAS HEYWOOD. THOMAS HEYWOOD was one of the most prolific and one of the most poetical of the English dramatists. He was the author also of " The Hierarchies of the Blessed Angels ;" a work i ude in metre, yet abound- ing with powerful and even sublime passages, published in 1635. HP died in 1649. SEARCH AFTER GOD. I SOUGHT Thee round about, O Thou, my God ! In thine abode. I said unto the Earth, " Speak, art thou He ?" She answered me, " I am not." I inquired of creatures all In general Contained 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, Inquiry 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 It told me " No." I, from the towering eagle to the wren, Demanded then If any feathered 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." 144 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 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 an unanimous voice all these things said, " We are not God, but we by Him were made." I asked the world's great universal mass, If that God was ; Which, with a mighty and strong voice, replied, As stupified, " I am not He, man ! for know that I By Him on high, Was fashioned 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 thronged city there was selling, buying, Swearing and lying ; I' the country, craft in simpleness arrayed : And then I said, " Vain 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 ?" What more could I say 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 fashioned me ? I answered The all-potent, solely immense, Surpassing sense ; THOMAS HEYWOOD. I4d 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, 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 illuming grace, Thy glorious face, (So far forth as it may discovered be,) Methinks I see ; And, though invisible and infinite, To human sight, Thou in thy mercy, justice, truth, appearest ; In which to our weak senses Thou comest nearest. Oh ! make us apt to seek, and quick to find, Thou God most kind ! Give us love, hope, and faith, in Thee to trust, Thou God most just ! Remit all our offences we entreat, Most Good, most Great ! Grant that our willing, though unworthy quest, May through thy grace admit us 'mongst the blest. 13 146 RICHARD CRASHAW. RICHARD CRASHAW WAS born in London, but the year of his birth is uncertain. He was educated at the Charter House, and at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, and was afterwards, in 1637, fellow of Peter House, but was ejected during the rebellion for denying the covenant, and soon afterwards was converted, or as Pope says, " outwitted," to the Roman Catholic faith. He went to Paris in search of preferment ; but his distresses and poverty became very great, till the benevolence of Cowley relieved him. He then went to Italy, became secretary to a cardinal, obtained a can- onry in the church of Loretto, and died in 1650. He wrote " Epigra- mata Sacra ;" " Steps to the Temple ;" " The Delights of the Muses ;" " Carmen Deo Nostro," &c. The last edition of his works was pub- lished in London in 1785. The Poems of Crashaw display delicate fancy, great tenderness, and singular beauty of diction. Coleridge considered his verses "On a Prayer-Book," one of the greatest poems in the language. Pope de- clares his version of the " Dies Irae," the best of his compositions. A HYMN. DIES IRM, DIES ILLA. IN MEDITATION OF THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. HEAR'ST them, my soul, what serious things Both the Psalm and Sibyl sings, Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray The world in flames shall pass away ? that fire ! befor3 whose face, Heaven and Earth shall find no place those eyes ! whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night. O that trump ! whose blast shall run An even round with th' circling sun, And urge the murmuring graves to bring Pale mankind forth to meet his King. RICHARD CKASIl.UV. 147 Horror of nature, hell and death ! When a deep groan from beneath Shall cry, " We come ! we come !" and all The caves of night answer one call. O that book ! whose leaves so bright, Will set the world in severe light : O that Judge ! whose hand, whose eye, None can endure yet none can fly. Ah ! thou poor soul, what wilt thou say ? And to what patron choose to pray ? When stars themselves shall stagger, and The most firm foot no more than stand. But thou givest leave, dread Lord, that we Take shelter from Thyself in Thee ; And, with the wings of thine own dove, Fly to the sceptre of soft love. Dear Lord, remember in that day Who was the cause Thou earnest this way : Thy sheep was strayed, and Thou wouldst be Even lost Thyself in seeking me. Shall all that labor, all that cost Of love, and even that loss, be lost ? And this loved soul, judged worth no less Than all that way and weariness ? Just mercy, then, thy reckoning be With my price, and not with me ; 'Twas paid at first with too much pain, To be paid twice, or once in vain. Mercy, my Judge, mercy I cry, With blushing cheek, and bleeding eye : The conscious colors of my sin, Are red without, and pale within. 148 RICHARD CRASHAW. Oh ! let thine own soft bowels pay Thyself, and so discharge that day ; If sin can sigh, love can forgive : Oh ! say the word, my soul shall live. Those mercies which thy Mary found, Or who thy cross confessed and crowned, Hope tells my heart the same loves be Still alive, and still for me. Though both my prayers and tears combine, Both worthless are ; for they are mine : But Thou thy bounteous self still be, And show thou art by saving me. Oh ! when thy last frown shall proclaim The flocks of goats to folds of flame, And all thy lost sheep found shall be, Let, " Come, ye blessed," then call me. When the dread " Ite" 1 shall divide Those limbs of death from thy left side, Let those life-speaking lips command That I inherit thy right hand. Oh ! hear a suppliant heart, all crushed And crumbled into contrite dust ; My hope ! my fear ! my Judge ! my friend ! Take charge of me, and of my end. CHORUS OF THE SHEPHERDS OF BETHLEHEM. 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. 1 " Depart thou." RICHARD CRASHAW. 149 Welcome ! though not to gold nor silk, To more than Caesar's birthright is ; Two sister-seas of virgin-milk, With many a rarely tempered kiss, That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other. She sings thy tears asleep, and dips Her kisses in thy weeping eye ; She spreads the red leaves of thy lips, That in their buds yet blushing lie ; She 'gainst those mother-diamonds tries The points of her young eagle eyes. Welcome ! though not to these gay flies, Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings ; Slippery souls in smiling eyes, But to poor shepherds' homespun things ; Whose wealth's their flock, whose wit to be Well read in their simplicity. Yet when young April's husband-showers Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed, We'll bring the firstfruits of her flowers, To kiss thy feet, and crown thy head : To Thee, dread Lamb ! whose love must keep The shepherds more than they 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 ; Till burnt at last in fire of thy fair eyes, Ourselves become our own best sacrifice. THE MARTYRS. OH ! that it were as it was wont to be, When thy old friends of fire, all full of Thee, Fought against frowns with smiles ! gave glorious chase 13* 150 RICHARD CRASHAW. To persecutions, and against the face Of death and fiercest dangers durst, with brave And sober pace, march on to meet a grave. On their bold breasts about the world they bore Thee, And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach Thee ; In centre of their inmost souls they wore Thee, Where racks and torments strived in vain to reach Thee. Each wound of theirs was thy new morning, And reinthroned Thee in thy rosy nest, With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning : It was the wit of love o'erflowed the bounds Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adored name ! For sure there is no knee That knows not Thee ; Or, if there be such sons of shame, Alas ! what will they do, When stubborn rocks shall bow, And hills hang down their heaven-saluting heads, To seek for humble beds Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night, Next to their own low nothing they may lie, And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread Majesty ? They that by love's mild dictate now Will not adore Thee, Shall then with just confusion bow, And break before Thee. ON A PRAYER-BOOK SENT TO MRS. R. Lo ! here a little volume, but great book, (Fear it not, sweet, It is no hypocrite,) Much larger in itself than in its look. It is in one rich handful heaven and all Heaven's royal hosts encamped thus small ; To prove that true, schools used to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell. RICHARD CRASHAW. 151 It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against the ghostly foe to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. It is the armory of light ; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful and wise, Here is a friend shall fight for you. Hold but this book before your heart, Set prayer alone to play his part. But oh ! the heart That studies this high art Must be a sure housekeeper, And yet no sleeper. Dear soul, be strong, Mercy will come ere long, And bring her bosom full of blessings Flowers of never-fading graces, To make immortal dressings, For worthy souls whose wise embraces Store up themselves for Him who is alone The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's Son. But if the noble Bridegroom, when he come, Shall find the wandering heart from home, Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad 152 RICHARD CRASHAW. Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies ; l To take her pleasure and to play, And keep the devil's holiday ; To dance in the sunshine of some smiling But beguiling Sphere of sweet and sugared lies ; Some slippery pair Of false, perhaps as fair, Flattering, but forswearing eyes ; Doubtless some other heart Will get the start, And, slipping in before, Will take possession of the sacred store Of hidden sweets and holy joys Words which are not heard with ears, (These tumultuous shops of noise,) Effectual whispers, whose still voice The soul itself more feels than hears ; Amorous languishments, luminous trances, Sights which are not seen with eyes, Spiritual and soul-piercing glances, Whose pure and subtle lightning flies Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire, And melts it down in sweet desire. Yet doth not stay To ask the window's leave to pass that way ; Delicious death, soft exhalations Of soul, dear and divine annihilations ; A thousand unknown rites Of joys and rarefied delights ; And many a mystic thing, Which the divine embraces Of the dear Spouse of spirits with them will bring ; For which it is no shame That dull morality must not know a name. 1 Beelzebub. RICHARD CRASHAW. 153 Of all this hidden store Of blessings, and ten thousand more, If when He come, He find the heart from home, Doubtless he will unload Himself some other where ; And pour abroad His precious sweets On the fair soul whom first he meets. fair ! fortunate ! rich ! dear ! O ! happy and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove, Whoe'er she be, Whose early love With winged vows Makes haste to meet her morning spouse, And close with his immortal kisses ! Happy soul ! who never misses To improve that precious hour ; And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as he rises, Dropping with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. Oh ! let that happy soul hold fast Her heavenly armful : she shall taste At once ten thousand paradises : She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there she meets, Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures. Happy soul ! she shall discover What joy, what bliss, How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover. 154 PATRICK CAREY. PATRICK CAREY. BUT little is known of Carey, except that he was of the established church and a loyalist. His poems, some of which possess great merit, were first printed by Sir Walter Scott, from a MS. dated 1651. CHRIST IN THE CRADLE, IN THE GARDEN, AND IN HIS PASSION. LOOK, how He shakes for cold ! How pale his lips are grown ! Wherein his limbs to fold, * Yet mantle has He none. His pretty feet and hands (Of late more pure and white Than is the snow That pains them so) Have lost their candor 1 quite. His lips are blue, (Where roses grew,) He's frozen everywhere : All the heat He has, Joseph, alas ! Gives in a groan, or Mary m a tear. Look ! how He glows for heat ! What flames come from his eyes ! 'Tis blood that He doth sweat, Blood his bright forehead dyes. See, see ! it trickles down, Look, how it showers amain ! Through every pore His blood runs o'er, And empty leaves each vein. 1 Whiteness. PATRICK CAREY. 155 His very heart Burns in each part, A fire his breast doth sear ; For all this flame To cool the same, He only breathes a sigh, and weeps a tear. What bruises do I see ! What hideous stripes are those ! Could any cruel be Enough to give such blows ? Look, how they bind his arms, And vex his soul" with scorns ! Upon his hair They make Him wear A crown of piercing thorns. Through hands and feet, Sharp nails they beat. And now the cross they rear ; Mary looks on, But only John Stands by to sigh, Mary to shed a tear. Why did He quake for cold ? Why did He glow for heat ? Dissolve that first He could, He could call back that sweat. Those bruises, stripes, bonds, taunts, Those thorns which thou didst see, Those nails, that cross, His own life's loss Why, oh ! why suffered He ? 'Twas for thy sake : Thou, thou didst make Him all those torments bear : If then^his love Do thy soul move, Sigh out a groan, weep down a melting tear. 156 WILLIAM HABINGTON. WILLIAM HABINGTON. THIS amiable man and pleasing poet was born at Hendlip, in Wor- cestershire, in 1605. His family being Catholics, he was educated at St. Omer's, and afterwards at Paris. At an early age he married Lucia, daughter of William Herbert, first Lord Powis ; this lady was the Castara of his poems. He died in 1654. The poems of Habing- ton were introduced for the first time in a general collection, by Mr. Chalmers. " The great charm of these poems," says Mr. Wilmot, " is their purity, and domestic tenderness : the religion of his fancy is never betrayed into any unbecoming mirth, or rapturous enthusiasm. He is always amiable, simple, and unaffected ; if he has not the inge- nuity of some of his rivals, he is also free from their conceits." LAUDATE DOMINUM DE CCELIS. DAVID. You Spirits ! who have thrown away That envious weight of clay, Which your celestial flight denied ; Who by your glorious troops supply The winged hierarchy, So broken in the angel's pride ! you ! whom your Creator's sight Inebriates with delight ! Sing forth the triumphs of his name : All you enamored souls, agree In a loud symphony, To give expression to your flame ! To Him his own great works relate, Who deigned to elevate You 'bove the frailty of your birth, Where you stand safe from that rude war With which we troubled are, By the rebellion of our earth. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 157 While a corrupted air beneath Here in this world we breathe, Each hour some passion us assails. Now lust easts wildfire in the blood, Or, that it may seem good, Itself in wit or beauty veils. Then envy circles us with hate, And lays a siege so strait, No heavenly succor enters in : But if revenge admittance find Forever hath the mind Made forfeit of itself to sin. Assaulted thus, how dare we raise Our minds to think his praise, Who is eternal and immense ? How dare we force our feeble wit To speak him infinite, So far above the search of sense ? O you ! who are immaculate, His name may celebrate In your soul's bright expansion : You, whom your virtues did unite To his perpetual light, That ever with Him you now shine one. While we who to earth contract our hearts, And only study arts To shorten the sad length of time, In place of joys, bring humble fears, For hymns, repentant tears, And a new sigh, for every crime. NOX NOCTI INDICAT SCIENTIAM. DAVID WHEN I survey the bright Celestial sphere, So rich with jewels hung, that night Doth like an Ethiop bride appear, 14 158 WILLIAM HABINGTON. My soul her wings dotli spread, And heavenward flies, Th* Almighty's mysteries to read In the large volume of the skies. For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name. No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a character, Removed far from our human sight, But, if we steadfast look, We shall discern In it, as in some holy book, How man may heavenly knowledge learn, It tells the conqueror, That far-stretched power, Which his proud dangers traffic for, Is but the triumph of an hour. That from the farthest north Some nations may, Yet undiscovered, issue forth, And o'er his new-got conquest sway. Some nation, yet shut in With hills of ice, May be let out to scourge his sin, Till they shall equal him in vice. And then they likewise shall Their ruin have ; For, as yourselves, your empires fall, And every kingdom hath a grave. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 159 Thus those celestial fires, Though seeming mute, The fallacy of our desires, And all the pride of life, confute. For they have watched since first The world had birth, And found sin in itself accursed, And nothing permanent on earth. NON NOBIS DOMINE. DAVID. No marble statue, nor high Aspiring pyramid be raised To lose its head within the sky ! What claim have I to memory ? God, be thou only praised ! Thou in a moment canst defeat The mighty conquests of the proud, And blast the laurels of the great ; Thou canst make brighter glory set I' th' sudden in a cloud. How can the feeble works of art Hold out against th' assault of storms ? Or how can brass to him impart Sense of surviving fame, whose heart Is now resolved to worms ? Blind folly of triumphing pride ! Eternity, why build'st thou here ? Dost thou not see the highest tide Its humbled stream in the ocean hide, And ne'er the same appear ? That tide which did its banks o'erflow, As sent abroad by th' angry sea 160 WILLIAM HABINGTON. To level vastest buildings low, And all our trophies overthrow, Ebbs like a thief away. And thou who, to preserve thy name, Leav'st statues in some conquered land, How will posterity scorn fame, When th' idol shall receive a maim, And lose a foot or hand ! How wilt thou hate thy wars, when he Who only for his hire did raise Thy counterfeit in stone, with thee Shall stand competitor, and be Perhaps thought worthier praise ! No laurel wreath about my brow ! To thee, my God, all praise, whose law The conquered doth, and conqueror bow ! For both dissolve to air, if Thou Thy influence but withdraw. aUID GLORIARIS IN MALICIA ? DAVID. SWELL no more, proud man, so high ! For enthroned where'er you sit, Raised by fortune, sin, and wit, In a vault thou dust must lie. He who is lifted up by vice, Hath a neighboring precipice, Dazzling his distorted eye. Shallow is that unsafe sea Over which you spread your sail, And the bark you trust to, frail As the winds it must obey. Mischief, while it prospers, brings Favor from the smile of kings Useless, soon is thrown away WILLIAM HABINGTON. 161 Profit though sin it extort, Princes even accounted good Courting greatness ne'er withstood, Since its empire doth support. But when death makes them repent, They condemn the instrument, And are thought religious for't. Pitched down from that height you bear, How distracted will you lie, When your nattering clients fly, As your fate infectious were ! When of all th' obsequious throng That moved by your heart and tongue None shall in the storm appear ; When that abject insolence, (Which submits to the more great, And disdains the weaker state, As misfortunes were offence,) Shall at court be judged a crime, Though in practice and the time, Purchase wit at your expense. Each small tempest shakes the proud, Whose large branches vainly sprout Above the measure of the root ; But let storms speak ne'er so loud, And th' astonished day be night, Yet the just shines in a light Fair as noon without a cloud. VIA TUAS DOMINE DEMONSTRA MIHI. WHERE have I wandered ? In what way, Horrid as night Increased by storm, did I delight ? Thou, my sad soul, didst often say, 'Twas death and madness so to stray. 14* lf>2 WILLIAM HABINGTON. On that false ground I joyed to tread, Which seemed most fair, Though every path had a new snare. And every turning still did lead To the dark region of the dead. But with the surfeit of delight I am so tired, That now I loathe what I admired, And my distasted appetite So abhors the meat, it hates the sight. For should we naked sin descry, Not beautified By the aid of wantonness and pride, Like some misshapen birth 'twould lie, A torment to the affrighted eye. But clothed in beauty and respect, Even o'er the wise How powerful doth it tyrannize ! Whose monstrous form should they detect, They famine sooner would affect. 1 And since those shadows which oppress My sight, begin To clear and show the shape of sin, A scorpion sooner be my guest, And warm his venom in my breast. May I, before I grow so vile By sin again, Be thrown off as a scorn to men ; May th' angry world decree to exile Me to some yet unpeopled isle. Where while I struggle, and in vain Labor to find Some creature that shall have a mind, 1 Love. WILLIAM HABINGTON. 163 What justice have I to complain, If I thy inward grace retain ? My God, if thou shalt not exclude Thy comfort thence, What place can seem to troubled sense So melancholy, dark, and rude, To be esteem i'tl a solitude? Cast me upon some naked shore, Where I may track Only the print of some sad wreck, If Thou be there, though the seas roar, I shall no gentler calm implore. VERSA EST IN LUCTUM CYTHARA MEA. JOB LOVE ! I no orgies sing, Whereby thy mercies to invoke, Nor from the east rich perfumes bring, To cloud thy altars with the precious smoke. Nor while I did frequent Those fanes by lovers raised to thee, Did I loose heathenish rights invent, To force a blush from injured chastity. Religious was the charm I used affection to entice, And thought none burnt more bright or warm, Yet chaste as winter was the sacrifice. But now I thee bequeath To the soft silken youths at court, Who may their witty passions breathe, To raise their mistress' smile, or make her sport. They'll smooth thee into rhyme, Such as shall catch the wanton ear ; And win opinion with the time, To make them a high sail of honor bear. 164 WILLIAM HABINGTON. And many a powerful smile, Cherish their flatteries of wit, While I my life of fame beguile, And under my own vine uncourted stt. For I have seen the pine, Famed for its travels o'er the sea, Broken with storms and age, decline, And in some creek unpitied rot away. I have seen cedars fall, And in their room a mushroom grow ; I have seen comets threatening all, Vanish themselves : I have seen princes so. Vain, trivial dust ! weak man ! Where is that virtue of thy breath That others save or ruin can, When thou thyself art called to account by death ? When I consider thee, The scorn of time and sport of fate, How can I turn to jollity My ill-strung harp, and court the delicate ? How can I but disdain The empty fallacies of mirth, And in my midnight thoughts retain, How high soe'er I spread my roots in earth ? Fond youth ! too long I played The wanton with a false deiight, Which when I touched I found a shade, That only wrought on th' error of my sight, Then since pride doth decay The soul to flattered ignorance, I from the world will steal away, And by humility my thoughts advance EDMUND WALLER. 165 EDMUND WALLER. EDMUND WALLER was born at Coleshill, in Hertfordshire, in 1605, was educated at Eton, and at King's College, Cambridge. He was sent to parliament at the age of eighteen ; frequented the court of James L, and suffered considerably during the civil war for his attach- ment to the monarchy, but closed his long life in peace, at Beacons- field, in 1687. Waller was a fine poet, and he excelled all his contem- poraries in his command of the harmonies of the English language. " He belonged," says Hazlitt, " to the same class as Suckling : the sport- ive, the sparkling, and the polished." His sublimest poem is on the Death of Cromwell ; but many of his religious pieces are distinguished for dignity and beauty. LOVE. TILL love appear, we live in anxious doubt ; But smoke will vanish when that flame breaks out. This is the fire that would consume our dross, Refine and make us richer by the loss. Could we forbear dispute and practise love, We should agree as angels do above. Where love presides, not vice alone does find No entrance there, but virtues stay behind. Both Faith and Hope, and all the meaner train Of moral virtues, at the door remain ; Love only enters as a native there, For born in heaven, it does but sojourn here. Weak, though we are, to love is no hard task, And love for love is all that Heaven does ask : Love that would all men just and temperate make, Kind to themselves and others, for his sake. 'Tis with our minds as with a fertile ground, Wanting this love, they must with weeds abound : Unruly passions, whose effects are worse Than thorns and thistles springing from the curse. 166 EDMUND WALLER. LOVE OF GOD TO MAN. THAT early love of creatures yet unmade To frame the world the Almighty did persuade : For love it was that first created light, Moved on the waters, chased away the night From the rude chaos, and bestowed new grace On things disposed of to their proper place, Some to rest here, and some to shine above : Earth, sea, and heaven, were all th' effects of love. And love would be returned, but there was none That to themselves or others yet were known. The world a palace was without a guest, Till one appears that must excel the rest ; One like the Author, whose capacious mind Might by the glorious work the Maker find ; Might measure heaven, and give each star a name, With art and courage the rough ocean tame ; Over the globe with swelling sails might go, And that 'tis round by his experience know ; Make strongest beasts obedient to his will, And serve his use the fertile earth to till. When by his word God had accomplished all, Man to create He did a council call ; Employed his hand to give the dust He took A graceful figure and majestic look ; With his own breath conveyed into his breast Life and a soul, fit to command the rest, Worthy alone to celebrate his name, For such a gift, and tell from whence it came : Birds sing his praises in a wilder note, But not with lasting numbers, and with thought, Man's great prerogative. But above all, His grace abounds in his new favorite's fall. If He create, it is a world He makes ; If He be angry, the creation shakes. From his just wrath our guilty parents fled ; He cursed the earth, but bruised the serpent's head. EDMUND WALLER. 16*7 Amidst the storm his bounty did exceed, In the rich promise of the virgin's Seed ; Though Justice death as satisfaction craves, Love finds a way to pluck us from our graves. THE SCRIPTURES. THE Grecian muse has all their gods survived, Nor Jove at us, nor Phoebus, is arrived ; Frail deities, which first the poets made, And then invoked to give their fancies aid ! Yet if they still divert us with their rage, What may be hoped for in a better age, When not from Helicon's imagined spring. But sacred writ, we borrow what we sing? This with the fabric of the world begun, Elder than light, and shall outlast the sun. Before this oracle, like Dagon, all The false pretenders, Delphos, Hammon, fall : Long since despised and silent, they afford Honor and triumph to the eternal Word. As late Philosophy our globe has graced, And rolling earth among the planets placed, So has this Book entitled us to heaven, And rules to guide us to that mansion given ; Tells the conditions how our peace was made, And is our pledge for the great Author's aid. His power in nature's ample book we find ; But the less volume doth express his mind. This light unknown, bold Epicurus taught, That his blest gods vouchsafe us not a thought, But unconcerned, let all below them slide, As fortune does, or human wisdom, guide. Religion thus removed, the sacred yoke, And band of all society, is broke : What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, Where men regard no God but interest ? 168 EDMUND WALLER. What endless war would jealous nations bear, If none above did witness what they swear ? Sad fate of unbelievers, and yet just, Among themselves to find so little trust ! Were Scripture silent, nature would proclaim, Without a God, our falsehood and our shame. To know our thoughts the object of his eyes, Is the first step towards being good or wise ; For though with judgment we on things reflect, Our will determines, not our intellect : Slaves to their passion, reason men employ Only to compass what they would enjoy ; His fear to guard us from ourselves we need, And sacred writ our reason doth exceed : For though heaven shows the glory of the Lord, Yet something shines more glorious in his word ; His mercy this, (which all his work excels,) His tender kindness and compassion tells : While we, informed by that celestial Book, Into the bowels of our Maker look. JOHN MILTON. 160 JOHN MILTON WAS born in London, in 1608. After leaving Cambridge, he remained some time at his father's house in Horton, Buckinghamshire ; and when turned of thirty, he went to Italy, whence he returned about the breaking out of the civil wars. He took office under Cromwell, and was the literary champion of the Commonwealth. On the Restora- tion, he was included in the act of amnesty, and he retired to Chalfont St. Giles, Bucks, where the house in which he lived still stands, almost entire. It was here that he produced, in total darkness, his " Paradise Lost," and afterwards his " Paradise Regained." He died in 1674. The literary judgment of the people of this country has been vindicated by the sale of -numerous and immense editions of Milton's poems. The only American edition of his prose works was published under the direction of the editor of this volume, in 1845 and in 1847. Milton became a Presbyterian, but in his last years was an Inde- pendent, agreeing most nearly with the Baptists of the present day. Some crude notions in theology are stated in his " Treatise on Chris- tian Doctrine," recently printed. This was probably written at an early period, and it would never have been published by himself. Af- ter its appearance, Macaulay had no more difficulty in discovering from " Paradise Lost," and " Paradise Regained," that Milton was an Ari- an, than some phrenologists have in deciding upon the character oi any person, who is well known, from his skull. ADAM'S MORNING HYMN. THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of Good ! Almighty ! thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair ; Thyself how wondrous then ! Unspeakable, who sittest 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, 15 170 JOHN MILTON. 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 morn With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both high and soul, Acknowledge Him thy greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st. Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest, With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies ; And ye five other wandering fires, that move .' . In mystic dance, not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness called up light. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix, And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honor to the world's great Author, rise ; Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolored sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising 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 JOHN MILTON. 171 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, Witness if I be silent morn or even. To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still To give us only good ; and, if the night Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. IT was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt, in the rude manger lies : Nature in awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize : It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only, with speeches fair, She woos the gentle air, To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But He her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; She, crowned with olive-green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; And waving wide her myrtle-wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. 172 JOHN MILTON. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around : The idle spear and shield were high up hung, The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. But peaceful was tho night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began : The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean ; Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer, that often warned them thence ; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new enlightened world no more should need : He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axletree could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row ; JOHN MILTON. 173 Full little thought they then, That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below ; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook ; Divinely- warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The air, such pleasures loth to lose With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close- Nature that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; She knew* such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed ; The helmed cherubim, And sworded seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to heaven's new-born Heir, Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His constellations set, 15* 174 JOHN MILTON. And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. , Ring out, ye crystal spheres, Once bless our human ears, If ye have power to touch our senses so ; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the base of heaven's deep organ blow ; And with your ninefold harmony Make up full concert to th' angelic symphony. For if such holy song Inwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold ; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould ; And hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day, Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between, Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; And heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall But wisest fate says, No, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss ; So both Himself and us to glorify : JOHN MILTON. 175 Yet first to those chained in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep. With such a J^orrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang, While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake ; The aged earth aghast, With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; When at the world's last session, The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss, Full and perfect is, But now begins : for, from this happy day, The old dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail, Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale, The parting Geniu is with sighing sent : 176 JOHN MILTON. With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The Nymphs, in twilight shade of tangled thickets, mourn. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The lars and lemures moan with midnight plaint ; In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the flamens at their service quaint : And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, With that twice battered god of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both, Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shrine, The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Tammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue ; In vain with cymbals' ring, They call the grizly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue : The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud : Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; JOHN MILTON. 177 In vain with timbrelled anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels from Judah's land The dreaded Infant's hand, The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne ; Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide, Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine : Our Babe, to show his Godhead true, Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. So when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an orient wave ; The flocking shadows pale Troop to th' infernal jail, Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest ; Tune is, our tedious song should here have ending ; Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending : And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. ON THE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not : in thy book record their groans, 1*78 JOHN MILTON. Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant : that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who having learned thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian wo. ON HIS BLINDNESS. WHEN I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide ; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best ; his state Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; They alsc serve who only stand and wait." JEREMY TAYLOR. 179 JEREMY TAYLOR. THE great Jeremy Taylor, though little known as a poet, wrote hymns and other lyrical pieces, well deserving notice. It is true that they are not so remarkable as his prose, for felicity of diction, but they are full of rich and noble thoughts, fitted to improve the heart. He xvas born in 1613, and died, bishop of Down and Connor, in 1667. THE WISE MEN COMING TO WORSHIP JESUS. A COMET dangling in the air, Presaged the ruin both of death and sin ; And told the wise men of a King, The King of glory, and the Sun Of righteousness, who then begun To draw towards that blessed hemisphere. They from the furthest east, this new And unknown light pursue, Till they appear In this blest infant King's propitious eye, And pay their homage to his royalty. Persia might then the rising sun adore ; It was idolatry no more. Great God ! they gave to Thee Myrrh, frankincense, and gold ; But, Lord, with what shall we Present ourselves before thy Majesty, Whom Thou redeemest when we were sold ? We've nothing but ourselves, and scarce that neither ; Vile dirt and clay ; Yet it is soft, and may Impression take. Accept it, Lord, and say, this Thou hadst rather ; Stamp it, and on this sordid metal make Thy holy image, and it shall outshine The beauty of the golden mine. Amen. 180 JEREMY TAYLOR. IMMANUEL. How good a God have we ! who for our sake, To save us from the burning lake, Did change the order of creation : At first He made Man like Himself in his own image ; now In the more blessed reparation, The heavens bow, Eternity took the measure of a span ; And said, " Let us make ourselves like man ; And not from man the woman take, But from the woman, man." Hallelujah, we adore His name, whose goodness hath no store. OF HEAVEN. BEAUTEOUS God, uncircumscribcd treasure Of an eternal pleasure, Thy throne is seated far Above the highest star, Where Thou preparest a glorious place Within the brightness of thy face, For every spirit To inherit, That build his hopes upon thy merit, And loves Thee with a holy charity. What ravished heart, seraphic tongue or eyes; Clear as the morning rise, Can speak, or think, or see That bright eternity ? 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, SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE. 181 And above all, thy holy face, Makes an eternal charity. 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 mayest 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. SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE. SIR EDWARD SHERBURNE was born in Lancashire, in 1618. He was a Roman Catholic, but zealously served the king during the whole of the civil war, much to the injury of his fortune. Besides several poetical translations from Seneca and others, he was the author of a volume of "Miscellanies," which contain passages of considerable beauty. He died almost in poverty, in 1702. CONSCIENCE. INFERNAL Cerberus ! whose griping fangs, That -gnaw the soul, are the mind's secret pangs ; Thou greedy vulture ! that dost gorging tire On hearts corrupted by impure desire ; Subtle and buzzing hornet ! that dost ring A peal of horror ere thou givest the sting ; The soul's rough file, that smoothness does impart ; The hammer that does break the stony heart ! The worm that never dies ! the "thorn within," That pricks and pains ! the whip and scourge of sin ! The voice of God in man ! which without rest Dost softly cry within a troubled breast " To all temptations is that soul set free That makes not to itself a curb of me." 16 l82 HENRY MORE. HENEY MORE. HENRY MORE was born at Grantham, in Lincolnshire, in 1614. He was educated at Eton, and afterwards removed to Cambridge, where he studied philosophy. He obtained a fellowship, and was presented to a prebend in the church of Gloucester. He died in 1687. His principal works are, " The Mystery of Godliness," " Mystery of Ini- quity," " Philosophical Collections." These in his day were emi- nently popular. They are little suited .to the taste of the modern reader, though enlivened with gleams of fancy, and bursts of poetic feeling. THE PHILOSOPHER S DEVOTION SING aloud, his praise rehearse Who hath made the universe ; He the boundless heavens has spread, All the vital orbs has kned : He that on Olympus high Tends his flock with watchful eye ; And this eye has multiplied, 'Midst each flock for to reside. Thus as round about they stray, Toucheth each with outstretched ray ; Nimbly they hold on their way, Shaping out their night and day. Never slack they ; none respires, Dancing round their central fires. In due order as they move, Echoes sweet be gently drove Thorough heaven's vast hollowness Which unto all corners, press, Music that the heart of Jove Moves to joy and sportful love, HENRY MORE. 183 Fills the listening sailors' ears, Riding on the wandering spheres ; Neither speech nor language is Where their voice is not transmiss. God is good, is wise, is strong, Witness all the creature throng ; Is confessed by every tongue All things, back from whence they sprung : As the thankful livers pay What they borrowed of the sea. Now myself I do resign ; Take me whole, I all am thine. Save me, God, from self-desire, Death's pit, dark hell's raging fire, Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire ; Let not lust my soul bemire. Quit from these, thy praise I'll sing, Loudly sweep the trembling string ; Bear a part, wisdom's sons ! Freed from vain religions. Lo 1 from far I you salute, Sweetly warbling on my lute. India, Egypt, Araby, Asia, Greece, and Tartary ; Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon, With the Mountains of the Moon, From whence muddy Nile doth run ; Or, wherever else you won, Breathing in one vital air : One we are, though distant far. Rise at once let's sacrifice Odors sweet, perfume the skies. See how heavenly lightning fires Hearts inflamed with high aspires : All the substance of our souls Up in clouds of incense rolls ! Leave we nothing to ourselves, Save a voice what need we else ? 184 HENRY MORE. Or an hand to wear and tire On the thankful lute and lyre. Sing aloud ! his praise rehearse, Who hath made the universe. FALSE AND TRUE RELIGION. CAN wars, and jars, and fierce contention, Swoln hatred, and consuming envy spring From piety ? No, 'tis opinion That makes the riven heaven with trumpets ring, And thundering engine murderous balls outsling, And send men's groaning ghosts to lower shade Of horrid hell. This the wide world doth bring To devastation, makes mankind to fade ; Such direful things doth false religion persuade. But true religion, sprung from God above, Is like her fountain full of charity ; Embracing all things with a tender love, Full of good will and meek expectancy ; Full of true justice and sure verity, In heart and voice : free, large, even infinite ; Not wedged in strait particularity, But grasping all in her vast active sprite Bright lamp of God, that men would joy in thy pure light ! ABRAHAM COWLEY. 185 ABRAHAM COWLEY WAS born in London in 1618. He was early sent to Cambridge, but being a zealous loyalist, was ejected thence, and retired first to Oxford, and afterwards to France. He was made secretary to Lord Jermyn, and after the Restoration, through his interest, obtained an advantageous lease, which set him at ease in fortune. He died at Chertsey, in 1667, and was buried in Westminster Abbey, near Chau- cer and Spenser. The writings of Cowley have great and various merit. They display a vivid imagination, clear intellect, and a rich command of language ; but his style is too artificial. " In Cowley," says Mr. Montgomery, " it has been the fate of one of the most bril- liant intellects that ever arose in this country never to be estimated by its real excellence." FROM THE GARDEN. METHINKS I see great Diocletian walk In the Salonian garden's noble shade, Which by his own imperial hands was made : I see him smile (methinks) as he does talk With the ambassadors who came 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 even after the most happy fight In triumph to the Capitol I rode, To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost a god !" 16* 186 ABRAHAM COWLEY. THE ECSTASY. I LEAVE mortality, and things below ; I have no time in compliments to waste, Farewell to ye all in haste, For I am called to go. A whirlwind bears up my dull feet, The officious clouds beneath them meet, And lo ! I mount, and lo ! How small the biggest parts of earth's proud title show. Where shall I find the noble British land ? Lo ! I at last a northern speck espy, Which in the sea does lie, And seems a grain o' the sand ,* For this will any sin or bleed ? Of civil wars is this the meed ? And is it this, alas ! which we, Oh ! irony of words ! do call Great Britannic ? I passed by th' arched magazines which hold Th' eternal stores of frost, and rain and snow ; Dry and secure I go, Nor shake with fear or cold ; Without affright or wonder, I meet clouds charged with thunder, And lightnings in my way, Like harmless lambent fires about my temples play. Now into a gentle sea of rolling flame I'm plunged, and still mount higher there, As flames mount up through air, So perfect, yet so tame, So great, so pure, so bright a fire Was that unfortunate desire, My faithful breast did cover, When, when I was of late a wretched mortal lover. ABRAHAM COWLEY. 187 Throng several orbs which one fair planet bear, Where I behold distinctly as I pass, The hints of Galileo's glass, I touch at last the spangled sphere. Here all the extended sky Is but one galaxy, 'Tis all so bright and gay, And the joint eyes of night make up a perfect day. Where am I now ? angels and God is here ; An unexhausted ocean of delight Swallows my senses quite, And drowns all what, or how, or where ; Not Paul, who first did thither pass, And this great world's Columbus was, The tyrannous pleasure could express ; Oh, 'tis too much for man ! but let it ne'er be less. The mighty Elijah mounted so on high, That second man, who leaped the ditch where all The rest of mankind fall, And went not downwards to the sky. With much of pomp and show, As conquering kings in triumph go, Did he to heaven approach, And wondrous was his way, and wondrous was his coach. 'Twas gaudy all, and rich in every part, Of essences of gems, and spirit of gold, Was its substantial mould ; Drawn forth by chemic angel's art, Here with moonbeams 'twas silvered bright, There double-gilt with the sun's light, And mystic shapes cut round in it, Figures that did transcend a vulgar angel's wit. The horses were of tempered lightning made, Of all that in heaven's beauteous pastures feed The noblest, sprightfullest breed ; And flaming manes their necks arrayed : 188 ABRAHAM COWLEY. They all were shod with diamond Not such as here are found, But such light solid ones as shine On the transparent rocks o' th' heavenly crystalline. Thus mounted the great prophet to the skies ; Astonished men, who oft had seen stars fall, Or that which so they call, Wondered from hence to see one rise. The soft clouds melted him a way ; The snow and frosts which in it lay Awhile the sacred footsteps bore, The wheels and horses' hoofs hissed as they passed them o'er. He passed by the moon and planets, and did fright All the worlds there, which at this meteor gazed, And their astrologers amazed With th' unexampled sight. But where he stopped will ne'er be known, Till phoenix Nature aged grown, To a better being do aspire, And mount herself like him to eternity in fire. ANDREW MARVELL. 189 ANDREW MARVELL. ANDREW MARVELL was born at Hull, in 1620. He received a good education, and, after travelling for improvement, was appointed secre- tary to the English embassy at Constantinople. It is probable that he also assisted Milton as Latin Secretary 1o Cromwell. After the Res- toration, he was elected a member of Parliament ; and such was his simplicity of manners and integrity, that no offers could turn him aside from the exactest path of duty. His poetry is remarkable for warmth of feeling and for elegance. He died in 1678. THE EMIGRANTS. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride In ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat that rowed along, The listening winds received their song. " What should we do but sing his praise That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own. Where He the huge sea-monster racks, That lift the deep upon their backs ; He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage. He gives us this eternal spring, Which here enamels every thing ; And sends the fowls to us, in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranate close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 190 ANDREW MARVELL. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet ; With cedars, chosen by his hand, From Lebanon, He stores the land. He cast of which we rather boast The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name. Oh ! let our voice his praise exalt, Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which, thence perhaps rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay." Thus sang they in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note ; And all the way, to guide their chime. With falling oars they kept the time. A DROP OF DEW. SEE how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, Yet careless of its mansion new, For the clear region where 'twas born. Round it itself encloses ; And in its little globe's extent Frames as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies ! But, gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light ; Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere, Restless it rolls and insecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure ; ANDREW MARVELL. 191 Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Could it within the human flower be seen, Remembering still its former height, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green ; And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, Every way it turns away ! To the world excluding round, Yet receiving in the day ; Dark beneath, but bright above ; Here disdaining, there in love. How loose and easy hence to go ! How girt and ready to ascend ! Moving but on a point below, In all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, although congealed and chill- Congealed on earth ; but does, dissolving, run Into the glories of the Almighty sun. 192 HENRY VAUGHAN. HENRY VAUGHAN. HENRY VATJ&HAN, styled " the Silurist" by his contemporaries, from being of the Silures, a people of South Wales, was descended from the ancient Cambrian kings, and was born in Brecknockshire, in 1621. In his seventeenth year he was entered of Jesus College, Oxford, whence after two years he was removed to London. He was in- tended for the bar, but at the commencement of the civil war he re- linquished it, and became eminent both as a poet and a physician. His sacred poems are remarkable for originality and picturesque grace, though it must be confessed they are sullied with many con- ceits unworthy of the theme. He died in 1695. He wrote "Silex Scintillans," " Sacred Poems," and " Private Ejaculations," of which a fine edition was published in London by Pickering, in 1 847. THE PURSUIT. LORD ! what a busy, restless thing Hast them made man ! Each day and hour he is on wing, Rests not a span. Then having lost the sun and light, By clouds surprised, He keeps a commerce in the night With air disguised. Hadst thou given to this active dust A state untired, The lost son had not left the husk, Nor home desired. That was thy secret, and it is Thy mercy too ; For when all fails to bring to bliss, Then this must do. Ah ! Lord ! and what a purchase will that be, To take us sick, that sound would not take thee ! HHXKY VAUGHAN. 193 THE WORLD. THOU art not Truth ! for he that tries Shall find thee all deceit and lies. Thou art not Friendship ! for hi thee 'Tis but the bait of policy ; Which like a viper lodged hi flowers, Its venom through that sweetness pours ; And when not so, then always 'tis A fading paint, the shortlived bliss Of air and humor, out and in, Like colors in a dolphin's skin : But must not live beyond one day, Or for convenience, then away. Thou art not Riches ! for that trash, Which one age hoards, the next doth wash, And so severely sweep away, That few remember where it lay. So rapid streams the wealthy land About them have at their command ; And shifting channels here restore, There break down, what they banked before. Thou art not Honor ! for those gay Feathers will wear and drop away ; And princes to some upstart line Give new ones, that are full as fine. Thou art not Pleasure ! For thy rose Upon a thorn doth still repose, Which, if not cropped, will quickly shed, But soon as cropped grows dull and dead. Thou art the sand which fills one glass, And then doth to another pass ; And could I put thee to a stay, Thou art but dust ! Then go thy way, And leave me clean and bright, though poor ; Who stops thee doth but daub his floor ; And, swallow-like, when he hath done, To unknown dwellings must be gone. 17 194 HENRY VADGHAN. Welcome, pure thoughts, and peaceful hours, Enriched with sunshine and with showers ! Welcome fair hopes, and holy cares, The not to be repented shares Of time and business, the sure road Unto my last and loved abode ! supreme Bliss ! The circle, centre, and abyss Of blessings, never let me miss Nor leave that path which leads to thee, Who art alone all things to me ! I hear, I see, all the long day The noise and pomp of the " broad way." I note their coarse and proud approaches, Their silks, perfumes, and glittering coaches. But in the " narrow way" to Thee I observe only poverty, And despised things ; and all along The ragged, mean, and humble throng Are still on foot ; and as they go They sigh and say, Their Lord went so ! Give me my staff, then, as it stood When green and growing in the wood. The stones, which for the altar served, Might not be smoothed nor finely carved. With this poor stick I'll pass the ford, As Jacob did ; and Thy dear word, As Thou hast dressed it, not as wit And depraved tastes have poisoned it, Shall in the passage be my meat, And none else shall thy servant eat. Thus, thus, and in no other sort, Will I set forth, though laughed at for't ; And leaving the wise world their way, Go through, though judged to go astray. HENRY VAUGHAN. 195 THE BEE. FROM fruitful beds and flowery borders, Parcelled to wasteful ranks and orders, Where state grasps more than plain truth needs, And wholesome herbs are starved by weeds, To the wild woods I will be gone, And the coarse meals of great Saint John. When truth and piety are missed Both in the rulers and the priest ; When pity is not cold, but dead, And the rich eat the poor like bread ; While factious heads with open coil And force, first make, then share, the spoil ; To Horeb then Elias goes, And in the desert grows the rose. Hail crystal fountains and fresh shades, Where no proud look invades, No busy worldling hunts away The sad retirer all the day ! Hail, happy, harmless solitude ! Our sanctuary from the rude And scornful world ; the calm recess Of faith, and hope, and holiness ! Here something still like Eden looks ; Honey in woods, juleps in brooks : And flowers, whose rich, unrifled sweets With a chaste kiss the cool dew greets When the toils of the day are done, And the tired world sets with the sun. Here flying winds and flowing wells, Are the wise watchful hermit's bells ; Their busy murmurs all the night To praise or prayer do invite ; And with an awful sound arrest, And piously employ his breast. When in the east the dawn doth blush, Here cool fresh spirits the air brush. 196 HENRY VAUGHAN. Herbs straight get up ; flowers peep and spread ; Trees whisper praise, and bow the head : Birds, from the shades of night released, Look round about, then quit the nest, And with united gladness sing The glory of the morning's King. The hermit hears, and with meek voice Offers his own up, and their, joys : Then prays that all the world might be Blessed with as sweet a unity. If sudden storms the day invade, They flock about him to the shade, Where wisely they expect the end, Giving the tempest time to spend ; And hard by shelters on some bough ' Hilarion's servant, the sage Crow. purer years of light and grace I Great is the difference, as the space, 'Twixt you and us, who blindly rim After false fires and leave the sun. Is not fair nature of herself Much richer than dull paint and pelf? And are not streams at the spring-head More sweet than in carved stone or lead. But fancy and some artist's tools Frame a religion for fools. The truth, which once was plainly taught, With thorns and briers now is fraught. Some part is with bold fables spotted, Some by strange comments wildly blotted ; And Discord, old corruption's crest, With blood and blame have stained the rest. So snow, which in its first descents A whiteness like pure heaven presents, When touched by man is quickly soiled, And after trodden down and spoiled. lead me, where I may be free In truth and spirit to serve Thee J HEVRY V A UGH AN. 197 Where undisturbed I may converse With thy great Self ; and there rehearse Thy gifts with thanks ; and from thy store, Who art all blessings, beg much more. Give me the wisdom of the bee, And her unwearied industry ! That from the wild gourds of these days, I may extract health, and Thy praise, Who canst turn darkness into light, And in my weakness show Thy might. Suffer me not in any wan.t To seek refreshment from a plant Thou didst not set ; since all must be Plucked up, whose growth is not from Thee. 'Tis not the garden, and the bowers, Nor sense and forms, that give to flowers Their wholesomeness ; but Thy good will, Which truth and pureness purchase still. Then since corrupt man hath driven hence Thy kind and saving influence, And balm is no more to be had In all the coasts of Gilead ; Go with me to the shade and cell, Where thy best servants once did dwell. There let me know Thy will, and see Exiled religion owned by Thee ; For Thou canst turn dark grots to halls, And make hills blossom like the vales, Decking their untilled heads with flowers, And fresh delights for all sad hours ; Till from them, like a laden bee, I may fly home, and hive with Thee ! THE SHEPHERDS. SWEET, harmless lives ! on whose holy leisure Waits innocence and pleasure, 17* 198 UENRY VAUGHAN. Whose leaders to those pastures and clear springs Were patriarchs, saints, and kings ; How happened it that in the dead of night You only saw true lightj While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay Without one thought of day ? Was it because those first and blessed swains Were pilgrims on those plains, When they received the promise, for which now 'Twas there first shown to you ? 'Tis true, he loves that dust whereon they go That serve him here below, And therefore might for memory of those His love there first disclose ; But wretched Salem once his love, must now No voice nor vision know, Her stately piles, with all their height and pride, Now languished and died. No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury, In those thin cells could lie ; Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots, Which never harbored plots ; Only content and love and humble joys, Lived there without all noise ; Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day Did in their bosoms play, As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook, What springs or shades to look ; But that was all ; and now with gladsome care They for the town prepare ; They leave their flock, and in a busy talk All towards Bethlehem walk To see their soul's great Shepherd, who was come, To bring all stragglers home ; Where now they find him out, and, taught before, That Lamb of God adore, That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished And longed to see, but missed. HENRY VALGHAN. 199 The first light they beheld was bright and gay, And turned their night to day ; But to this later light they saw in him, Their day was dark and dun. THE GARLAND. WHEN first my youthful, sinful age Grew master of my ways. Appointing error for my page, And darkness for my days ; I flung away, and with full cry Of wild affections, rid In post for pleasures, bent to try All gamesters that would bid. I played with fire, did counsel spurn, Made life my common stake ; But never thought that fire would burn, Or that a soul could ache. Glorious deceptions, gilded mists, False joys, fantastic flights, Pieces of sackcloth with silk lists, These were my prime delights. I sought choice bowers, haunted the spring, Culled flowers, and made me posies ; Gave my fond humors their full wing, And crowned my head with roses. But at the height of this career I met with a dead man, Who, noting well my vain abear, Thus unto me began : Desist, fond fool, be not undone, What thou hast cut to-day Will fade at night, and with this sun Quite vanish and decay. 200 HENRY VAUGIIAN. THE DWELLING-PLACE. ST. JOHN, CHAP. I. VERSES 38, 39. "WHAT happy, secret fountain, Fair shade, or mountain, Whose undiscovered virgin glory Boasts it this day, though not in story, Was then thy dwelling ? did some cloud, Fixed to a tent, descend and shroud My distressed Lord ? or did a star, Beckoned by thee, though high and far, In sparkling smiles haste gladly down To lodge light and increase her own ? My dear, dear God ! I do not know What lodged thee then, nor where, nor how ; But I am sure thou dost now come Oft to a narrow, homely room, Where thou too hast but the least part ; My God, I mean my sinful heart. HEAVEN IN PROSPECT. THEY are all gone into a world of light, I alone sit lingering here ; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove ; Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days ; My days which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. HENRY VAUGHAN. 201 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 nowhere but in the dark, What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark ! He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown ; But what fair field, or grove, he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flame must needs burn there ; But when the hand that locked her up gave room, She'd shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee ! Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass ; Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass. HENRY VAUGHAN. THE WREATH. SINCE I in storms most used to be, And seldom yielded flowers, How shall I get a wreath for Thee From these rude barren hours ? The softer dressings of the spring, Or summer's later store, I will not for thy temples bring, Which thorns, not roses, wore ; But a twined wreath of grief and praise, Praise soiled with tears, and tears again Shining with joy, like dewy days, This day I bring for all Thy pain. SUNDAYS. BRIGHT shadows of true rest ! some shoots of bliss ! Heaven once a week ; The next world's gladness prepossessed in this ; A day to seek Eternity in time ; the steps by which We climb above all ages ; lamps that light Man through his heap of dark days ; and the rich And full redemption of the whole week's flight : The pulleys unto headlong man ; time's bower ; The narrow way ; Transplanted paradise ; God's walking hour ; The cool o' the day ; The creature's jubilee ; God's parle with dust ; Heaven here ; man on those hills of myrrh, of flowers ; Angels descending ; the returns of trust ; A gleam of glory after six days' showers ; The Church's love-feasts ; time's prerogative IIEXUY V A UGH AN. 203 And interest Deducted from the whole ; the combs and hive, And home of rest ; The milky- way chalked out with suns ; a clue- That guides through erring hours, and in full story ; A taste of heaven on earth ; the pledge and cue Of a full feast, and the out-courts of glory. THE RETREAT. HAPPY those early days, when I Shined in my angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place, Appointed for my second race ; Or taught my soul to fancy aught But a white celestial thought ; When yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love ; And, looking back at that short space, Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour, And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity ; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound ; Or had the black art to dispense, A several sin to every sense ; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. Oh ! how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train ; From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm-trees ; But, oh ! my soul, with too much stay, Is drunk, and staggers in the way. 204 HENRY VAUGHAN. Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came return. CHILDHOOD. I CANNOT reach it ; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that Chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive, And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my power, Quickly would I make my path even, And by mere playing go to Heaven. Dear, harmless age ! the short, swift span Where weeping virtue parts with man ; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries ! which he Must live twice that would God's face see ; Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels ! which foul men drive away. How do I study now, and scan Thee more than ere I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light ! for thy centre and mid-day ! For sure that is the narrow way ! THE WORLD. I SAW eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm as it was bright : HENRY VAUGHAN. 205 And round beneath it, time in hours, days, years, Driven by the spheres, Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world And all her train were hurled. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain ; Near him his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit so 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 flower. The darksome statesman, hung with weights and vr Raised, as ancient prophets were. In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer, Pleasing all men, hurting none, Pleased and blessed with God alone ; Then white the gardens take my sight, With all the colors 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 unnumbered waves ; The wood, that spreads its shady leaves ; The field, whose ears conceal the grain, The yellow treasure of the plain ; All of these, and all I see, Should be sung, and sung by me : They speak their Maker as they can, But want and ask the tongue of man. Go, search among your idle dreams, Your busy, or your vain extremes, And find a life of equal bliss, Or own the next begun in this. EDWARD YOUNG. 255 EDWARD YOUNG. DR. YOUNG was born at Upham, near Winchester, in 1681. He was educated at Winchester School, and removed thence to New Col- lege, Oxford. He took orders in 1727, and was appointed Chaplain to the king. After this he engaged in politics, and at the age of eighty, soliciting further preferment from Archbishop Seeker, he was appoint- ed Clerk of the Closet to the Princess dowager of Wales. He died in April, 1765. The principal work of Dr. Young is his "Night Thoughts," of which Dr. Johnson gives the following character: " The author has exhibited a very wide display of original poetry, va- riegated with deep reflections and striking allusions; a wildness of thought, in which the fertility of fancy scatters flowers of every hue and order. The excellence of this work is not exactness, but copious- ness ; particular lines are not to be regarded, the power is in the whole ; and in the whole there is a magnificence, like that ascribed to a Chinese plantation the magnificence of vast extent and endless di- versity." THE POET COMPARES HIMSELF TO A TRAVELLER. As when a traveller, a long day passed In painful search of what he cannot find, At night's approach, content with the next cot, There ruminates awhile, his labor lost ; Then cheers his heart with what his fate affords, And chants his sonnet to deceive the time, Till the due season calls him to repose : Thus I, long travelled in the ways of men, And dancing, with the rest, the giddy maze, Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's career ; Warned by the languor of life's evening ray, At length have housed me in an humble shed : Where, future wand'ring banished from my thought, And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest, I chase the moments with a serious song. 256 EDWARD YOUNG. IMMORTALITY. IMMORTAL ! ages past, yet nothing gone ! Morn without eve ! a race without a goal ! Unshortened by progression infinite ! Futurity for ever future ! life Beginning still where computation ends ! 'Tis the description of a Deity ! 'Tis the description of the meanest slave. Immortal ! What can strike the sense so strong, As this the soul ? it thunders to the thought ; Reason amazes, gratitude o'erwhelms. No more we slumber on the brink of fate ; Roused at the sound, the exulting soul ascends, And breathes her native air : an air that feeds Ambition high, and fans ethereal fires ! Quick kindles all that is divine within us, Nor leaves one loitering thought beneath the stars. Immortal ! was but one immortal, how Would others envy ! how would thrones adore ! Because 'tis common, is the blessing less ? How this ties up the bounteous hands of heaven ! vain, vain, vain ! all else ; eternity ! A glorious and a needful refuge that, From vile imprisonment in abject views. 'Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. Eternity depending covers all ; Sets earth at distance, casts her into shades ; Blends her distinctions ; abrogates her powers : The low, the lofty, joyous, and severe, Fortune's dread frowns, and fascinating smiles, Make one promiscuous and neglected heap, The man beneath, if I may call him man, Whom immortality's full force inspires. Nothing terrestrial touching his high thought ; EDWARD YOUNG. 257 Suns shine unseen, and thunders roll unheard, By minds quite conscious of their high descent, Their present province and their future prize ; Divinely darting upward every wish, Warm on the wing, in glorious absence lost. Doubt you this truth ? Why labors your belief ? If earth's whole orb by some due distanced eye Was seen at once, her towering Alps would sink, And levelled Atlas leave an even sphere. Thus earth, and all that earthly minds admire, Is swallowed in eternity's vast round. To that stupendous view when souls awake, So large of late, so mountainous to man, Tune's joys subside, and equal all below. THE WORLD. SUCH the glories of the world ! What is the world itself? Thy world, a grave. Where is the dust that hath not been alive ? The spade, the plough, disturb our ancestors ; From human mould we reap our daily bread. The globe around earth's hollow surface shakes, And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons, O'er devastation we blind revels keep ; Whole buried towns support the dancer's heel. Each element partakes our scattered spoils ; As nature wide, our ruins spread ; man's death Inhabits all things, but the thought of man, Nor man alone ; his breathing bust expires, His tomb is mortal ; empires die ; where, now, The Roman ? Greek ? They stalk, an empty name ! Yet few regard them in this useful light, Though half our learning is their epitaph. When down thy vale, unlocked by midnight thought, That loves to wander in thy sunless realms, Death ! I stretch my view ; what visions rise ! What triumphs ! toils imperial ! arts divine ! 22* 258 EDWARD YOUNG. In withered laurels glide before my sight ! What lengths of far-famed ages, billowed high With human agitation, roll along In unsubstantial images of air. . . . But, Lorenzo ! far the rest above, Of ghastly nature, and enormous size, One form assaults my sight, and chills my blood, And shakes my frame. Of one departed world I see the mighty shadow. DEATH. 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 lingering moments into speed ; And whirl us (happy riddance) from ourselves. Art ! brainless art ! Our furious charioteer Drives headlong towards the precipice of Death ; Death, most our dread ; Death, thus more dreadful made; Oh ! what a riddle of absurdity ! Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot wheels ; How heavily we drag the load of life ! Blessed Leisure is our curse ; like that of Cain, It makes us wander ; wander earth around, To fly the tyrant Thought. As Atlas groaned The world 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 turned ; To man's false optics (from his folly false) Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, EDWARD YOUNG. 259 And seems to creep decrepit with his age. Behold him when passed by ; what then is seen, But his broad pinions swifter than the winds ! All mankind in contradiction strong, Rueful, aghast cry out on his career. MAN'S IMMORTALITY PROVED BY REFERENCE TO NATURE. NATURE, thy daughter, ever changing birth, Of Thee, the great immutable, to man Speaks wisdom ; is his oracle supreme ; And he who most consults her is most wise. Look nature through, 'tis revolution all ; All change, no death. Day follows night, and night The dying day ; stars rise, and set, and rise : Earth takes th' example. See the summer gay, With her green chaplet, and ambrosial flowers, Droops into pallid autumn ; winter gray, Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm, Blows autumn and his golden fruits away, Then melts into the spring ; soft spring, with breath Favonian from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All to reflourish fades ; As in a wheel, all sinks to reascend : Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. With this minute description, emblem just, Nature revolves, but man advances ! both Eternal ; that a circle, this a line ; That gravitates, this soars. Th' ^aspiring soul, Ardent and tremulous, like flame ascends : Zeal and humility, her wings to heaven. The world of matter, with its various forms, All dies into new life. Life born from death, Rolls the vast mass, and shall forever roll : No single atom, once in being, lost, With change of counsel charges the most High. Matter immortal ! And shall spirit die ? Above the noblest shall less noble rise ? 260 EDWARD YOUNG. Shall man alone, for whom all else revives, No resurrection know ? Shall man alone, Imperial man ! be sown in barren ground, Less privileged than grain on which he feeds ? Is man, in whom alone is power to prize The bliss of being, or with previous pain Deplore its period, by the spleen of fate Severely doomed death's single unredeemed ? MISERY OF UNBELIEF. COULDST thou persuade me the next life would fail Our ardent wishes, how should I pour out My bleeding heart in anguish, new, as deep ! Oh ! with what thoughts, thy hope and my despair, Abhorred Annihilation blasts the soul, And wide extends the bounds of human wo ! In this black channel would my ravings run : Grief from the future borrowed peace erewhile The future vanished, and the present pained : Fall how profound ! Hurled headlong, hurled at once To night ! to nothing ! darker still than night. If 'twas a dream, why wake me, my worst foe ? Oh ! for delusion ! Oh ! for error still ! Could vengeance strike much stronger than to plant A thinking being in a world like this, Not over rich before, now beggared quite, More cursed than at the fall ? The sun goes out ! The thorns shoot up ! what thorns in every thought ! Why sense of better ? it embitters worse : Why sense ? why life ? if but to sigh, then sink To what I was ? twice nothing ! and much wo ! Wo from heaven's bounties ! wo from what was wont To natter most, high intellectual powers. Thought, virtue, knowledge ! blessings by thy scheme All poisoned into pains. First, knowledge, once My soul's ambition, now her greatest dread. To know myself true wisdom ? no, to shun EDWARD YOUNG. 261 That shocking science, parent of despair ! Avert thy mirror ; if I see, I die. Know my Creator ? climb his blest abode, By painful speculation pierce the veil, Dive in his nature, read his attributes, And gaze in admiration on a foe Obtruding life, withholding happiness ? From the full rivers that surround his throne Nor letting fall one drop of joy on man ; Man gasping for one drop, that he might cease To curse his birth, nor envy reptiles more ! Ye sable clouds ! ye darkest shades of night, Hide Him, forever hide Him, from my thought, Once all my comfort ; source and soul of joy ! Know his achievements ! study his renown ! Contemplate this amazing universe, Dropped from his hand with miracles replete ! For what ? 'mid miracles of nobler name To find one miracle of misery ! To find the being which alone can know And praise his works, a blemish on his praise ? Through Nature's ample range in thought to stray, And start at man, the single mourner there, Breathing high hope chained down to pangs and death. Knowing is suffering, and shall virtue share The sigh of knowledge ? Virtue shares the sigh By straining up the steep of excellent ; By battles fought, and from temptation won, What gains she but the pang of seeing worth, Angelic worth, soon shuffled in the dark With every vice, and swept to brutal dust ? NO SPIRITUAL SUBSTANCE ANNIHILATED. THINK'ST thou Omnipotence a naked root, Each blossom fan* of Deity destroyed ? Nothing is dead ; nay, nothing sleeps ; each soul 262 EDWARD YOUNG. That ever animated human clay Now wakes ; is on the wing ; and when the call Of that loud trump collects us round heaven's throne Conglobed, we bask in everlasting day. How bright this prospect shines ! how gloomy thine ! A trembling world, and a devouring God ! Earth, but the shambles of Omnipotence ! Heaven's face all stained with causeless massacres ; Of countless millions born to feel the pang Of being lost. Lorenzo, can it be ? This bids us shudder at the thoughts of life. Who would be born to such a phantom world, Where naught substantial but our misery ? A world where dark mysterious vanity Of good and ill the distant colors blends, Confounds all reason, and all hope destroys ; A world so far from great (and yet how great It shines to thee !) there's nothing real in it ; Being a shadow I consciousness a dream ! A dream, how dreadful ; universal blank ! Before it and behind ! poor man a spark From non-existence struck by wrath divine, Glittering a moment, nor that moment sure, 'Midst upper, nether, and surrounding night, His sad, sure, sudden, and eternal tomb. REASONS FOR BELIEF. WHAT am I ? and from whence ? I nothing know But that I am ; and since I am, conclude Something eternal : had there e'er been naught, Naught still had been : eternal there must be : But what eternal ? Why not human race, And Adam's ancestors, without an end ? That's hard to be conceived ; since every link Of that long chained succession is so frail ; Can eveiy part depend and not the whole ? EDWARD YOUNG. 263 Yet grant it true ; new difficulties rise ; Whence earth and these bright orbs ? Eternal too ? Grant matter was eternal ; still these orbs Would want some other father : much design Is seen in all their motions, all their makes ; Design implies intelligence and art ; That can't be from themselves, or man : that art Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow ? And nothing greater yet allowed than man. Who motion, foreign to the smallest srain, Shot through vast masses of enormous weight ? Who bid brute matter's restive lump assume Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly ? Has matter innate motion ? Then each atom, Asserting its indisputable right To dance, would form a universe of dust. Has matter none ? Then whence these glorious forms And boundless lights from shapeless and reposed ? Has matter more than motion ? Has it thought, Judgment, and genius ? Is it deeply learned In mathematics ? Has it framed such laws, Which but to guess a Newton made immortal ? If so, how each sage alone laughs at me, Who thinks a clod inferior to a man ! If art to form and counsel to conduct, And that with greater far than human skill, Resides not in each block, a Godhead reigns. Grant then invisible, eternal Mind ; That granted, all is solved But granting that, Draw I not o'er me still a darker cloud ? Grant I not that which I can ne'er conceive ? A being without origin or end ! Hail, human liberty ! there is no God. Yet why ? on either scheme the knot subsists : Subsist it must in God, or human race. If in the last, how many knots besides, Indissoluble all ? Why choose it there, Where, chosen, still subsist ten thousand more ? 264 EDWARD YOUNG. Reject it ; where that chosen, all the rest Dispersed, leave reason's whole horizon clear ? What vast preponderance is here ! can reason With louder voice exclaim, Believe a God ? What things impossible must man think true, On any other system ? and how strange To disbelieve through mere credulity. CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS YET why drown fancy in such depths as these ? Return, presumptuous rover ! and confess The bounds of man, nor blame them as too small. Enjoy we not full scope in what is seen? Full ample the dominions of the sun ! Full glorious to behold ! how far, how wide, The matchless monarch, from his flaming throne, Lavish of lustre, throws his beams about him, Farther and faster than a thought can fly, And feeds his planets with eternal fires ! Beyond this city why strays human thought ? One wonderful enough for man to know ! One firmament enough for man to read ! Nor is instruction here our only gain : There dwells a noble pathos in the skies, Which warms our passions, proselytes our hearts. How eloquently shines the glowing pole ! With what authority it gives its charge, Remonstrating great truths in style sublime, Though silent, loud ! heard earth around, above The planets heard ; and not unheard in hell ; Hell has its wonder, though too proud to praise. Divine Instructor ! thy first volume this, For man's perusal ; all in capitals ! In moon and stars (heaven's golden alphabet !) Emblazed to seize the sight ; who runs may read, Who reads can understand : 'tis unconfined EDWARD YOUNG. 265 To Christian land, or Jewry ; fairly writ In language universal, to mankind : A language lofty to the learned, yet plain To those that feed the flock, or guide the plough, Or, from its husk, strike out the bounding gram. A language worthy the great Mind that speaks ! Preface, and comment, to the sacred page ! Stupendous book of wisdom to the wise ! Stupendous book, and opened, Night ! by thee. By thee much opened, I confess, O Night ! Yet more I wish ; say, gentle Night, whose beams Give us a new creation, and present The world's great picture, softened to the sight ; Say thou, whose mild dominion's silver key Unlocks our hemisphere, and sets to view Worlds beyond number ; worlds concealed by day Behind the proud and envious star of noon ! Canst thou not draw a deeper scene ? and show The mighty Potentate, to whom belong These rich regalia, pompously displayed ? Oh ! for a glimpse of Him my soul adores ! As the chased hart, amid the desert waste, Pants for the living stream ; for Him who made her So pants the thirsty soul, amid the blank Of sublunary joys ; say, goddess, where ? Where blazes his bright court ? where burns his throne ? Thou know'st, for thou art near Him ; by thee, round His grand pavilion, sacred fame reports, The sable curtains drawn : if not, can none Of thy fair daughter-train, so swift of wing, Who travel far, discover where He dwells ? A star his dwelling pointed out below : Say ye, who guide the wildered in the waves, On which hand must I bend my course to find Him ? These courtiers keep the secret of their King ; I wake whole nights, in vain, to steal it from them. In ardent contemplation's rapid car, From earth, as from my barrier, I set out ; 23 266 EDWARD YOUNG. How swift I mount ! diminished earth recedes ; I pass the moon ; and, from her further side, Pierce heaven's blue curtain ; pause at every planet. And ask for Him who gives their orbs to rofl From Saturn's ring I take my bolder flight, Amid those sovereign glories of the skies, Of independent, native lustre, proud ; The souls of systems ! What behold I now ? A wilderness of wonders burning round, Where larger suns inhabit higher spheres. Nor halt I here ; my toil is but begun ; 'Tis but the threshold of the Deity, Or far beneath it I am grovelling still. LIFE, DEATH, AND IMMORTALITY. TIRED nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep ! He, like the world, his ready visit pays Where fortune smiles ; the wretched he forsakes ; Swift on his downy pinions flies from wo, And lights on lids unsullied with a tear. From short (as usual) and disturbed repose I wake : how happy they who wake no more ! Yet that were vain, if dreams infest the grave. I wake : emerging from a sea of dreams Tumultuous ; where my wrecked, desponding thoughts From wave to wave of fancied misery At random drove, her helm of reason lost. Though now restored, 'tis only change of pain, (A bitter change !) severer for severe : The day too short for my distress ; and night, E'en in the zenith of her dark domain, Is sunshine to the color of my fate. Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne In rayless majesty, now stretches forth Her leaden sceptre o'er a slumbering world. Silence how dead ! and darkness how profound ! EDWARD YOUNG. 267 Nor eye nor listening ear an object finds : Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, An awful pause ! prophetic of her end. And let her prophecy be soon fulfilled : Fate ! drop the curtain ; I can lose no more. Silence and Darkness : solemn sisters ! twins From ancient Night, who nurse the tender thought To reason, and on reason build resolve, That column of true majesty in man, Assist me : I will thank you in the grave ; The grave your kingdom : there this frame shall fall' A victim sacred to your dreary shrine. But what are ye ? Thou who didst put to flight Primeval silence, when the morning stars Exulting, shouted o'er the rising vale. Thou ! whose word from solid darkness struck That spark, the sun, strike wisdom from my soul ; My soul which flies to Thee, her trust, her treasure, As misers to their gold, while others rest. Through this opaque of nature and of soul, This double night, transmit one pitying ray, To lighten and to cheer. Oh ! lead my mind, (A mind that fain would wander from its wo,) Lead it through various scenes of life and death, And from each scene the noblest truths inspire. Nor less inspire my conduct than my song ; Teach my best reason, reason ; my best will, Teach rectitude ; and fix my firm resolve Wisdom to wed, and pay her long arrear : Nor let the vial of thy vengeance, poured On this devoted head, be poured in vain. The bell strikes one. We take no note of tune But from its loss : to give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, 1 feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours. 268 EDWARD YOUNG Where are they ? With the years beyond the flood. It is the signal that demands dispatch : How much is to be done ! My hopes and fears Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge Look down on what ? A fathomless abyss : A dread eternity ! how surely mine ! And can eternity belong to me, Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful is man ! How passing wonder He who made him such ! Who centred in our make such strange extremes I From different natures, marvellously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds ! Distinguished link in being's endless chain ! Midway from nothing to the Deity ! A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed ! Though sullied and dishonored, still divine ! Dim miniature of greatness absolute ! An heir of glory ! a frail child of dust ! Helpless immortal ! insect infinite ! A worm ! a god ! I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost. At home a stranger, Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast, And wondering at her own. How reason reels 1 Oh ! what a miracle to man is man ! Triumphantly distressed ! what joy ! what dread ! Alternately transported and alarmed ! What can preserve my life ? or what destroy ? An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave ! Legions of angels can't confine me there. PLEASURE. PLEASURES are fled, and fewer we enjoy ; Pleasure, like quicksilver, is bright and coy : We strive to grasp it with our utmost skill ; Still it eludes us, and it glitters still ; EDWARD YOUNG. 269 If seized at last, compute your mighty gains ; What is it but rank poison in your veins ? GAMBLING. IMMORTAL were we, or else mortal quite, I less should blame this criminal delight ; But since the gay assembly's gayest room Is but an upper story to some tomb, Methinks we need not our short being shun, And thought to fly, content to be undone. We need not buy our ruin with our crime, And give eternity to murder time. X RESIGNATION. THESE hearts, alas ! cleave to the dust By strong and endless ties : Whilst every sorrow cuts a string, And urges us to rise. When heaven would kindly set us free, And earth's enchantment end ; It takes the most effectual way, And robs us of a friend. Resign, and all the load of life That moment you remove ; Its heavy load, ten thousand cares, Devolve on One above Who bids us lay our burden down, On his almighty hand ; Softens our duty to relief, Our blessings to command. 23* 270 ROBERT BLAIR. ROBERT BLAIR, THE author of " The Grave," was the eldest son of a minister of Edin- burgh, and was born in that city in 1699. He graduated at the uni- versity of his native city, travelled on the continent, and on his return, in 1731, was ordained to a parish in East Lothian, where, living in a gentlemanly style, he discharged the duties of his profession in an exemplary manner, and gave his leisure to the cultivation of his gar- den, to science, and to literature! He died on the 4th of February, 1746, and was succeeded in his office by Home, the author of " Doug- lass." The reputation of Blair rests chiefly upon " The Grave," originally published in London, through the kindly offices of Doddridge, in 1743. The execution of the poem is uneven ; it has some striking faults ; but the work is altogether justly described by Hazlitt as " a serious and somewhat gloomy poem, pregnant with striking reflections and fine fancy." A SHOOLBOY, AT NIGHT, IN A CHURCHYARD. OFT in the lone churchyard at night I've seen, By glimpse of moonlight check'ring through the trees, The schoolboy with his satchel in his hand, Whistling aloud to bear his courage up, And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones (With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown) That tell in homely phrase who lies below. Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears, The sound of something purring at his heels : Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind, - Till, out of breath, he overtakes his fellows, Who gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition pale and ghastly, That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand O'er some new-opened grave and (strange to tell) Evanishes at crowing of the cock. ROBERT BLAIR. 271 A RICH MAN SURPRISED BY DEATH. IN that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, But shrieks in vain ! how wistfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer hers ! A little longer, yet a little longer, ! might she stay to wash away her stains, And fit her for her passage. Mournful sight ; Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan She heaves is big with horror. But the foe, Like a stanch murderer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close through every lane of life, Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; Till forced at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin ! 272 JAMES THOMSON. JAMES THOMSON. THIS eminent poet was born at Ednam, in Roxburghshire, in 1700. He was educated at Jedburgh and Edinburgh, and was intended for the ministry. Poetry, however, led him aside from this path, and in 1725 he went to London, where he soon attracted notice by the publi- cation of his Winter," and was patronised by the Lord Chancellor Talbot, with whose son he travelled afterwards on the Continent. After this nobleman's death, he enjoyed the friendship of Frederic, Prince of Wales, and Mr. Lyttleton. He died in 1748. Thomson is described by Hazlitt as the best and most original of the British de- scriptive poets. " He had nature, but through indolence or affectation, too often embellished it with the gaudy ornaments of art. He some- times rises into sublimity; he has occasional pathos, and wit, and hu- mor too, of a most voluptuous kind." Perhaps the best recent criticisrr of Thomson may be found in Professor Wilson's writings. A HYMN ON THE SEASONS. THESE as they change, Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields : the softening air is balm, And every sense and every heart is joy. Then comes thy glory in the Summer montns, 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, and hollow whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In Winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, JAMES THOMSON. 273 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore, And humblest nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, Yet so delightful mixed with such kind an, Such beauty and beneficence combined ! Shade unperceived so soft'ning into shade, And all so forming an harmonious whole, That as they still succeed they ravish still. But wand'ring 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 teeming thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring ; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend ! join every living soul Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join : and ardent raise One general song ! To Him, ye vocal gales, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness breathes. 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 th' astonished 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, Sound his stupendous praise, whose greater voice Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. 274 JAMES THOMSON. Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers, In mingled clouds to Him, whose sun exalts, Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil p'aints. 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 Avide, From world to world, the vital ocean round, On nature write with every beam his praise. The thunder rolls ! be hushed :the .prostrate world, While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy Crocks, 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 Bursts 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, and tongue of all, Grown 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 base ; And, as each mingling flame increases, each In one united ardor 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. JAMES T HUMS OX. 275 For me when 1 forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Russets the plain, inspiring autumn gleams, Or winter rises in the blackening east, Be my tongue mute, 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 naught to me, Since God is ever present, ever felt In the void waste as in the city full : And where He vital breathes there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where Universal Love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs and all their suns - From seeming evil still educing good, 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* 276 CHARLES WESLEY. CHARLES WESLEY. CHARLES WESLEY was the brother of the more celebrated John Wesley, and, like him, was an eloquent preacher. His Hymns have great sweetness of style and sentiment, and they are nearly all retained in the collections of the Methodist Church. JUDGMENT. THOU Judge of quick and dead, Before whose bar severe, With holy joy or guilty dread, We all shall soon appear : Our sinful souls prepare For that tremendous day ; And fill us now with watchful care, And stir us up to pray. To pray, and wait the hour, That awful hour unknown ; When robed in majesty and power, Thou shalt from heaven come down, Th' immortal Son of man, To judge the human race, With all thy Father's dazzling train, With all thy glorious grace. To damp our earthly joys, T' increase our gracious fears, Forever let the Archangel's voice Be sounding in our ears. The solemn midnight cry, " Ye dead, the Judge is came ; Arise, and meet him in the sky, And meet your instant doom I" JAMES MERRICK. 277 may we thus be found Obedient to his word ; Attentive to the trumpet's sound, And looking for our Lord ! may we all ensure A lot among the blest ! And watch a moment, to secure An everlasting rest. JAMES MERRICK born at Reading in 1720. He was the author of several hymns, the most beautiful of which is that well-known piece, " Placed on the Verge of Youth." He also published a new version of the Psalms, which bears little affinity to the inspired original. He died in 1766. ' THE IGNORANCE OF MAN. BEHOLD yon new-born infant, grieved With hunger, thirst, and pain, That asks to have the wants relieved ; It knows not to complain. Aloud the speechless suppliant cries, And utters as it can The woes that in its bosom rise, And speak its nature man. That infant, whose advancing hour, Life's various sorrows try, (Sad proof of sin's transmissive power,) That infant, Lord, am I. A childhood yet my thoughts confess, Though long hi years mature, Unknowing whence I feel distress, And where, or what, its cure. 24 278 JAMES MERRICK. Author of good ! to Thee I turn : Thy ever-wakeful eye Alone can all. my. wants discern, Thy. hand alone supply. Oh ! let thy fear within me dwell, . Thy love. my -footsie ps, guide ; ', That love shall vainer loves; expel, That fear all fear beside. And oh ! by error's force subdued, Since oft my. stubborn will, Preposterous slums the latent gopd, And grasps the specious ill, Not to my wish, but to my want, Do i'hou" thy gifts supply '; Unasked, what good Thou Tmowest, grant, What ill, thoug;h asked, deny. NUNC DIMITTIS 'Tis enough the hour is come : Now within the silent tomb Let this mortal frame decay, Mingled with its kindred clay ; Since thy mercies, oft of old By thy chosen seers foretold, Faithful now and steadfast prove, God of truth, and God of love ! Since at length, my aged eye Sees the dayspring from on high ; Sun of righteousness, to Thee Lo ! the nations bow the knee ; And the realms of distant kings Own the healing of thy wings. Those whom death had overspread With his dark and dreary shade, JAMES MERR1CK. Lift their eyes, and from afar Hail the light of Jacob's Star, Waiting till the promised ray Turn their darkness into day. See the beams intensely shed Shine o'er Zion's favored head ! -Never may they hence remove, God of truth, and God of love ! 'THE PRQYIPENCE OF GOD. . PLACED on the verge of youth, my mind Life's opening scene surveyed ; I viewed its ills of various kind,' Afflicted and afraid. But chief my fear the dangers moved, That virtue's path enclose : My heart the wise pursuit approved, But, oh ! what toils oppose. For see 1 ah see ! while yet her ways With doubtful step I tread, A hostile world its .terrors raise, Its snares delusive spread. Oh ! how shall I, with heart prepared, Those terrors learn to meet ? How from the thousand snares to guard My inexperienced feet ? As thus I mused, oppressive sleep Soft o'er my temples drew Oblivious veil. The watery deep, An object strange and new, Before me rose : on the wide shore Observant as I stood, The gathering storms around me roar, And heave the boiling flood. 280 JAMES MERRICK. Xear, and more near the billows rise, E'en now my steps they lave ; And death to my affrighted eyes Approached in every wave. What hope, or whither to retreat, Each nerve at once unstrung : Chill fear had fettered fast my feet, And chained my speechless tongue. I feel my heart within me die ; When sudden to mine ear A voice descending from on high Reproved my erring fear. " What though the swelling surge thou see Impatient to devour, Rest, mortal, rest, on God's decree, And thankful own his power. *' Know when He bade the deep appear, ' Thus far,' the Almighty said, ' Thus far, nor farther, rage, and here Let thy proud waves be stayed.' J1 I heard, and lo ! at once controlled, The waves in wild retreat Back on themselves reluctant rolled, And murmuring left my feet. Deeps to assembling deeps in vain Once more the signal gave ; The shores the rushing weight sustain, And check th' usurping wave. Convinced in nature's volume wise, The imaged truth I read, And sudden from my waking eyes The instructive vision fled. JAMES MERRICK. 281 Then why thus heavy, my soul ! Say, why distrustful still, Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll O'er scenes of future ill ? Let faith suppress each rising fear, Each anxious doubt exclude ; Thy Maker's will has placed thee here, A Maker wise and good. He to thy every trial knows Its just restraint to give, Attentive to behold thy woes, And faithful to relieve. Then why thus heavy, my soul ! Say, why distrustful still, Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll O'er scenes of future ill ? Though griefs unnumbered throng thee round, Still in thy God confide, Whose finger marks the seas their bound, And curbs the^eadlong tide. 24* 282 CHRISTOPHER SMART. CHRISTOPHER SMART. CHRISTOPHER SMART was born at Shipbourne, in Kent, in 1722, ana was educated at Cambridge. He was elected Fellow of Pembroke Hall in 1745, and took the degree of M. A. in 1747. Shortly after ho removed to London, where he became acquainted witn the most cele- brated men of his day. He was subject to fits of insanity, which were at last attended with paroxysms so violent that he was obliged to be placed in a madhouse. He died, a prisoner for debt, in the King's Bench, on the 10th of May, 1770. Smart seems to have had much respect and sympathy, notwithstand- ing his dissolute and unhappy life. " His piety," says Southey, " was so fervent, that when composing his religious poems he was frequently so impressed as to write upon his knees." His works possess con- siderable merit. They are recommended, as Mr. Wilmot observes, by an air of sincerity and enthusiasm ; but they are generally wanting ir finish. INVOCATION. ARISE, divine Urania, with new strains To hymn thy God ! and they, immortal Fame, Arise, and blow thy everlasting trump ! All glory to the Omniscient, and praise, And power, and domination in the height ! And thou, cherubic Gratitude, whose voice To pious ears sounds silvery, so sweet, Come with thy precious incense, bring thy gifts, And with thy choicest stores the altar crown. Thou, too, my heart, whom He, and He alone Who all things knows, can know, with love replete, Regenerate, and pure, pour all thyself A living sacrifice before his throne ! And may the eternal high mysterious tree That in the centre of the arched heavens Bears the rich fruit of knowledge, with some branch Stoop to my humble reach, and bless my toil ! CHRISTOPHER SMART. 283 THE FINAL JUDGMENT. A DAY shall come when all this earth shall perish, Nor leave behind e'en chaos ; it shall come When all the armies of the elements Shall war against themselves, and mutual rage, To make perdition triumph ; it shall come When the capacious atmosphere above Shall in sulphureous thunders groan and die, And vanish into void ; the earth beneath Shall sever to the centre, and devour The enormous blaze of the destructive flames. Ye rocks that mock the raving of the floods, And proudly frown upon the impatient deep, Where is your grandeur now ? Ye foaming waves, That all along the immense Atlantic roar, In vain ye swell ; will a few drops suffice To quencli the unextinguishable fire ? Ye mountains, on whose cloud-crowned tops the cedars Are lessened into shrubs, magnific piles, That prop the painted chambers of the heavens, And fix the earth continual ; Athos, where ? Where, Teneriffe, 's thy stateliness to-day ? What, ^Etna, are thy flames to these ? no more Than the poor glow-worm to the golden sun. Nor shall the verdant valleys then remain Safe in their meek submission ; they the debt Of nature and of justice too must pay. Yet I must weep for you, ye rivals fair, Arno and Andalusia ; but for thee, More largely, and with filial tears must weep, O Albion ! my country ! thou must join, In vain dissevered from the rest, must join The terrors of the inevitable ruin. Nor thou, illustrious monarch of the day ; Nor thou, fair queen of night ; nor you, ye stars, Though million leagues, and million still, remote, Shall yet survive that day : ye must submit, 284 CHRISTOPHER SMART. Sharers, not bright spectators of the scene. But though the earth shall to the centre perish, Nor leave behind e'en chaos ; though the air, With all the elements, must pass away, Vain as an idiot's dream ; though the huge rocks That brandish the tall cedars on their tops, With humbler vales, must to perdition yield ; Though the gilt sun, and silver-tressed moon, With all her bright retinue, must be lost ; Yet Thou, Great Father of the world, survivest, Eternal as Thou wert : yet still survives, The soul of man immortal, perfect now, And candidate for unexpiring joys. He comes ! He comes ! the awful trump I hear : The flaming sword's intolerable blaze I see ! He comes, th' archangel from above. " Arise, ye tenants of the silent grave, Awake, ye incorruptible, arise ; From east to west, from the Antarctic pole To regions Hyperborean, all ye sons, Ye sons of Adam, and ye heirs of heaven Arise, ye tenants of the silent grave, Awake, ye incorruptible, arise." Tis then, not sooner, that the restless mind Shall find itself at home : and like the ark Fixed on the mountain-top, shall look aloft, O'er the vague passage of precarious life. THE ANT AND THE BEE. Go to the ant, thou sluggard, learn to live, And by her wary ways reform thine own. But if thy deadened sense and listless thought More glaring evidence demand, behold Where yon pellucid populous hive presents A yet uncopied model to the world ! There Machiavel in the reflecting glass May lead himself a fool. The chemist there CHRISTOPHER SMART. 285 May with astonishment invidious view His toils outdone by each plebeian bee, Who, at the royal mandate, on the wing From various herbs and from discordant flowers A perfect harmony of sweets compounds. GOODNESS OF GOD. IMMENSE Creator ! whose all-powerful hand Framed universal being, and whose eye Saw, like Thyself, ail things were formed for good ; Where shall the timorous bard thy praise begin, Where end the purest sacrifice of song And just thanksgiving ? The thought-kindling light. Thy prime production, darts upon my mind ; Its vivifying beams my heart illumes, Arid fills my soul with gratitude and Thee. Hail to the cheerful rays of ruddy morn That paint the streaky east, and blithesome rouse The birds, the cattle, and mankind from rest. Hail to the freshness of the early breeze, And Iris dancing on the new-fallen dew. Without the aid of yonder golden globe, Lost were the garnet's lustre, lost the lily, The tulip and auricula's spotted pride ; Lost were the peacock's plumage, to the sight So pleasing in its pomp and glossy show. . O ! thrice illustrious, were it not for thee, Those pansies, that reclining from the bank, View through th' immaculate pellucid stream Their portraiture in the inverted heaven, Might as well change their triple boast the while, The purple and the gold that far outvie The eastern monarch's garment, e'en with the dock, E'en with the baleful hemlock's irksome green Without thy aid, without thy gladsome beams, The tribes of woodland warblers would remain Mute on the bending branches, nor recite 286 CHRISTOPHER SMART. The praise of Him, who ere He formed their lord, Their voices tuned to transport, winged their flight, And bade them call for nurture, and receive : And lo ! they call ; the blackbird and the thrush, The woodlark and the redbreast, jointly call ; He hears and feeds their feathered families ; He feeds his sweet musicians, nor neglects The invoking ravens in the greenwood wide ; And though their throats' coarse rattling meet the ear, They mean it all for music, thanks, and praise ; They mean, and leave ingratitude to man. But not to all ! for hark ! the organs blow Their swelling notes round the cathedral's dome, And grace the harmonious choir, celestial feast To pious ears, and medicine of the mind 1 The thrilling trebles, and the manly base, Join in accordance meet, and with one voice All to the sacred subject suit their song. While in each breast sweet melancholy reigns Angelically pensive, till the joy Improves and purifies ; the solemn scene The sun through storied panes surveys with awe, And bashfully withholds each golden beam. Here, as her home, from morn to eve frequents The cherub Gratitude ; behold her eyes ! With love and gladness weepingly they shed Ecstatic smiles ; the incense that her hands Uprear, is sweeter than the breath of May Caught from the nectarine's blossom, and her voice Is more than voice can tell ; to Him she sings, To Him who feeds, who clothes, and who adorns, Who made, and who preserves, whatever dwells In air, in steadfast earth, or fickle sea. Oh ! He is good, He is immensely good ! Who all things formed, and formed them all for man ; Who marked the climates, varied every zone, Dispensing all his blessings for the best, In order and in beauty ! Rise, attend, CHRISTOPHER SMART. 287 Attest, and praise, ye quarters of the world ! Bow down, ye elephants, submissive bow To Him who made the mite. Though, Asia's pride, Ye carry armies on your tower-crowned backs, And grace the turbaned tyrants, bow to Him Who is as great, as perfect, and as good In his less striking wonders, till at length The eye's at fault and seeks the assisting glass ; Approach, and bring from Araby the Blest The fragrant cassia, frankincense, and myrrh, And, meekly kneeling at the altar's foot, Lay all the tributary incense down. Stoop, feeble Africa, with reverence stoop, And from thy brow take off the painted plume ; With golden ingots all thy camels load To adorn his temples ; hasten with thy spear Reverted, and thy trusty bow unstrung, While, unpursued, thy lions roam and roar, And ruined towers, rude rocks, and caverns wide, Remurmur to the glorious surly sound. And thou, fair India, whose immense domain To counterpoise the hemisphere, extends, Haste from the west, and with thy fruits and flowers, Thy mines and medicines, wealthy maid, attend. More than the plenteousness so famed to flow, By fabling bards, from Amalthea's horn, Is thine ! thine, therefore, be a portion due Of thanks and praise : come with thy brilliant crown And vest of fur ; and from thy fragrant lap, Pomegranates and the rich ananas pour. But chiefly thou, Europa, seat of grace And Christian excellence, his goodness own ; Forth from ten thousand temples pour his praise ; Clad in the armor of the living God, Approach, unsheath the Spirit's flaming sword ; Faith's shield, salvation's glory-compassed helm, With fortitude assume, and o'er your heart Fair truth's invulnerable breastplate spread ; 288 CHRISTOPHER SMART. Then join the general chorus of all worlds, And let the sons of chanty begin, In strains seraphic and melodious prayer : " O All-sufficient, All-beneficent ! Thou God of goodness and of glory, hear ! Thou who to lowest minds dost condescend, Assuming passions to enforce thy laws, Adopting jealousy to prove thy love ! Thou who resigned humility upholdest, E'en as the florist props the drooping rose ; But quellest tyrannic pride with peerless power, E'en as the tempest rives the stubborn oak ! All-sufficient, All-beneficent 1 Thou God of goodness and of glory, hear ! Bless all mankind, and bring them in the end To heaven, to immortality, and Thee !" GOD IN MAN. VAIN were the attempt, and impious, to trace Through all his works th' Artificer Divine. And though nor shining sun nor twinkling star Bedecked the crimson curtains of the sky ; Though neither vegetable, beast, nor bird, Were extant on the surface of the ball, JTor lurking gem beneath ; though the great sea Slept in profound stagnation, and the air Had left no thunder to pronounce its Maker ; Yet man, at home within himself, might find The Deity immense, and in that frame, So fearfully, so wonderfully made, See and adore his providence and power. 1 see and I adore ; God, most bounteous ! Oh ! infinite of goodness and of glory, The knee that Thou hast shaped shall bend to Thee The tongue which Thou hast tuned shall chant thy -praise, And thine own image, the immortal soul, Shall consecrate herself to Thee forever. CHRISTOPHER SMART. 289 SUBLIME invention, ever young, Of vast conception, towering tongue, To God the eternal theme ; Notes from your exaltations caught, Unrivalled royalty of thought, O'er meaner thoughts supreme. His muse, bright angel of his verse, Gives balm for all the thorns that pierce, For all the pangs that rage : Blest light, still gaining on the gloom, The more than Michal of his bloom, The Abishag of his age. He sang of God, the mighty source Of all things that stupendous force On which all strength depends From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, All period, power, and enterprise Commences, reigns, and ends. The world, the clustering spheres He made, The glorious light, the soothing shade, Dale, champaign, grove, and hill ; The multitudinous abyss, Where secrecy remains hi buss, And wisdom hides her skill. " Tell them I am," Jehovah said To Moses, while earth heard in dread, And, smitten to the heart, At once above, beneath, around, All nature, without voice or sound, Replied, " Lord ! Thou art." 1 This poem was composed during the author's confinement in a mad- houso. Being deprived of pen and ink, he " was obliged to indent his lines with the end of a key upon the wainscot." 25 290 WILLIAM COWPER. WILLIAM COWPER, ONE of tha finest religious, meditative, and descriptive English po- ets, was born at Berkhamstead, in Hertfordshire, in 1731. After being some time at Westminster, he was articled to an attorney, and at the end of three years, entered himself of the Middle Temple. His temperament quite unfitted him for the legal profession, and the inter est of his friends secured for him the place of clerk to the House of Lords, but his nervousness compelled him to resign it, and he fell into a condition of mental debility which made it necessary to place him in a lunatic asylum. Recovering his powers, he retired to Huntingdon, where he became acquainted with the family of the Rev. Mr. Unwin, and after that gentleman's death, he removed with his widow to Olney, where he formed a lasting intimacy with the Rev. John Newton and with Lady Austen. Here, though afflicted with continual ill health, and a constitutional melancholy, he made his admirable translation of Homer, and wrote those noble original poems which have secured for him a rank among the great authors of his age and country. His principal work, " The Task," in six books, is so well known to the lovers of religious poetry, that any account of it is scarcely necessa- ry ; and his " Tirocinium," " Hymns," &c., are all in their kind of the first class in English literature. " He is, after Thomson," says Mr. Hazlitt, " the best of our descriptive poets, but with less warmth of feeling and natural enthusiasm than the author of ' The Seasons.' He has also fine manly sense, a pensive and interesting turn of thought, tenderness, occasionally running into the most touching pathos, and a patriotic or religious zeal, mounting almost into sublimity. He had great simplicity with terseness of style : his occasional copies of verses have great elegance, and his ' John Gilpin' is one of the most humor- ous pieces in the language." The piety, genius, and learning of Cow- per have of late years been fitly commemorated in the careful and beautiful editions of all his works by Dr. Southey, the Rev. T. Grim- shawe, and the Rev. Thomas Dale. THE REPENTANT SINNER. IF ever thou hast felt another's pain, If ever, when he sighed, hast sighed again, If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear That pity had engendered, drop one here. WILLIAM COWPER. 291 This man was happy had the world's good word, And with it every joy it can afford ; Friendship and love seemed tenderly at strife, Which most should sweeten his untroubled life ; Politely learned, and of a gentle race, Good breeding and good sense gave all a grace, And whether at the toilet of the fair He laughed and trifled, made him welcome there ; Or if in masculine debate he shared, Ensured him mute attention, and regard. Alas, how changed ! expressive of his mind, His eyes are sunk, arms folded, head reclined ; Those awful syllables, hell, death, and sin, Though whispered, plainly tell what works within ; That conscience there performs her proper part, And writes a doomsday sentence on his heart. Forsaking and forsaken of all friends, He now perceives where earthly pleasure ends ; Hard task ! for one who lately knew no care, And harder still, as learned beneath despair ; His hours no longer pass unmarked away, A dark importance saddens eveiy day ; He hears the notice of the clock perplexed, And cries, " Perhaps eternity strikes next." Sweet music is no longer music here, And laughter sounds like madness in his car ; His grief the world of all her power disarms, Wine has no taste, and beauty has no charms ; God's holy word, once trivial in his view, Now by the voice of his experience true, Seems as it is, the fountain, whence alone Must spring that hope he pants to make his own. Now let the bright reverse be known abroad ; Say man's a worm, and power belongs to God. As when a felon, whom his country's laws Have justly doomed for some atrocious cause, Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears The shameful close of all his misspent years, 292 WILLIAM COWPER. If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne, A tempest usher in the dreadful morn, Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play, The thunder seems to summon him away, The warder at the door his key applies, Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies : If then, just then, all thoughts of mercy lost, When hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost, The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, He drops at once his fetters, and his fear : A transport glows in all he looks and speaks, And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks. Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs The comfort of a few poor added days, Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul Of him whom hope has with a touch made whole. 'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings Of the glad regions of the King of kings ; 'Tis more : 'tis God diffused through every part, 'Tis God Himself triumphant in his heart ; Oh ! welcome now, the sun's once hated light, His noonday beams were never half so bright 1 Not kindred minds alone are called to employ Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy ; Unconscious nature ! all that he surveys, Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise. THE MILLEN N I U M . THE groans of nature in this nether world, Which heaven has heard for ages, have an end ; Foretold by prophets, and by poets sung, Whose fire was kindled at the prophets' lamp, The time of rest, the promised Sabbath comes. Six thousand years of sorrow have well-nigh Fulfilled their tardy and disastrous course Over a sinful world ; and what remains Of this tempestuous state of human things WILLIAM COWPER. 293 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 chanot 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 : ]S"or 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, That not to attempt it, arduous as he deems The labor, were a task more arduous still. Oh ! scenes surpassing fable, and yet true, Scenes of accomplished bliss, which who can see, Though but in distant prospect, and not feel His soul refreshed with foretaste of the joy ? Rivers of gladness water all the earth, And clothe all climes with beauty ; the reproach Of barrenness is passed. The fruitful field Laughs with abundance ; and the land, once lean, Or fertile only in its own disgrace, Exults to see its thistly curse repealed. 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 25* 294 WILLIAM COWPER. 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 Stretched 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 heaven has chased it. In the heart No passion touches a discordant string, But all is harmony and love. Disease Is not : the pure and uncontaminated 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 !" 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, Earth rolls the rapturous hosanna round. Behold the measure of the promise filled ; See Salem built, the labor 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, Nebaioth, and the flocks of Kedar there ; The looms of Ormuz, 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 furthest west, And Ethiopia spreads abroad the hand, And worships. Her report has travelled forth WILLIAM COWPER. 295 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 restored ; So God as greatly purposed ! who wouJd else In his dishonored works Himself endure Dishonor, and be wronged 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 suffer for its crime ; would learn how fair The creature is that God pronounces good ; How pleasant in itself what pleases Him. Here every drop of honey hides a sting ; Worms wind themselves into our sweetest flowers, And e'en 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, shouldering 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, Nor 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 : where law shall speak Seldom, and never but as wisdom prompts, And equity ; not jealous more to guard A worthless form, than to decide aright : 296 WILLIAM COWPER. Where fashion shall not sanctify abuse, Nor smooth good-breeding (supplemental grace) With lean performance ape the work of love. ACaUAINT THYSELF WITH GOD. ACQUAINT thyself with God, if thou wouldst taste His works. Admitted once to )iis embrace, Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before ; Thine eye shall be instructed ; and thine heart, Made pure, shall relish, with divine delight Till then unfelt, what hands divine have wrought. Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone, And eyes intent upon the scanty herb It yields them ; or, recumbent on its brow, Ruminate heedless of the scene outspread Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away From inland regions to the distant main. Man views it, and admires ; but rests content With what he views. The landscape has his praise, But not its Author. Unconcerned who formed The paradise he sees, he finds it such, And, such well-pleased to find it, asks no more. Not so the mind that has been touched from heaven, And in the school of sacred wisdom taught To read his wonders, in whose thought the world, Fair as it is, existed ere it was. Not for its own sake merely, but for his Much more, who fashioned it, he gives it praise ; Praise that from earth resulting, as it ought, To earth's acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once Its only just proprietor in Him. The soul that sees Him or receives sublimed New faculties, or learns at least t' employ More worthily the powers she owned before, Discerns in all things what, with stupid gaze Of ignorance, till then she overlooked ; A ray of heavenly light gilding all forms WILLIAM COWPER. 297 Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute ; The unambiguous footsteps of the God, Who gives its lustre to an insect's wing, And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds. Much conversant with heaven, she often holds With those fair ministers of light to man, That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp, Sweet conference. Inquires what strains were they With which heaven rang, when every star, in haste To gratulate the new-created earth, Sent forth a voice, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy. " Tell me, ye shining hosts That navigate a sea that knows no storms, Beneath a vault unsullied with a cloud, If from your elevation, whence ye view Distinctly scenes invisible to man, And systems, of whose birth no tidings yet Have reached this nether world, ye spy a race Favored as ours, transgressors from the womb, And hasting to a grave, yet doomed to rise, And to possess a brighter heaven than yours ? As one who, long detained on foreign shores, Pants to return, and when he sees afar His country's weather-bleached and battered rocks From the green wave emerging, darts an eye Radiant with joy towards the happy land ; So I, with animated hopes behold, And many an aching wish, your beamy fires, That show like beacons in the blue abyss, Ordained to guide th' embodied spirit home From toilsome life to never-ending rest. Love kindles as I gaze. I feel desires That give assurance of their own success, And that, infused from heaven, must thither tend." THE HAPPY MAN. HE is the happy man whose life e'en now Shows somewhat of that happier life to come , 298 WILLIAM COWPER. Who, doomed to an obscure but tranquil state, Is pleased with it, and, were he free to choose, Would make his fate his choice ; whom peace, the fruit Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, Prepare for happiness ; bespeak him one Content indeed to sojourn while he must Below the skies, but having there his home. The world o'erlooks him in her busy search Of objects more illustrious in her view ; And, occupied as earnestly as she, Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. She scorns his pleasures, for she knows them not ; He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. He cannot skim the ground like summer-birds, Pursuing gilded flies ; and such he deems Her honors, her emoluments, her joys. Therefore in contemplation is his bliss, Whose power is such, that whom she lifts from earth She makes familiar with a heaven unseen, And shows him glories yet to be revealed. Not slothful he, though seeming unemployed, And censured oft as useless. Stillest streams Oft water fairest meadows ; and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing. Ask him, indeed, what trophies he has raised, Or what achievements of immortal fame He purposes, and he shall answer, None. His warfare is within. There unfatigued His fervent spirit labors. There he fights, And there obtains fresh triumphs o'er himself, And never-withering wreaths, compared with which The laurels that a Caesar reaps are weeds. Perhaps the self-approving, haughty world, That, as she sweeps him with her whistling silks, Scarce deigns to notice him, or, if she see, Deems him a cipher in the works of God, Receives advantage from his noiseless hours, Of which she little dreams. Perhaps she owes WILLIAM COVVPER. 299 Her sunshine and her rain, her blooming spring And plenteous harvest, to the prayer he makes, When, Isaac like, the solitary saint Walks forth to meditate at eventide, And thinks on her who thinks not for herself ; Forgive him then, thou bustler in concerns Of little worth, an idler in the best, If, author of no mischief and some good, He seeks his proper happiness by means That may advance, but cannot hinder, thine. Nor, though he tread the secret path of life, Engage no notice, and enjoy much ease, Account him an incumbrance on the state, Receiving benefits and rendering none. His sphere though humble, if that humble sphere Shine with his fair example, and though small His influence, if that influence all be spent In soothing sorrow and in quenching strife, In aiding helpless indigence, in works From which at least a grateful few derive Some taste of comfort in a world of wo ; Then let the supercilious great confess He serves his country, recompenses well The state, beneath the shadow of whose vine He sits secure, and in the scale of life Holds no ignoble, though a slighted place. The man whose virtues are more felt than seen, Must drop indeed the hope of public praise ; But he may boast, what few that win it can, That, if his country stand not by his skill, At least his follies have not wrought her fall. Polite refinement offers him in vain Her golden tube, through which a sensual world Draws gross impurity, and likes it well ; The neat conveyance hiding all the offence. Not that he peevishly rejects a mode, Because that world adopts it. If it bear The stamp and clear impression of good sense, 300 WILLIAM COWPER. And be not costly, more than of true worth, He puts it on, and for decorum sake Can wear it e'en as gracefully as she. She judges of refinement by the eye, He by the test of conscience, and a heart Not soon deceived ; aware that what is base No polish can make sterling ; and that vice, Though well perfumed and elegantly dressed, Like an unburied carcass tricked with flowers, Is but a garnished nuisance, fitter far For clennly riddance than for fair attire. So life glides smoothly and by stealth away, More golden than that age of fabled gold Renowned in ancient song ; not vexed with care, Or stained with guilt, beneficent, approved Of God and man, and peaceful in its end. So glide my life away ! and so at last, My share of duties decently fulfilled, May some disease, not tardy to perform Its destined office, yet with gentle stroke, Dismiss me weary to a safe retreat, Beneath the turf that I have often trod. HOPE. HOPE sets the stamp of vanity on all, That men have deemed substantial since the fall, Yet has the wondrous virtue to educe From emptiness itself a real use ; And while she takes, as at a father's hand, What health and sober appetite demand, From fading good derives, with chemic art, That lasting happiness, a thankful heart. Hope, with uplifted foot, set free from earth, Pants for the place of her ethereal birth, On steady wings sails through th' immense abyss, Plucks amaranthine joys from bowers of bliss, WILLIAM COW PEE. 301 And crowns the soul, while yet a mourner here, With wreaths like those triumphant spirits wear. Hope, as an anchor firm and sure, holds fast The Christian vessel, and defies the blast. Hope ! nothing else can nourish and secure His newborn virtues and preserve him pure. Hope ! let the wretch, once conscious of the joy, Whom now despairing agonies destroy, Speak, for he can, and none so well as he, What treasures centre, what delights, in thee. Had he the gems, the sjSces, and the land That boasts the treasure, all at his command ; The fragrant grove, th' inestimable mine, Were light, when viewed against one smile of thine. ON A BILL OF MORTALITY. CotLD I, from heaven inspired, as sure presage To whom the rising year shall prove his last, As I can number in my punctual page, And item down the victims of the past ! How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die ; And, reading here his sentence, how replete With anxious meaning, heavenward turn his eye ! Tune then would seem more precious than the joys In which he sports away the treasure now ; And prayer more seasonable than the noise Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow. Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, Told that his setting sun must rise no more. Ah ! self- deceived ! Could I prophetic say Who next is fated, and who next to fall, The rest might then seem privileged to play, But, naming none, the voice now speaks to All. 302 WILLIAM COWPEK. Observe the dappled foresters, how light They bound and airy o'er the sunny glade One falls the rest, wide scattered with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade. Had we their wisdom, should we, often warned, Still need repeated warnings, and at last, A thousand awful admonitions scorned, Die self-accused of life run all to waste ? Sad waste ! for which no after thrift atones : The grave admits no*cure for guilt or sin ; Dew-drops may deck the turf that hides the bones, But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within. Learn then, ye living ! by the mouths be taught Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon or late, death also is your lot, And the next opening grave may yawn for you, RELIGION NOT ADVERSE TO PLEASURE. RELIGION does not censure or exclude Unnumbered pleasures harmlessly pursued ; To study, culture, and with artful toil To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; To give dissimilar yet fruitful lands The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands ; To cherish virtue in an humble state, And share the joys your bounty may create ; To mark the matchless workings of the power That shuts within its seed the future flower ; Bids these in elegance of form excel, In color these, and those delight the smell ; Sends nature forth, the daughter of the skies, To dance on earth, and charm all human eyes ; To teach the canvass innocent deceit, Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet These, these are arts pursued without a crime, That leave no stain upon the wing of time. WILLIAM COWPER. 303 THE ENCHANTMENT DISSOLVED. BLINDED in youth by Satan's arts, The world to our unpractised hearts A flattering prospect shows ; Our fancy forms a thousand schemes Of gay delights, and golden dreams, And undisturbed repose. So in the desert's dreary waste, By magic power produced in haste, (As ancient fables say,) Castles, and groves, and music sweet, The senses of the traveller meet, And stop him in his way. But while he listens with surprise, The charm dissolves, the vision dies ; 'Twas but enchanted ground : Thus if the Lord our spirits touch, The world, which promised us so much, A wilderness is found. At first we start, and feel distressed, Convinced we never can have rest In such a wretched place ; But He whose mercy breaks the charm, Reveals his own Almighty arm, And bids us seek his face. Then we begin to live indeed, When from our sin and bondage freed By this beloved Friend : We follow Him from day to day, Assured of grace through all the way, And glory at the end. 304 WILLIAM COWPER, RETIREMENT. FAR from the world, Lord, I flee, From strife and tumult far ; From scenes where Satan wages still His most successful war. The calm retreat, the silent shade, . With prayer and praise agree ; And seem by thy sweet bounty made For those who follow Thee. There, if thy Spirit touch the soul, And grace her mean abode, Oh ! with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God. There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays ; Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise. Author and Guardian of my life, Sweet source of light divine, And (all harmonious names in one,) My Saviour, Thou art mine ! What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, A boundless, endless store, Shall echo through the realms above, When time shall be no more. JOHN LOGAN. 305 JOHN LOGAN. JOHN LOGAN was born at Soutra, in Mid Lothian, in 1748. He was bred to the Scottish Church, and became one of the ministers of Leith. Disagreeing, however, with his congregation, he came to London, and supported himself by his pen. He died there in December, 1788. Logan contributed many of the finest paraphrases to the Collection used in the Scottish Church. His poetry discovers great taste, and delicacy of sentiment, and a fervent imagination, and is written with much elegance. THE COMPLAINT OF NATURE. JOB XIV. FEW are thy days and full of wo, man, of woman born ! Thy doom is written, " Dust thou art, And shalt to dust return." Determined are the days that fly Successive o'er thy head; The numbered hour is on the wing, That lays thee with the dead. Alas ! the little day of life Is shorter than a span ; Yet black with thousand hidden ills To miserable man. Gay is thy morning ; flattering hope Thy sprightly step attends ; But soon the tempest howls behind, And the dark night descends. Before its splendid hour the cloud Comes o'er the beam of light ; A pilgrim in a weary land, Man tarries but a night. 26* 306 JOHN LOGAN. Behold ! sad emblems of thy state, The flowers that paint the field ; Or trees that crown the mountain's brow, And boughs and blossoms yield. When chill the blast of winter blows, Away the summer flies ; The flowers resign their sunny robes, And all their beauty dies. Nipped by the year, the forest fades ; And, shaking to the wind. The leaves toss to and fro, and streak The wilderness behind. The winter past, reviving flowers Anew shall paint the plain : The woods shall hear the voice of spring, And flourish green again : But man departs this earthly scene, Ah ! never to return ; No second spring shall e'er revive The ashes of the urn. The inexorable gates of death, What hand can e'er unfold ? Who from the cerements of the tomb Can raise the human mould ? The mighty flood that rolls along Its torrents to the main, The waters lost, can ne'er recall From that abyss again. The days, the years, the ages, dark Descending down to night, Can never, never be redeemed Back to the gates of light. JOHN LOGAN. 307 " So man departs the living scene To night's perpetual gloom ; The Toice of morning ne'er shall break The slumbers of the tomb. " Where are our fathers ? whither gone The mighty men of old ? The patriarchs, prophets, priests, and kings, In sacred books enrolled ? " Gone to the resting-place of man, The everlasting home, Where ages past have gone before, Where future ages come." Thus Nature poured the wail of wo, And urged her earnest cry ; Her voice in agony extreme Ascended to the sky. The Almighty heard : then from his throne In majesty He rose ; And from the heaven that opened wide, His voice hi mercy flows : " When mortal man resigns his breath, And falls a clod of clay, The soul, immortal, wings its flight To never- setting day. " Prepared of old for wicked men, The bed of torment lies ; The just shall enter into bliss, Immortal in the skies." 308 JOHN' LOGAN. THE PRAYER OF JACOB. GOD of Bethel ! by whose hand Thy people still are fed ; Who through this weary pilgrimage, Hast all our fathers led ; Our vows, our prayers, we now present Before thy throne of grace : God of our fathers, be the God Of their succeeding race. Through each perplexing path of life Our wandering footsteps guide ; Give us each day our daily bread, And raiment fit provide. Oh ! spread thy covering wings around Till all our wanderings cease, And at our father's loved abode, Our souls arrive in peace ! Such blessings from thy gracious hand Our humble prayers implore ; And Thou shalt be our chosen God, And portion evermore. NATHANIEL COTTON. 309 NATHANIEL COTTON WAS a physician at St. Alban's, where he acquired great reputation in his profession, and died in 1798. The poetical compositions of Cotton are distinguished by a refined elegance of sentiment, and simplicity ol expression. He writes flowingly, and sometimes with elevation and spirit. His thoughts are always just, and religiously pure. LIFE. LET not the young my precepts shun : Who slight good counsels are undone. Your poet sung of love's delights, Of halcyon days and joyous nights ; To the gay fancy lovely themes ; And fain I'd hope they're more than dreams. But, if you please, before we part, I'd speak a language to your heart. We'll talk of Life, though much I fear Th' ungrateful tale would wound your ear. You raise your sanguine thoughts too high, And hardly know the reason why : But say, life's tree bears golden fruit, Some canker shall corrode the root ; Some unexpected storm shall rise, Or scorching suns, or chilling skies ; And (if experienced truths prevail) All your autumnal hopes shall fail. " But, poet, whence such wide extremes ? Well may you style your labors dreams. A son of sorrow thou, I ween, Whose visions are the brats of spleen. Is bliss a vague unmeaning name ? Speak then the passions' use or aim ? Why rage desires without control, And rouse such whirlwinds in the soul ? 310 NATHANIEL COTTON. Why hope erects her towering crest, And laughs and riots in the breast ? Think not my weaker brain turns round ; Think not I tread on fairy ground ; Think not your pulse alone beats true, Mine makes as healthful music too. Our joys, when life's soft spring we trace, Put forth their early buds apace : See, the bloom loads the tender shoot ; The bloom conceals the future fruit. Yes, manhood's warm meridian sun Shall ripen what in spring begun. Thus infant roses, ere they blow, In germinating clusters grow ; And only wait the summer's ray, To burst and blossom to the day." What said the gay unthinking boy ? Methought Hilario talked of joy ! Tell, if thou canst, whence joys arise, Or what those mighty joys you prize. You'll find (and trust superior years) The vale of life a vale of tears. Gould wisdom teach where joys abound, Or riches purchase them when found, Would sceptred Solomon complain That all was fleeting, false, and vain ? Yet sceptred Solomon could say, Returning clouds obscured his day. Those maxims which the preacher drew, The royal sage experienced true. He knew the various ills that wait Our infant and meridian state ; That toys our earlier thoughts engage, And different toys maturer age ; That grief at every stage appears, But different griefs at different years; That vanity is seen, in part, Inscribed on every human heart ; NATHANIEL COTTON. 311 f- In the child's breast the spark began, Grows with his growth, and glares in man. But when in life we journey late, If follies die, do griefs abate ? Ah ! what is life at fourscore years ? One dark rough road of sighs, groans, pains, and tears. Perhaps you'll think I act the same As a sly sharper plays his game : You triumph every deal that's past, He's sure to triumph at the last ! Who often wins some thousands more Than twice the sums you won before. But I'm a loser with the rest, For life is all a deal at best, Where not the prize of wealth or fame Repays the trouble of the game ; (A truth no winner e'er denied An hour before that winner died ;) Nor that with me these prizes shine, For neither fame nor wealth is mine. My cards a weak plebeian band, With scarce an honor in my hand ! And, since my trumps are very few, What have I more to boast than you ? Nor am I gainer by your fall, That harlot, Fortune, bubbles all ! 'Tis truth, (receive it ill or well,) 'Tis melancholy truth, I tell. Why should the preacher take your pence, And smother truth to flatter sense ? I'm sure physicians have no merit, Who kill through lenity of spirit ! That life's a game, divines confess ; This says at cards, and that at chess : But if our views be centred here, 'Tis all a losing game, I fear. Sailors, you know, when wars obtain, And hostile vessels crowd the main, 312 NATHANIEL COTTON. If they discover from afar A bark as distant as a star, Hold the perspective to their eyes, To learn its colors, strength, and size ; And when this secret once they know, Make ready to receive the foe ; Let you and I from sailors learn Important truths of like concern. I closed the day as custom led. With reading till the time of bed ; Where Fancy, at the midnight hour, Again displayed her magic power ; (For know that Fancy, like a sprite, Prefers the silent scenes of night,) She lodged me in a neighboring wood, No matter where the thicket stood ; The Genius of the place was nigh, And held two pictures to my eye ; The curious painter had portrayed Life in each just and genuine shade. They who have only known its dawn May think these lines too deeply drawn ; But riper years, I fear, will show The wiser artist paints too true. One piece presents a rueful wild, Where not a summer's sun had smiled ; The road with thorns is covered wide, And Grief sits weeping by the side ; Here tears with constant tenor flow, And form a mournful lake below ; Whose silent waters, dark and deep, Through all the gloomy valley creep. Passions that flatter, or that slay, Are beasts that fawn, or birds that prey. Here Vice assumes the serpent's shape ; There Folly personates the ape : Here Avarice gripes with harpy claws ; There Malice grins with tiger's jaws ; NATHANIEL COTTON. 313 While sons of Mischief, Art, and Guile, Are alligators of the Nile. E'en Pleasure acts a treacherous part , She charms the sense, but stings the heart ; And when she gulls us of our wealth, Or that superior pearl, our health, Restores us naught but pains and wo, And drowns us in the lake below. There a commissioned angel stands With desolation in his hands ; He sends the all-devouring flame, And cities hardly boast a name : Or wings the pestilential blast, And lo ! ten thousand breathe their last. He speaks obedient tempests roar, And guilty nations are no more : He speaks the Fury discord raves, And sweeps whole armies to the graves ; Or Famine lifts her mildewed hand, And Hunger howls through all the land. " Oh ! what a wretch is man !" I cried ; " Exposed to death on every side ! And sure as born to be undone, By evils which he cannot shun ! Besides a thousand baits to sin, A thousand traitors lodge within ! For, soon as vice assaults the heart, The rebels take the demon's part." I sigh, my aching bosom bleeds ; When straight the milder plan succeeds. The lake of tears, the dreary shore, The same as in the piece before ; But gleams of light are here displayed To cheer the eye, and gild the shade ; Affliction speaks a softer style, And Disappointment wears a smile : A group of virtues blossom near ; Their roots improve by every tear. 27 314 JAMES GRAHAME. Here Patience, gentle maid ! is nigh, To calm the storm and wipe the eye ; Hope acts the kind physician's part, And warms the solitary heart : Religion nobler comfort brings, Disarms our griefs, or blunts their stings ; Points out the balance on the whole, And heaven rewards the struggling soul. But while these raptures I pursue, The Genius suddenly withdrew JAMES GRAHAME. JAMES GRAHAME, author of The Sabbath," " The Birds of Scot- land," " British Georgics," &c., was born at Glasgow, in 1765. He received a good education, and was by his friends articled to a lawyer ; but his own desire was to enter the ministry. Accordingly, after a few years spent without profit in his uncongenial profession, he sought and obtained orders of the Bishop of Norwich. He did not obtain a living, but officiated as a curate, first at Shipton, in Gloucestershire ; next at St. Margaret's, in Durham ; and last at Sedgefield ; performing all the duties of his office with Christian fidelity. He died in 1811. All the productions of Grahame display an amiability of mind rarely equalled, and never surpassed. The great charm of his poetry is manly simpli- city, and unaffected piety. His touches of rural scenery and modes of life are graphic in the highest degree. His nephew, the late James Grahame, is well known as the historian of the United States. THE FIRST SABBATH. Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast Like that untouching cincture which enzones The globe of Saturn, compassed wide this orb, And with the forming mass floated along In rapid course, through yet untravelled space, JAMES GRAHAME. 315 Beholding God's stupendous power, a world Bursting from Chaos at the omnific will, And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star On Paradise arose. Blessed that eve ! The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand, Creation bloomed ; when Eden's twilight face Smiled like a sleeping babe : the voice divine A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly work : Mildly the sun upon the loftiest tree Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reigned, And love, and gratitude ; the human pair Their orisons poured forth ; love, concord reigned. The falcon perched upon the blooming bough With Philomela, listened to her lay ; Among the antlered herd the tiger couched Harmless ; the lion's mane no terror spread Among the careless, ruminating flock. Silence was o'er the deep ; the noiseless surge, The last subsiding wave of that dread tumult Which raged when ocean at the mute command Rushed furiously into his new-cleft bed, Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore ; While on the swell the sea-bird, with her head Wing- veiled, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven, Entranced in new delight, speechless adored ; Nor stopped their fleet career, nor changed their form Encircular till on that hemisphere, In which the blissful garden sweet exhaled Its incense, odorous clouds, the Sabbath dawn Arose ; then wide the flying circle sped, And soared in semblance of a mighty rainbow. Silent ascend the choirs of seraphim, No harp resounds, mute each voice is : the burst Of joy and praise reluctant they repress, For love and concord all things so attuned To harmony, that earth must have received The grand vibration, and to the centre shook : 316 JAMES GRAHAME. But soon as to the starry altitudes They reached, then what a storm of sound tremendous Swelled through the realms of space. The morning stars Together sang, and all the sons of God Shouted for joy ! Loud was the peal ; so loud As would have quite o'erwhelmed human sense : But to the earth it came a gentle strain, Like softest fall breathed from ^Eolian lute, When 'mid the chords the evening gale expires. " Day of the Lord ! creation's hallowed close ! Day of the Lord ! (prophetical they sung) Benignant mitigation of that doom Which must ere long consign the fallen race, Dwellers in yonder star, to toil and wo." THE SABBATH AS A DAY OF REST. BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day , On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread lonely ; the ground Both seat and board ; screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree : But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God, not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently With covered face, and upward earnest eye. Hail, Sabbath ! thee I hail, the poor man's day ; The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe The morning air, pure from the city's smoke, While wandering slowly up the river's side, He meditates on Him whose power he marks In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough, As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom Around its roots ; and while he thus surveys JAMES GRAHAME. 317 With elevated joy each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, That heaven may be one Sabbath without end. A SPRING SABBATH WALK. MOST earnest was his voice ! most mild his look, As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock. He is a faithful pastor of the poor ; . He thinks not of himself; his Master's words, " Feed, feed my sheep," are ever at his heart, The cross of Christ is aye before his eyes. Oh ! how I love with melted soul to leave The house of prayer, and wander in the fields Alone ! What though the opening spring be chill ! Although the lark, checked in his airy path, Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod That still o'ertops the blade ! although no branch Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream ; What though the clouds oft lower ! their threats but end In summer-showers, that scarcely fill the folds Of moss-couched violets, or interrupt The merle's dulcet pipe, melodious bird ! He, hid behind the milkwhite sloe-thorn spray, (Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,) Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year. Sweet is the sunny nook to which my steps Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed, Unheeding where, so lovely all around The works of God arrayed in vernal smile. Oft at this season, musing, I prolong My devious range, till sunk from view, the sun Emblaze, with upward slanting ray, the breast And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark Descending, vocal, from her latest flight ; While disregardful of yon lowly star, 27* 318 JAMES GRAHAME. The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,- Sweet redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chants In desultory strains his evening hymn. A SUMMER SABBATH WALK DELIGHTFUL is this loneliness ! it calms My heart : pleasant the cool beneath these elms That throw across the stream a moveless shade ! Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks ; How peaceful every sound ! the ringdove's plaint, Moaned from the twilight centre of the grove, While every other woodland lay is mute, Save when the wren flits from her down-eaved nest. And from the root-sprig trills her ditty clear, The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp, the buzz Angrily shrill of moss-entangled bee, That soon as loosed booms with full twang away, The sudden rushing of the minnow-shoal, Scared from the shallows by my passing tread, Dimpling the water glides, with here and there A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout Watches his time to spring ; or, from above Some feathered dam, purveying midst the boughs, Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood Bears off the prize : sad emblem of man's lot ! He, giddy insect, from his native leaf, (Where safe and happily he might have lurked,) Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, Forgetful of his origin, and, worse, Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream, And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, Buoyant he flutters but a little while, Mistakes the inverted image of the sky For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. Now let me trace the stream up to its source, Among the hills ; its runnel by degrees JAMES GRAHAME. 319 Diminishing, the murmur runs a trickle : Closer and closer still the banks approach, Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots, With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount Into the open air ; grateful the breeze That fans my throbbing temples ! smiles the plain Spread wide below ; how sweet the placid view ! But oh ! more sweet the thought, heart- soothing thought ! That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons Of toil, partake this day the common joy Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale, Of breathing in the silence of the woods, And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath-day. Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb, To think that now the townsman wanders forth Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy The coolness of the day's decline : to see His children sport around, and simply pull The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix. Again I turn me to the hill, and trace The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned ; Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves, And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down. Now, when the downward sun has left the glens, Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chasm, As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel dry Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt : But hark, a plaintive sound floating along ! 'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin : now it dies Away, now rises full ; it is the song Which He, who listens to the halleluiahs Of choiring seraphim, delights to hear : It is the music of the heart, the voice 320 JAMES GRAHAME. Of venerable age, of guileless youth, In kindly circle seated on the ground Before their wicket door : behold the man ! The grandsire and the saint ; his silvery locks Beam in the parting ray ; before him lies, Upon the smooth-cropped sward, the open book, His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight ! While, heedless, at his side, the lisping boy Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. 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 those ancient elms Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass : The sere and yellow wreaths with eddying sweep Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves. 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 he was indeed of gentle soul, Though bred to brave the deep ; the lightning's 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 knees, 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. JAMES GRAHAME. 321 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 circle's autumn's brow : the ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaved thorn ; the bramble bends Beneath its jetty load ; the hazel hangs With auburn branches, dipping in the stream That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow The leaf -strewn banks : oft, statue-like, I gaze In vacancy of thought upon that stream, And chase with dreaming eye the eddying foam ; Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood. A WINTER SABBATH WALK. How dazzling white the snowy scene ; deep, deep, The stillness of the winter Sabbath-day, Not even a footfall heard. Smooth are the fields, Each hollow pathway level with the plain : Hid are the bushes, save that here and there Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom. High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch : Mute hangs the hooded bell ; the tombs lie buried : No step approaches to the house of prayer : The flickering fall is o'er ; the clouds disperse, And show the sun hung o'er the welkin's verge, Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time To visit nature in her grand attire ; Though perilous the mountainous ascent, A noble recompense the danger brings. How beautiful the plain stretched far below 322 JAMES GRAHAME. Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream With azure windings, or the leafless wood ! But what the beauty of the plain, compared To that sublimity which reigns enthroned, Holding joint rule with solitude divine, Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance To steps the most adventurously bold ! There silence dwells profound ; or if the cry Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm, The mantled echoes no response return. But let me now explore the deep sunk dell : No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's, Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green. Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts, Nor linger there too long : the wintry day Soon closes, and full oft a heavier fall, Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen. While gurgling deep below the buried rill Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh ! then Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot, And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side, Where night- winds sweep the gathering drift away : So the Great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock From faithless pleasures full into the storms Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast, Until at length the vernal sun looks forth, Bedimmed with showers ; then to the pastures green He brings them where the quiet waters glide, The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul. JAMES BEVTTIE. 323 JAMES BEATTIE, THE author of the "Minstrel," and other poems, and of various works in prose, was born in Laurencekirk in 1735, and died in 1803. THE H E R AT 1 'I' AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove : 'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, A hermit his song of the night thus began, No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man. " Ah ! why thus abandoned to darkness and wo, Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain ? For spring shall return and a lover bestow, And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy 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 extinguished, her crescent displays ; But lately I marked, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again, But man's faded glory no 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, Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew. 324 JAMES BEATTIE. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, Kind nature the embryo blossom will save ; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! " 'Twas thus by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. ' pity, great Father of Light,' then I cried, ' Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee I Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride, From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free/ " And darkness and doubt are now flying away, No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn, So breaks on the traveller faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death, smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.' FROM AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A LADY. AH, whither fled ! ye dear illusions stay ! Lo ! pale and silent lies the lovely clay ! How are the roses on that lip decayed, Which health in all the pride of bloom arrayed ! Health on her form each sprightly grace bestowed ; With active life each speaking feature glowed. Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky ; Elate with hope we deemed no tempest nigh ; When, lo ! a whirlwind's instantaneous gust Left all its beauties withering in the dust. All cold the hand that soothed Wo's weary head ! All quenched the eye the pitying tear that shed ! JAMES BEATTIE. 325 All mute the voice whose pleasing accents stole ; Infusing balm into the rankled soul ! Death, why arm with cruelty thy power, And spare the weed, yet lop the lovely flower ? Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven ! Is virtue then no more the care of heaven ? But peace, bold thought ! be still, my bursting heart ! We, not Eliza, felt the fatal dart. 'Scaped the dark dungeon does the slave complain, Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain ? Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn, On this dark wild condemned to roam forlorn ? Where Reason's meteor-rays, with sickly glow, O'er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw ; Disclosing dubious to th' affrighted eye, O'erwhelming mountains tottering from on high. Black billowy seas hi storms perpetual tossed, And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost. happy stroke that bursts the bonds of clay, Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day, And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more. 28 326 ANNE STEELE. ANNE STEELE. MRS. ANNE STEELE, the daughter of a Baptist clergyman at Brough- ton, in Hampshire, was distinguished as a devotional lyrist, and many of her hymns are now in the collections of most of the churches. She died in 1799, and soon after her poems were collected and published in two volumes. A MORNING HYMN. LORD of my life, may thy praise Employ my noblest powers, Whose goodness lengthens out my days, And fills the circling hours Preserved by thy almighty arm, I passed the shades of night, Serene and safe from every harm, And see returning light. While many spent the night in sighs, And restless pains and woes ; In gentle sleep I closed my eyes, And undisturbed repose. When sleep, death's semblance, o'er me spread, And I unconscious lay, Thy watchful care was round my bed, To guard me till the day. let the same almighty care My waking hours attend ; From every danger, every snare, My heedless steps defend. ANNE STEELE. 327 Smile on my minutes as they roll, And guide my future days ; And let thy goodness fill my soul With gratitude and praise. ' RESIGNATION. WHY breathes my anxious heart the frequent sigh ? Why from my weak eye drops the ready tear ? Is it to mark how present blessings fly ? Is it that griefs to come awake my fear ? may I still with thankful heart enjoy The various gifts indulgent heaven bestows ! Nor let ungrateful diffidence destroy The present good with fear of future woes. Nor let me curious ask, if dark or fair My future hours, but in the hand divine With full affiance leave my every care ; Be humble Hope and Resignation mine. Celestial guests ! your smile can cheer the heart, When melancholy spreads her deepening gloom ; come, your animating power impart, And bid sweet flowers amid the desert bloom. Be earth's quick changing scenes or dark or fair, On God's kind arm, let my soul recline ; Be heaven-born Hope, (blest antidote of care !) And humble, cheerful Resignation mine. 328 AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY. AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY, BEST known as an earnest advocate of the Calvinism of the Church of England, but a religious poet of considerable merit, was born at Farnham, in Surrey, in 1740 ; educated at Westminster School, and Trinity College, Dublin ; and died, vicar of Broad Henbury, in Devon- shire, in 1778. HYMN. INSPIRER and hearer of prayer, Thou feeder and guardian of thine, My all to thy covenant care I sleeping and waking resign ; If thou art my shield and my sun, The night is no darkness to me, And fast as my moments roll on, They bring me but nearer to thee. Thy minist'ring spirits descend To watch while thy saints are asleep, By day and by night they attend, The heirs of salvation to keep ; Bright seraphs dispatched from the throne, Repair to the stations assigned, / PAnd angels elect are sent down, L_To guard the elect of mankind. Thy worship no interval knows, Their fervor is still on the wing : And while they protect my repose, They chant to the praise of my King : I too, at the season ordained, Their chorus forever shall join, And love, and adore, without end, Their faithful Creator, and mine. JOHN SCOTT. 329 JOHN SCOTT. JOHN SCOTT, of Amwell,. was a Quaker, and was much respected by Dr. Johnson, Sir William Jones, and other eminent men, for his abili- ties and amiable character. His works entitled " The Garden," " Am- well," &c. were much read near the close of the last century. THE SONG OF ZION. THEN rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen ; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priests' and warriors' voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know thy ways, And thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen, When brightly shines the prosperous day ; Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen, To temper the deceitful ray. And oh ! when stoops on Judah's path, In shade and storm, the frequent night : Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light ! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. But Thou hast said, the blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize : A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice. When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, 28* 330 JOHN SCOTT. Her father's God before her moved, An awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. THERE'S grandeur in the sounding storm, That drives the hurrying clouds along, That on each other seem to throng, And mix in many a varied form ; While, bursting now and then between, The moon's dim misty orb is seen, And casts faint glimpses on the green. Beneath the blasts the forests bend, And thick the branchy ruirt lies, And wide the shower si foliage flies, The lake's black waves in tumult blend ; Revolving o'er, and o'er, and o'er, And foaming on the rocky shore, Whose caverns echo to their roar. The sight sublime enwraps my thought, And swift along the past it strays, And much of strange event surveys, What History's faithful tongue has taught Or Fancy formed, whose plastic skill The page with fabled change can fill, Of ill to good, or good to ill. But can my soul the scene enjoy That rends another's breast with pain ? helpless he who near the main, Now sees its billowy rage destroy. Beholds the foundering bark descend, Nor knows but what its fate may end The moments of his dearest friend. HANNAH MORE. 331 HANNAH MORE. THIS amiable writer was born in 1745, at Stapleton, in Gloucester- shire, where her father kept a school. Her first publication was a pastoral drama ; and she produced soon after two or three plays, which were acted in London with considerable success. She soon ceased to write for the theatre, and her occasional poems, and numerous impor- tant prose works, on religious subjects and on education, secured for her a great and enduring reputation. She died in 1833. REFLECTIONS OP HEZEKIAH IN HIS SICKNESS. " Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die." Isaiah, chap, xxzviii. WHAT ! and no more ? Is this, my soul, said I, My whole of being ? Must I surely die ? Be robbed at once of health, of strength, of time, Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime ? Shall I no more behold the face of morn, The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return ? Must I the festive bower, the banquet leave, For the dull chambers of the darksome grave ? Have I considered what it is to die ? In native dust, with kindred worms to lie ; To sleep in cheerless, cold neglect ! to rot ! My body loathed, my very name forgot ! Not one of all those parasites, who bend The supple knee, their monarch to attend ! What, not one friend ? No : not a hireling slave Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave. Where's he who falsely claimed the name of Great, Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was fate, Who awed a hundred nations from the throne ? See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone ! Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth ? Which is the royal particle of earth ? 332 HANNAH MORE. Where are the marks, the princely ensigns where ? Which is the slave, and which great David's heir ? Alas ! the beggar's ashes are not known From his who lately sat on Israel's throne ! How stands my great account ? My soul, survey The debt Eternal Justice bids thee pay ! Should I frail memory's records strive to blot, Will heaven's tremendous reckoning be forgot ? Can I, alas ! the awful volume tear ? Or rase one page of the dread register? " Prepare thy house, thy house in order set : Prepare the Judge of heaven and earth to meet." So spake the warning Prophet, awful words ! Which fearfully my troubled soul records. Am I prepared ? and can I meet my doom, Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come ? Is all in order set, my house, my heart ? Does no besetting sin still claim a part ? No cherished error, loath to quit its place, Obstruct within my soul the work of grace ? Did I each day for this great day prepare, By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing prayer ? Did I each night, each day's offence repent, And each unholy thought and word lament ? Still have these ready hands the afflicted fed, And ministered to Want her daily bread ? The cause I knew not did I well explore ? Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor. Did I, to gratify some sudden gust Of thoughtless appetite, some impious lust Of pleasure or of power, such sums employ As would have flushed pale Penury with joy ? Did I in groves forbidden altars raise, Or molten gods adore, or idols praise ? Did my firm faith to heaven still point the way ? Did charity to man my actions sway ? Did meek-eyed Patience all my steps attend ? Did generous Candor mark me for her friend ? HANNAH MORE. Did I unjustly seek to build my name On the piled ruins of another's fame ? Did I abhor, as hell, the insidious lie, The low deceit, the unmanly calumny ? Did my fixed soul the impious wit detest ? Did my firm virtue scorn the unhallowed jest, The sneer profane, and the poor ridicule Of shallow Infidelity's dull school ? Did I still live as born one day to die, And view the eternal world with constant eye ? If so I lived, if so I kept the word, In mercy view, in mercy hear me, Lord ! For oh ! how strict soe'er I kept thy law, From mercy only all my hopes I draw ; Sly holiest deeds indulgence will require ; The best but to forgiveness will aspire ; If Thou my purest services regard, 'Twill be with pardon only, not reward. How imperfection's stamped on all below ! How sin intrudes in all we say or do ! How late, in all the insolence of health, I charmed the Assyrian by my boast of wealth ! How fondly with elaborate pomp displayed My glittering treasures ! with what triumph laid My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes, And found a rich reward in his surprise ! Oh, mean of soul ! can wealth elate the heart, Which of the man himself is not a part ? Oh, poverty of pride ! oh, foul disgrace ! Disgusted Reason, blushing, hides her face. Mortal and proud ! strange contradicting terms ! Pride for death's victim, for the prey of worms Of all the wonders which the eventful life Of man presents ; of all the mental strife Of warring passions ; all the raging fires Of furious appetites and mad desires ; Not one so strange appears as this alone, That man is proud of what is not his own. 334 HANNAH MORE. How short is human life ! the very breath Which frames my words accelerates my death. Of this short life how large a portion's fled 1 To what is gone I am already dead ; As dead to all my years and minutes past, As I to what remains shall be at last. Can I past miseries so far forget, To view my vanished years with fond regret ? Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat ? Indulge fresh hope ? solicit new deceit ? Of all the vanities weak man admires, Which greatness gives, youth hopes, or pride desires : Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoyed ? With each, with all, thy sated powers are cloyed. What can I then expect from length of days ? More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health, or praise ? More pleasure ! hope not that, deluded king ! For when did age increase of pleasure bring ? Is health of years prolonged the common boast ? And dear- earned fame, is it not cheaply lost ? More wisdom ! that indeed were happiness ; That were a wish a king might well confess : But when did Wisdom covet length of days ? Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise ? No : Wisdom views with an indifferent eye All finite joys, all blessings born to die. The soul on earth is an immortal guest, Compelled to starve at an unreal feast : A spark, which upward tends by nature's force ; A stream, diverted from its parent source ; A drop, dissevered from the boundless sea ; A moment, parted from eternity ; A pilgrim, panting for the rest to come : An exile, anxious for his native home. Why should I ask my forfeit life to save ? Is heaven unjust which dooms me to the grave ? Was I with hope of endless days deceived ? Or of loved life am I alone bereaved ? HANNAH MORE. 335 Let all the great, the rich, the learned, the wise, Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise, And say, if genius, learning, empire, wealth, Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown, or health, Has once reversed the immutable decree On Adam passed, of man's mortality ? What ! have these eyes ne'er seen the felon- worm The damask cheek devour, the finished form ? On the pale rose of blasted beauty feed, And riot on the lip so lately red ? Where are our fathers ? Where the illustrious line Of holy prophets, and of seers divine ? Live they forever ? Do they shun the grave ? Or when did wisdom its professor save ? When did the brave escape ? When did the breath Of Eloquence charm the dull ear of death ? When did the cunning argument avail, The polished period, or the varnished tale ; The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire, Which thronging thousands crowded to admire ? E'en while we praise the verse, the poet dies ; And silent as his lyre great David lies. Thou, blessed Isaiah ! who at God's command Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land, Must die ! as wise and good thou hadst not been, As Nebat's son, who taught the land to sin. And shall I then be spared ? oh, monstrous pride ! Shall I escape when Solomon has died ? If all the worth of all the saints were vain, Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare complain. Lord, I submit. Complete thy gracious will ! For if Thou slay me, I will trust Thee still. Oh ! be my will so swallowed up in thine, That I may do thy will in doing mine. 336 HANNAH MORE. FAITH IN HUMBLE LIFE. THY triumphs, Faith, we need not take Alone from the blest martyr's stake ; In scenes obscure no less we see That Faith is a reality ; An evidence of things not seen, A substance firm whereon to lean, Go, search the cottager's low room, The day scarce piercing through the gloom ; The Christian on his dying bed, Unknown, unlettered, hardly fed ; No flattering witnesses attend, To tell how glorious was his end ; Save in the book of life, his name Unheard ; he never dreamt of fame : No human consolation near, No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer ; Of every earthly stay bereft, And nothing but his Saviour left; Fast sinking to his kindred dust, The word of life is still his trust ; The joy God's promises impart Lies like a cordial at his heart ; Unshaken faith its strength supplies, He loves, believes, adores, and dies ! MORN ING HYMN. SOFT slumbers now mine eyes forsake, My powers are all renewed ; May my freed spirit ^too awake, With heavenly strength endued. Thou silent murderer, Sloth, no more My mind imprisoned keep ; Nor let me waste another hour With thee, thou felon Sleep. 11 AX X AH MORE. 337 Think, my soul, could dying men One lavished hour retrieve, Though spent in tears, and passed in pain, What treasures would they give ! But seas of pearls, and mines of gold, Were offered then in vain ; Their pearl of countless price is sold, And where's the promised gain ? Lord, when thy day of dread account For squandered hours shall come, Oh ! let not this increase th' amount, And swell the former sum. Teach me in health such good to prize, I dying shall esteem ; And every pleasure to despise I then shall worthless deem. For all thy wondrous mercies past My grateful voice I'll raise, While thus I quit my bed of rest, Creation's Lord to praise. 29 338 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. Miss AIKIN, afterwards Mrs. Barbauld, was the only daughter of Dr. John Aikin, a Presbyterian minister. Early in life she married Roche- mont Barbauld, who opened a seminary at Palgrave, at which place he had obtained the charge of a congregation. In his scholastic employ- ment he was assisted by Mrs. Barbauld, who devoted all her talents to the instruction of the pupils ; and it was for them that she composed her well-known " Early Lessons," and " Hymns in Prose." Of her devotional poems too much cannot be said in commendation ; they entitle her to the esteem of every Christian. She died in 1825. AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. GOD of my life, and Author of my days ! Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise, And trembling take upon a mortal tongue That hallowed name, to harps of seraphs sung. Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more Than hide their faces, tremble and adore. Worms, angels, men in every different sphere, Are equal all, for all are nothing here. All nature faints beneath the mighty name Which nature's works through all her parts proclaim ; I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, And breathe an awful stillness through my soul ; As by a charm the waves of grief subside, Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide : At thy felt presence all emotions cease, And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, Till every worldly thought within me dies, And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; Till all my sense is lost in infinite, And one vast object fills my aching sight. But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ; My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; ANNA LETITIA BAKBAULD. 339 With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, And mingles with the dross of earth again. But He our gracious Master, kind as just, Knowing our frame remembers man is dust. His spirit ever brooding o'er our mind, Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined ; Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, And fans the smoking flax into a flame. His ears are open to the softest cry, His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; He reads the language of a silent tear, And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give, Accept the vow and bid the suppliant live : From each terrestrial bondage set me free ! Still every wish that centres not in Thee : Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, And point my path to everlasting peace. If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads By living waters and through flowery meads, Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart, Beware ! With caution let me hear the syren's voice, And doubtful with a trembling heart rejoice. If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, Where briers wound and thorns perplex my way- Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on Thee ; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God. I read his awful name emblazoned high, With golden letters on the illumined sky ; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree ; 340 ANNA LETIT1A BARBAULD. In every leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees ; With Thee in shady solitudes I walk ; With Thee in busy crowded cities talk ; In every creature own thy forming power, In each event thy providence adore. Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control. Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms. Secure within the temple of thine arms ; From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, And feel myself omnipotent in Thee. Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate, I stand and stretch my view to either state ; Teach me to quit this transitory scene With decent triumph and, a look serene ; Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, And having lived to Thee, in Thee to die. HYMNS. 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 hell's 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 ; ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 341 His spirit hushed 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 dewdrops from the womb of morning. Earth's blooming face with rising flowers He dressed, 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. At length she rose complete in finished pride, All fair and spotless like a virgin bride ; Fresh with untarnished lustre as she stood, Her Maker blessed his work and called it good : The morning stars, with joyful acclamation, Exulting sang, and hailed 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 oppressed, 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 their wild commotion, And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean. 29* 342 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. But fixed, O God ! forever stands thy throne ; Jehovah reigns, a universe alone ; The eternal fire that feeds each vital flame, Collected or diffused is still the same ; He dwells within his own unfathomed 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. LOVE TO GOD. " Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines ; the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat, the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls ; yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation." Habakkuk iii, 17, 18. PRAISE to God, immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days ; Bounteous source of every joy, Let thy praise our tongues employ ; For the blessing of the field, For the stores the gardens yield, For the vine's exalted juice, For the generous olive's use. Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain, Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse. All that spring, with bounteous hand, Scatters o'er the smiling land ; All that liberal autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing stores. ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. 343 These to Thee, my God, we owe, Source whence all our blessings flow ; And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise. Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear ; Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit ; Should the vine put forth no more, Xor the olive yield her store ; Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall ; Should thine altered hand restrain The early and the latter rain ; Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy ; Yet to Thee my soul should raise Grateful vows and solemn praise ; And when every blessing's flown, Love Thee for Thyself alone. FOR EASTER SUNDAY. AGAIN the Lord of life and light Awakes the kindling ray ; Unseals the eyelids of the morn, And pours increasing day. Oh ! what a night was that which wrapped The heathen world in gloom ; Oh ! what a Sun which broke this day Triumphant from the tomb ! This day be grateful homage paid, And loud hosannas sung ; Let gladness dwell in every heart, And praise on every tongue. 344 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. Ten thousand differing lips shall join To hail this welcome morn, Which scatters blessings from its wings, To nations yet unborn. Jesus, the friend of human kind With strong compassion moved, Descended, like a pitying God, To save the souls He loved. The powers of darkness leagued in vain To bind his soul in death ; He shook their kingdom, when He fell, With his expiring breath. Not long the toils of hell could keep The hope of Judah's line ; Corruption never could take hold On aught so much divine. And now his conquering chariot-wheels Ascend the lofty skies ; While broke, beneath his powerful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies. Exalted high at God's right hand, And Lord of all below ; Through Him is pardoning love dispensed, And boundless blessings flow. And still for erring, guilty man A brother's pity flows ; And still his bleeding heart is touched With memory of our woes. To Thee, my Saviour and my King, Glad homage let me give ; And stand prepared like Thee to die, With Thee that I may live. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 345 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. TIMOTHY DWIGHT, D.D., LL.D., was bom in Northampton, Massa- chusetts, on the 14th day of May, 1752. His father was a merchant, of excellent character and liberal education, and his mother, a daugh- ter of the great Jonathan Edwards. When thirteen years old he en- tered Yale College. His previous unremitted attention to study had impaired his health, and he made little progress during the first two years of his residence at New Haven ; but his subsequent intense and uninterrupted application enabled him to graduate in 1769, the first scholar in his class. He was licensed to preach in the Congre- gational church, and entered the army as a chaplain. In 1778 he es- tablished an academy at Northampton, which was continued for five years. In 1783 he was ordained pastor of a church in Greenfield, Connecticut, where he resided until elected to succeed Dr. Styles, as president of Yale College, in 1795. He died in New Haven on the llth of January, 1817, in the sixty-fifth year of his age. In IXZJUJPwight commenced writing the " Conquest of Canaan," an " epic poem in eleven books," which he finished in 1774, before he was twenty-three years of age. It was followed by " Greenfield Hill," a descriptive, historical, and didactic poem, which was published in 1794. This work is divided into seven parts, entitled " The Pros- pect," The Flourishing Village," The Burning of Fairfield," " The I Destruction of the Pequods," " The Clergyman's Advice to the Villa- \ gers," " The Farmer's Advice to the Villagers," and " The Vision, Prospect of the Future Happiness of America." The " Triumph of Infidelity," a satire, was his next attempt in poetry ; and he subse- quently wrote several hymns and other short pieces, of which there is no collected edition. THE COUNTRY PASTOR. AH ! knew he but his happiness, of men Not the least happy he, who, free from broils And base ambition, vain and bustling pomp, Amid a friendly cure, and competence, Tastes the pure pleasures of parochial life. What though no crowd of clients, at his gate, 346 TLMOTHY DWIGHT. To falsehood and injustice bribe his tongue, And flatter into guilt ? what though no bright And gilded prospects lure ambition on To legislative pride, or chair of state ? What though no golden dreams entice his mind To burrow, with the mole, in dirt and mire ? What though no splendid villa, Edened round With gardens of enchantment, walks of state, And all the grandeur of superfluous wealth, Invite the passenger to stay his steed, And ask the liveried footboy, " Who dwells here ?" What though no swarms, around his sumptuous board, Of soothing flatterers, humming in the shine Of opulence, and honey from its flowers Devouring, till their time arrives to sting, Inflate his mind ; his virtues round the year Repeating, and his faults, with microscope Inverted, lessen, till they steal from sight ? Yet from the dire temptations these present His state is free ; temptations, few can stem ; Temptations, by whose sweeping torrent hurled Down the dire steep of guilt, unceasing fall Sad victims, thousands of the brightest minds That time's dark reign adorn ; minds, to whose grasp Heaven seems most freely offered ; to man's eye, Most hopeful candidates for angels' joys. His lot, that wealth, and power, and pride forbids, Forbids him to become the tool of fraud, Injustice, misery, ruin : saves his soul From all the needless labors, griefs, and cares, That avarice and ambition agonize ; From those cold nerves of wealth, that, palsied, feel No anguish but its own ; and ceaseless lead To thousand meannesses, as gain allures. Though oft compelled to meet the gross attack Of shameless ridicule and towering pride, Sufficient good is his ; good, real, pure, With guilt unmingled. Rarely forced from home, TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 347 Around his board his wife and children smile ; Communion sweetest, nature here can give, Each fond endearment, office of delight, With love and duty blending. Such the joy My bosom oft has known. His, too, the task To rear the infant plants that bud around ; To ope their little minds to truth's pure light ; To take them by the hand, and lead them on In that straight, narrow road where virtue walks ; To guard them from a vain, deceiving world, And point their course to realms of promised life. His, too, the esteem of those who weekly hear His words of truth divine ; unnumbered acts Of real love attesting to his eye Their filial tenderness. Where'er he walks, The friendly welcome and inviting smile Wait on his steps, and breathe a kindred joy. Oft too in friendliest association joined, He greets his brethren, with a flowing heart, Flowing with virtue ; all rejoiced to meet, And all reluctant parting ; every aim, Benevolent, aiding with purpose kind ; While, seasoned with unblemished cheerfulness, Far distant from the tainted mirth of vice, Their hearts disclose each contemplation sweet Of things divine ; and blend in friendship pure, Friendship sublimed by piety and love. All virtue's friends are his : the good, the just, The pious, to his house their visits pay, And converse high hold of the true, the fair, The wonderful, the moral, the divine : Of saints and prophets, patterns bright of truth, Lent to a world of sin, to teach mankind How virtue in that world can live and shine ; Of learning's varied realms ; of Nature's works ; And that blessed book which gilds man's darksome way With light from heaven ; of blessed Messiah's throne And kingdom ; prophecies divine fulfilled, 348 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. And prophecies more glorious yet to come In renovated days ; of that bright world, And all the happy trains which that bright world Inhabit, whither virtue's sons are gone : While God the whole inspires, adorns, exalts ; The source, the end, the substance, and the soul. His too the task, the blessed, the useful task, To in vigor order, justice, law, and rule ; Peace to extend, and bid contention cease ; To teach the words of life ; to lead mankind Back from the wild of guilt and brink of wo To virtue's house and family ; faith, hope, And joy to inspire ; to warm the soul With love to God and man ; to cheer the sad, To fix the doubting, rouse the languid heart ; The wandering to restore ; to spread with down The thorny bed of death ; console the poor, Departing mind, and aid its lingering wing. To him her choicest pages Truth expands, Unceasing, where the soul-entrancing scenes Poetic fiction boasts are real all : Where beauty, novelty, and grandeur wear Superior charms, and moral worlds unfold Sublimities transporting and divine. Not all the scenes Philosophy can boast, Though them with nobler truths he ceaseless blends, Compare with these. They, as they found the mind, Still leave it ; more informed, but not more wise : These wiser, nobler, better, make the man. Thus every happy mean of solid good His life, his studies, and profession yield. With motives hourly new, each rolling day Allures, through wir^om's path and truth's fair field, His feet to yonder skies. Before him heaven Shines bright, the scope sublime of all his prayers, The meed of every sorrow, pain, and toil. TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 349 PREDICTION TO JOSHUA RELATIVE TO AMERICA. FAR o'er yon azure main thy view extend, Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend : Lo, there a mighty realm, by Heaven designed The last retreat for poor, oppressed mankind ; Formed with that pomp which marks the hand divine, And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumbered shine. Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade ; Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave, And inland seas for commerce spread the wave. With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll, And fairer lustre purples round the pole. Here, warmed by happy suns, gay mines unfold The useful iron and the lasting gold ; Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow, And mock the splendors of the covenant bow. On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod, That smile to see the future harvest nod, In glad succession plants unnumoered bloom, And flowers unnumbered breathe a rich perfume. Hence life once more a length of days shall claim, And health, reviving, light her purple flame. Far from all realms this world imperial lies, Seas roll between, and threatening tempests rise. Alike removed beyond ambition's pale, And the bold pinions of the venturous sail ; Till circling years the destined period bring, And a new Moses lift the daring wing, Through trackless seas an unknown flight explores, And hails a new Canaan's promised shores. On yon far strand behold that little train Ascending venturous o'er the unmeasured main , No dangers fright, no ills the course delay ; 'Tis virtue prompts, and God directs the way. Speed speed, ye sons of truth ! let Heaven befriend, Let angels waft you, and let peace attend. 30 350 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. ! smile, thou sky serene ; ye storms, retire ; And airs of Eden every sail inspire, Swift o'er the main behold the canvass fly, And fade and fade beneath the farthest sky ; See verdant fields the changing waste unfold ; See sudden harvests dress the plains in gold ; In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend, And dancing woods to spires and temples bend. . . . Here empire's last and brightest throne shall rise, And Peace, and Right, and Freedom greet the skies ; To morn's far realms her trading ships shall sail, Or lift their canvass to the evening gale : In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar, Tread starry fields, and untried scenes explore. And, hark ! what strange, what solemn breaking strain Swells, wildly murmuring, o'er the far, far main ! Down Time's long, lessening vale the notes decay, And, lost in distant ages, roll away. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 351 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, THE sixth president of the United States, and one of the most learned men of his time, was a poet of no mean rank, though his political rela- tions prevented a just estimate of his literary abilities by his contempo- raries. Among his poems are " Oberon, translated from the German of Wieland ;" " Dermot McMorrogh, or the Conquest of Ireland ;" and " Poems of Religion and Society," a posthumous collection of his hymns and other short pieces, with notices of his life and character. Some of the religious poems of Mr. Adams are of great excellence. He was born in Braintree, Massachusetts, in 1767, and died in the capitol, at Washington, in 1848. / TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, Some angel brighter than the rest The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll, Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam, With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam The more it lingers upon earth. Closed in this dark abode of clay, The stream of glory faintly burns : Not unobserved, the lucid ray To its own native fount returns. But when the Lord of mortal breath Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Which speeds an infant to the tomb 352 JOHN auiNCY ADAMS. No passion fierce, nor low desire, Has quenched the radiance of the flame ; Back to its God the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner ! be that solace thine ! Let hope her healing charm impart, And soothe, with melodies divine, The anguish of a mother's heart. 0, think ! the darlings of thy love, Divested of this earthly clod, Amid unnumbered saints above, Bask in the bosom of their God. Of their short pilgrimage on earth Still tender images remain : Still, still they bless thee for their birth, Still filial gratitude retain. Each anxious care, each rending sigh, That wrung for them the parent's breast, Dwells on remembrance in the sky, Amid the raptures of the blest. O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend ; For thee the Lord of life implore ; And oft, from sainted bliss descend, Thy wounded quiet to restore. in the stillness of the night They smooth the pillow of thy bed ; I Oft, till the morn's returning light, Still watchful hover o'er thy head. Hark ! hi such strains as saints employ, They whisper to thy bosom peace ; Calm the perturbed heart to joy, And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear ; Their part and thine inverted see : Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. JOii.V UVJ1NCY ADAMS. 353 THE HOUR-GLASS. ALAS ! how swift the moments fly ! How flash the years along ! Scarce here, yet gone already by, The burden of a song. See childhood, youth, and manhood pass, And age, with furrowed brow ; Time was Time shall be drain the glass- But where in Time is now ? Time is the measure but of change ; No present hour is found ; The past, the fat-lire, fill the range Of Time's unceasing round. Where, then, is now ? In realms above, With God's atoning Lamb, In regions of eternal love, Where sits enthroned I AM. Then, pilgrim, let thy joys and tears On Time no longer lean ; But henceforth all thy hopes and fears From earth's affections wean : To God let votive accents rise ; With truth, with virtue, live ; So all the bliss that Time denies Eternity shall give. LORD OF ALL WORLDS. LORD of all worlds, let thanks and praise To thee forever fill my soul ; With blessings thou hast crowned my days, My heart, my head, my hand control : O, let no vain presumptions rise, No impious murmur in my heart, To crave the boon thy will denies, Or shrink from ill thy hands impart. 30* 354 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. Thy child am I, and not an hour, Revolving in the orbs above, But brings some token of thy power, But brings some token of thy love ; And shall this bosom dare repine, In darkness dare deny the dawn, Or spurn the treasures of the mine, Because one diamond is withdrawn ? The fool denies, the fool alone, Thy being, Lord, and boundless might ; Denies the firmament, thy throne, Denies the sun's meridian light; Denies the fashion of his frame, The voice he hears, the breath he draws idiot atheist ! to proclaim Effects unnumbered without cause ! Matter and mind, mysterious one, Are man's for threescore years and ten ; Where, ere the thread of life was spun ? Where, when reduced to dust again ? All-seeing God, the doubt suppress ; The doubt thou only canst relieve My soul thy Saviour-Son shall bless, Fly to thy gospel, and believe. JOHN dUINCY ADAMS. 355 WHY SHOULD I FEAR IX EVIL DAYS. WHY should I fear in evil days, With snares encompassed all around ? What trust can transient treasures raise For them in riches who abound ? His brother who from death can save ? What wealth can ransom him from God ? What mine of gold defraud the grave ? What hoards but vanish at his nod ? To live forever is their dream ; Their houses by their name they call ; While, borne by time's relentless stream, Around them wise and foolish fall ; Their riches others must divide ; They plant, but others reap the fruit : In honor man cannot abide, To death devoted, like the brute. This is their folly, this their way ; And yet in this their sons delight ; Like sheep, of death the destined prey, The future scorn of the upright ; The grave their beauty shall consume, Their dwellings never see them more ; But God shall raise me from the tomb, And life for endless time restore. What though thy foe in wealth increase, And fame and glory crown his head ? Fear not, for all at death shall cease, Nor fame, nor glory, crown the dead : While prospering all around thee smiled, Yet to the grave shalt thou descend ; The senseless pride of fortune's child Shall share the brute creation's end. 350 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ONE of the most celebrated poets of modern times, was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, on the 7th of April, 1770 ; was educated at Cambridge, with his brother, the late Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, D. D., and after a long career of the truest glory, is still living. A complete edition of his works has been published in Philadelphia, under the care of his friend Professor Henry Reed. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY, FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. " The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and spring, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore ; Turn whereso'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose ; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare : Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair ; The sunshine is a glorious birth, But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 357 To me alone there came a thought of grief ; A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong ; The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong ; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the world is gay : Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday ; Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd boy ! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other made ; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss I feel I feel it all. Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen, While earth herself is adorning This sweet May-morning, And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide, Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm : I hear, I hear with joy I hear ! But there's a tree, of many one, A single field which I have looked upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone : The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat : Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 358 WILLIAM vYORDSWORTH. Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting The soul that rises with us, our life's star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar ; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home ; Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy : The youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest. And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended ; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! See, where 'mid work of his own hand, he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes ! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learned art : A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral ; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 359 And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song : Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his " humorous stage" With all the persons, down to palsied age, That life brings with her in her equipage ; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity ; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind ; Mighty prophet ! Seer blest ! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave ; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by ; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! 360 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest ; Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise, But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings ; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake, To perish never ; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither ; Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye birds ! sing, sing a joyous song ! And let the young lambs bound WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 361 As to the tabor's sound ! We in thought will join your throng ; Ye that pipe, and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May ! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now forever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower ; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind ; In the primal sympathy Which, having been, must ever be ; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O, ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves ! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; I only have relinquished one delight, To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet ; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality : Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 31 362 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. ODE TO DUTY. STERN daughter of the voice of God ! Duty ! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check tho erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot ; Who do thy work and know it not ; Oh ! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security ; And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet find thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried ; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust : And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray ; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 363 Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought : Me this unchartered freedom tires ; I feel the weight of chance-desires : My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we any thing so fail- As is the smile upon thy face : Flowers laugh before thee on their beds ; And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power ! I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; Oh ! let my weakness have an end ! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live ! THE LABORER S NOONDAY HYMN. UP to the throne of God is borne The voice of praise at early morn ; And He accepts the punctual hymn, Sung as the light of day grows dim. Nor will He turn his ear aside From holy offerings at noontide ; Then, here reposing, let us raise A song of gratitude and praise. 304 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. What though our burden be not light, We need not toil from morn to night : The respite of the mid-day hour Is in the thankful creature's power. Blest are the moments, doubly blest, That, drawn from this our hour of rest, t Are with a ready heart bestowed Upon the service of our God ! Why should we crave a hallowed spot ? An altar is in each man's cot, A church in every grove that spreads Its living roof above our heads. Look up to heaven ! the industrious sun Already half his race hath run : He cannot halt nor go astray, But our immortal spirits may. Lord ! since his rising in the east, If we have faltered or transgressed, Guide from thy love's abundant source What yet remains of this day's course. Help with thy grace through life's short day, Our upward and our downward way ; And glorify for us the west, When we shall sink to final rest. THOUGHT ON THE SEASONS. FLATTERED with promise of escape From every hurtful blast, Spring takes, sprightly May ! thy shape, Her loveliest and her last. Less fair is Summer riding high In fierce solstitial power, Less fair than when a lenient sky Brings on a parting hour. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 365 When earth repays with golden sheaves The labors of the plough, And ripening fruits, and forest leaves, All brighten on the bough, What pensive beauty Autumn shows, Before she hears the sound Of Winter rushing in to close The emblematic round ! Such be our Spring, our Summer such ; So may our Autumn blend With hoary Winter, and life touch With heaven-born hope her end ! APOSTROPHE TO THE DEITY. THOU, dread source, Prime, self-existing cause and end of all That in the scale of being fill their place ; Above our human region, or below, Set and sustained ; Thou, who didst wrap the cloud Of infancy around us, that Thyself, Therein with our simplicity awhile Might'st hold, on earth, communion undisturbed ; Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, Or from its deathlike void, with punctual care, And touch as gentle as the morning light, Restorest us, daily, to the powers of sense, And reason's steadfast rule Thou, Thou alone Art everlasting, and the blessed spirits, Which thou includest, as the sea her waves : For adoration thou endurest ; endure For consciousness the motions of thy will ; For apprehension those transcendent truths Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws (Submission constituting strength and power) Even to Thy Being's infinite majesty ! This universe shall pass away a work 31* 366 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Glorious ! because the shadow of thy might, A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. Ah ! if the time must come, in which my feet No more shall stray where meditation leads, By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, Loved haunts like these ; the unimprisoned mind May yet have scope to range among her own, Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. If the dear faculty of sight should fail, Still, it may be allowed me to remember What visionary powers of eye and soul In youth were mine ; when, stationed on the top Of some huge hill expectant I beheld The sun rise up, from distant climes returned Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day His bounteous gift ! or saw him towards the deep Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds Attended ; then, my spirit was entranced With joy exalted to beatitude ; The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, With pomp, with glory, with magnificence 1 TO THE SUPREME BEING. THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, If Thou the Spirit give by which I pray : My unassisted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed ; Of good and pious works Thou art the seed, That quickens only where Thou sayest it may : Unless Thou show to us thy own true way, No man can find it : Father ! Thou must lead : Do Thou then breathe these thoughts into my mind, By which such virtue may in me be bred, That in thy holy footsteps I may tread ; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to sing of Thee t And sound thy praises everlastingly. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 367 JEHOVAH THE PROVIDER. AUTHOR of being ; life-sustaining King ! Lo ! Want's dependant eye from Thee implores The seasons, which provide nutritious stores : Give to her prayers the renovating Spring, And Summer-heats all perfecting that bring The fruits which Autumn from a thousand stores Selecteth provident ! when earth adores Her God, and all her vales exulting sing. Without thy blessing, the submissive steer Bends to the ploughman's galling yoke in vain ; Without thy blessing on the varied year, Can the swarth reaper grasp the golden grain ? Without thy blessing, all is black and drear ; With it, the joys of Eden bloom again. LA TIMER AND RIDLEY. How fast the Marian death-list is unrolled ! See Latimer and Ridley, in the might Of faith, stand coupled for a common flight ! One (like those prophets whom God sent of old) Transfigured, from this kindling hath foretold A torch of unextinguishable light : The other gains a confidence as bold : And thus they foil their enemy's despite. The penal instruments, the shows of crime Are glorified, while this once mitred pair Of saintly friends " the murtherer's chain .partake, Corded and burning at the social stake." Earth never witnessed object more sublime In constancy, in fellowship more fair. EXILED REFORMERS. SCATTERING, like birds escaped the fowler's net, Some seek with timely flight a foreign strand, Most happy reassembled in a land By dauntless Luther freed, could they forget 368 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Their country's woes. But scarcely have they met, Partners in faith, and brothers in distress, Free to pour forth their common thankfulness, Ere hope declines ; their union is beset With speculative notions rashly sown, Whence thickly-sprouting growth of poisonous weeds ; Their forms are broken staves ; their passions, steeds That master them. How enviably blest Is he who can, by help of grace, enthrone The peace of God within his single breast ! NEW CHURCHES. BUT liberty and triumphs on the main, And laurelled armies not to be withstood, What serve they ? if, on transitory good Intent, and sedulous of abject gain, The state (oh ! surely not preserved in vain !) Forbear to shape due channels which the flood Of sacred truth may enter till it brood O'er the wide realm, as o'er th' Egyptian plain, The all-sustaining Nile. No more the time Is conscious of her want ; through England's bounds In rival haste the wise for temples rise ! I hear their sabbath-bells' harmonious chime Float on the breeze the heavenliest of all sounds That hill or vale prolongs or multiplies. THE KIRK OF ULPHA. THE KIRK OF ULPHA to the Pilgrim's eye Is welcome as a star that doth present Its shining forehead through the peaceful rent Of a black cloud diffused o'er half the sky : Or as a fruitful palm-tree towering high O'er the parched waste, beside an Arab's tent ; Or the Indian tree, whose branches downward bent, Take root again, a boundless canopy. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. How sweet were leisure ! could it yield no more Than 'mid that wave- washed churchyard to recline, From pastoral graves extracting thoughts divine ; Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoai Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, Soothed by th' unseen river's gentle roar. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. THE world is too much with us ; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; Little we see in nature that is ours ; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn ; . So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 370 JAMES MONTGOMERY. JAMES MONTGOMERY, THE author of "The World Before the Flood," " Greenland," " The Pelican Island," &c., is the son of a Moravian clergyman, and was born at Irvine, in Scotland, on the 4th of November, 1771. For many years he was editor of a newspaper in Sheffield, where he is still liv- ing, regarded by all who know him with respect and affection. He is perhaps the best of the religious poets of England who have written since the time of Cowper. THE GRAVE. THERE is a rest for those who weep, A rest for weary, pilgrims found ; They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground. The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose. I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil, To slumber in that dreamless bed From all my toil. For Misery stole me at my birth, And cast me helpless on the wild ; I perish ; my mother earth ! Take home thy child ! On thy dear lap these limbs reclined Shall gently moulder into thee ; Nor leave one wretched trace behind Resembling me. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 371 Hark ! a strange sound affrights mine ear, My pulse my brain runs wild, I rave ; Ah ! who art thou whose voice I hear ? " I am the grave ! " The grave, that never spake before, Hath found at length a tongue to chide ; Oh, listen ! I will speak no more : Be silent, Pride ! " Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn, The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn By fell despair ? " Do foul misdeeds of former times Wring with remorse thy guilty breast, And ghosts of unforgiven crimes Murder thy rest ? " Lashed by the furies of the mind, From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee ; Ah ! think not, hope not, fool ! to find A friend in me. " By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of tongue to tell ! By the dread secrets of the womb, By death and hell ! " I charge thee, live ! repent and pray : In dust thine infamy deplore, There yet is mercy ; go thy way And sin no more. " Art thou a mourner ? Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights ? Endearing days forever flown, And tranquil nights ? 372 JAMES MONTGOMERY. " Oh ! live ; and deeply cherish still The sweet remembrance of the past ; Rely on heaven's unchanging will For peace at last. " Art thou a wanderer ? Hast thou seen Overwhelming tempests drown thy bark ? A shipwrecked sufferer hast thou been Misfortune's mark ? " Though long of winds and waves the sport, Condemned in wretchedness to roam, Live ! thou shalt reach a sheltering port, A quiet home. "To friendship didst thou trust thy fame, And was thy friend a deadly foe, Who stole into thy breast to aim A surer blow ? "Live ! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told ; Thou hast mistaken solid dross For Friendship's gold. " Go seek that treasure, seldom found, Of power the fiercest griefs to calm, And soothe the bosom's deepest wound, With heavenly balm. " In woman hast thou placed thy bliss, And did the fair one faithless prove ? Hath she betrayed thee with a kiss, And sold thy love ? " Live ! 'twas a false, bewildering fire : Too often Love's insidious dart Thrills the fond soul with sweet desire, But kills the heart. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 373 " A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, A brighter Maiden's virtuous charms ! Blessed shalt thou be, supremely blessed, In Beauty's arms. " Whate'er thou art, whoe'er thou be, Confess thy folly, kiss the rod, And, in thy chastening sorrows, see The hand of God. ' "A bruised reed He will not break ; Afflictions all his children feel : He wounds them for his mercy's sake ; He wounds to heal ! " Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore : 'Tis done ! Arise ! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. " Now, traveller in the vale of tears ! To realms of everlasting light, Through Time's dark wilderness of years, Pursue thy flight. " There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found ; And while the mouldering ashes sleep Low in the ground, " The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, A spark of day ! " The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor of the sky : The soul , immortal as its Sire, Shall never die !" 374 JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND. A TOOK wayfaring man of grief Hath often crossed me 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 entered ; not a word He spake ; Just perishing for want of bread, I gave Him all ; He blessed 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 mocked his thirst : He heard it, saw it hurrying on : I ran to raise the sufferer up ; Thrice from the stream He drained my cup, Dipped, and returned it running o'er ; I drank, and never thirsted more. '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 warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest ; Laid Him on my own couch to rest ; Then made the earth my bed, and seemed In Eden's garden while I dreamed. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 375 Stripped, wounded, beaten nigh to death, I found Him by the highway side ; I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, Revived his spirit, and supplied Wine, oil, refreshment ; He was healed ; I had myself a wound concealed, But from that hour forgot the smart, And Peace bound up my broken heart. In prison I saw Him next, condemned To meet a traitor's doom at morn ; The tide of lying tongues I stemmed, And honored Him midst shame and scorn : My friendship's utmost zeal to try, He asked if I for Him would die ; The flesh was weak, my blood run 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 didst them unto Me." 'ON THE LOSS OF FRIENDS. FRIEND after friend departs ; Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts, That finds not here an end ! Were this frail world our final rest, Living, or dying, none were blest. Beyond the flight of time, Beyond the reign of death, There surely is some blessed clime, Where life is not a breath : 376 JAMES MONTGOMERY. Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward and expire. There is a world above, Where parting is unknown, A long eternity of love, Formed for the good alone ; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that glorious sphere. Thus star by star declines, Till all are passed away ; As morning high and higher shines To pure and perfect day : Nor sink those stars in empty night, But hide themselves in heaven's own light. CHRIST THE PURIFIER. " He shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver." Mai. in. 3. HE that from dross would win the precious ore, Bends o'er the crucible an earnest eye, The subtle searching process to explore, Lest the one brilliant moment should pass by, When in the molten silver's virgin mass He meets his pictured face as in a glass. Thus in God's furnace are his people tried ; Thrice happy they who to the end endure : But who the fiery trial may abide ? Who from the crucible come forth so pure, That He whose eyes of flame look through the whole, May see his image perfect in the soul ? Nor with an evanescent glimpse alone, As in that mirror the refiner's face ; But, stamped with heaven's broad signet, there be shown Immanuel's features full of truth and grace : And round that seal of love this motto be, "Not for a moment, but eternity !" JAMES MONTGOMERY. 377 LIFE, DEATH, AND JUDGMENT. FEW, few, and evil are thy days, Man of a woman born ! Peril and trouble haunt thy ways. Forth, like a flower at morn, Thy tender infant springs to light, Youth blossoms to the breeze, Age, withering age, is cropped ere night : Man like a shadow flees. And dost thou look on such an one ? Will God to judgment call A worm, for what a worm hath done Against the Lord of all ? As fail the waters from the deep, As summer brooks run dry, Man lieth down in dreamless sleep, His life is vanity. Man lieth down, no more to wake, Till yonder arching sphere Shall with a roll of thunder break, And nature disappear. Oh ! hide me till thy wrath be past, Thou, who canst slay or save ! Hide me where hope may anchor fast, In my Redeemer's grave ! 'WHAT is PRAYER? PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed ; The motion of a hidden fire, That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear ; The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near. 32* 378 JAMES MONTGOMERY. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ; Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air ; His watchword at the gates of death He enters heaven by prayer. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways ; While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry, " Behold, he prays !" The saints in prayer appear as one, In word, and deed, and mind ; While with the Father and the Son, Sweet fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made on earth alone : The Holy Spirit pleads ; And Jesus on the eternal throne For mourners intercedes. Thou ! by whom we come to God, The life, the truth, the way ! The path of prayer thyself hast trod : Lord, teach us how to pray. THE DAY AFTER JUDGMENT. THE days and years of time are fled, Sun, moon, and stars have shone their last ; The earth and sea gave up their dead, Then vanished at th' archangel's blast. All secret things have been revealed, Judgment is passed, the sentence sealed ; JAMES MONTGOMERY. 379 And man to all eternity What he is now henceforth must be. From Adam to his youngest heir, Not one escaped that muster-roll ; Each, as if he alone were there, Stood up, and won or lost his soul. These from the Judge's presence go, Down into everlasting wo ; Vengeance hath barred the gates of hell, The scenes within no tongue can tell. But lo ! far off the righteous pass To glory, from the King's right hand ; In silence on the sea of glass Heaven's numbers without number stand, While He who bore the cross lays down His priestly robe and victor crown ; The mediatorial reign complete, All things are put beneath his feet. Then every eye in him shall see (While thrones and powers before Him fall) The fulness of the Deity, Where God himself is all in all. Oh ! how eternity shall ring With the first note the ransomed sing ; While in that strain all voices blend, Which once begun shall never end. In that unutterable song, Shall I employ immortal breath ? Or, with the wicked borne along, Forever die the second death ? Jesus ! my life, my light, Thou art ; Thy word is in my mouth, my heart ; Lord, I believe, my spirit save From sinking lower than the grave. 380 JAMES MONTGOMERY. HALLELUJAH. HARK ! the song of Jubilee ; Loud as mighty thunders roar, Or the fulness of the sea When it breaks upon the shore : Hallelujah ! for the Lord God omnipotent shall reign ; Hallelujah ! let the word Echo round the earth and main. Hallelujah ! hark ! the sound From the centre to the skies, Wakes above, beneath, around, All creation's harmonies : See Jehovah's banners furled, Sheathed his sword : He speaks 'tis done, And the kingdoms of the world Are the kingdoms of his Son. He shall reign from pole to pole, With illimitable sway ; He shall reign when like a scroll Yonder heavens have passed away ; Then the end ! beneath his rod Man's last enemy shall fall : Hallelujah ! Christ in God, God in Christ, is all in all. JAMES HOGG. 381 JAMES HOGG, THE " Ettrick Shepherd," was twenty years of age before ne learn- ed the alphabet, yet he rose to a very high rank among the litera- ry men of his country. " He is altogether an extraordinary being," said Mr. Southey ; " a character such as will not appear twice in five centuries, and differing most remarkably from Burns and all other self- taught writers." Hogg's religious enthusiasm was associated with the Covenanters and their trials, and the spirit of his best pieces is alto- gether in keeping with the character of these sternly devout people. He was born in 1772, and died in 1835. SING with me ! sing with me ! Weeping brethren, sing with me ! For now an open heaven I see, And a crown of glory laid for me. How my soul this earth despises ! How my heart and spirit rises ! Bounding from the flesh I sever ! World of sin, adieu forever ! Sing with me ! sing with me ! Friends in Jesus, sing with me ! All my sufferings, all my wo, All my griefs I here forego. Farewell terrors, sighing, grieving, Praying, hearing, and believing, Earthly trust and all its wrongings, Earthly love and all its longings. Sing with me ! sing with me ! Blessed spirits, sing with me ! To the Lamb our song shall be, Through a glad eternity ! 382 JAMES HOGG. Farewell earthly morn and even, Sun and moon and stars of heaven ; Heavenly portals ope before me, Welcome, Christ, in all thy glory ! A HEBREW MELODY. ON Carmel's brow the wreathy vine Had all its honors shed, And o'er the vales of Palestine A sickly paleness spread ; When the old seer by vision led, And energy sublime, Into that shadowy region sped, To muse on distant time. He saw the valleys far and wide, But sight of joy was none ; He looked o'er many a mountain side, But silence reigned alone, Save that a boding voice sang on, By wave and waterfall, As still, in harsh and heavy tone, Deep unto deep did call. On Kison's strand and Ephratah The hamlets thick did lie ; No wayfarer between he saw, No Asherite passed by ; No maiden at her task did ply, No sportive child was seen ; The lonely dog barked wearily Where dwellers once had been. Oh ! beauteous were the palaces On Jordan wont to be, And still they glimmered to the breeze, Like stars beneath the sea ! JAMES HOGG. 383 But vultures held their jubilee Where harp and cymbal rung, And there as if in mockery The baleful satyr sung. But who had seen that Prophet's eye On Carmel that reclined ! It looked not on the times gone by, But those that were behind ; His gray hair streamed upon the wind, His hands were raised on high, As, mirrored, on his mystic mind Arose futurity. He saw the feast in Bozrah spread Prepared in ancient day ; Eastward, away the eagle sped, And all the birds of prey. " Who's this," he cried, " comes by the way Of Edom, all divine, Travelling in splendor, whose array Is red, but not with wine ?" Blessed be the herald of our King That comes to set us free ! The dwellers of the rock shall sing, And utter praise to thee ! Tabor and Hermon yet shall see Their glories glow again, And blossoms spring on field and tree, That ever shall remain. The happy child in dragon's way Shall frolic with delight ; The lamb shall round the leopard play, And all in love unite ; The dove on Zion's hill shall light, That all the world must see. Hail to the journey er, in his might, That comes to set us free ! 384 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. THIS great genius, whose influence upon taste and opinion has per- haps been greater than that of any other author who has written in the nineteenth century, was born at Ottery St. Mary's, Devonshire, in 1773, and died at Highgate in July, 1834. His poetry exhibits a gorgeous and powerful imagination, a perfect command of language, and extra- ordinary knowledge of human nature. FROM "RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. " BLEST are they, Who in this fleshly world, the elect of Heaven, Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men, Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze Him, Nature's Essence, Mind, and Energy ! And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend, Treading beneath their feet all visible things, As steps, that upward to their Father's throne Lead gradual else nor glorified nor loved. They nor contempt embosom nor revenge ; For they dare know of what may seem deform, The Supreme Fair, sole Operant ; in whose sight All things are pure, his strong controlling love Alike from all educing perfect good. Their's too celestial courage, inly armed, Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse On their great Father, great beyond compare ! And marching onwards view high o'er their heads His waving banners of omnipotence. They cannot dread created might, who love God, the Creator ! fair and lofty thought ! It lifts and swells my heart ! And as I muse, Behold ! a vision gathers in my soul, Voices and shadowy shapes, in human guise. I seem to see the phantom, near, pass by, SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 385 Hotly-pursued, and pale ! From rock to rock He bounds with bleeding feet, and through the swamp, The quicksand, and the groaning wilderness, Struggles with feebler and yet feebler flight, But lo ! an altar in the wilderness, And eagerly yet feebly, lo ! he grasps The altar of the living God ! and there, With wan reverted face, the trembling wretch All wildly listening to his hunter-fiends, Stands, till the last faint echo of their yell Dies in the distance. Soon refreshed from Heaven He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bliss Swims in his eyes : his swimming eyes upraised, And Faith's whole armor girds his limbs ! And thus, Transfigured, with a meek and dreadless awe, A solemn hush of spirit, he beholds All things of terrible seeming : yea, unmoved Views e'en the immitigable ministers, That shower down vengeance on these latter days. For even these on wings of healing come, Yea, kindling with intenser Deity ; From the celestial mercy-seat they speed, And at the renovating wells of love, Have filled their vials with salutary wrath ; To sickly Nature more medicinal, Than what sweet balm the weeping good man pours Into the lone, despoiled, traveller's wounds ! Thus, from th' Elect, regenerate through faith, Pass the dark passions, and what thirsty cares Drink up the spirit, and the dim regards Self- centre. Lo, they vanish ! or acquire New names, new features, by supernal grace Enrobed with light, and naturalized in Heaven. As when a shepherd on a vernal morn, Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot, Darkling with earnest eyes he traces out Th' immediate road, all else of fairest kind 33 386 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Hid or deformed. But lo ! the burning sun ! Touched by th' enchantment of that sudden beam, Straight the black vapor melteth, and in globes Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; On every leaf, on every blade it hangs ; Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, And wide around the landscape streams with glory ! There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, Omnific. His most holy name is Love. Truth of subliming import ! with the which Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, He from his small particular orbit flies, With blessed outstarting ! From himself he flies, Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze Views all creation ; and he loves it all, And blesses it, and calls it very good ! This is indeed to dwell with the Most High ! The cherubs, and the trembling seraphim Can press no nearer to th' Almighty's throne. But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts Unfeeling of our Universal Sire, Haply for this, some younger angel now Looks down on human nature : and, behold ! A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad Embattling interests on each other rush With unhelmed rage ! 'Tis the sublime of man, Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole ! This fraternizes man, this constitutes Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God Diffused through all. that doth make all one whole ; This the worst superstition, him except Aught to desire, Supreme reality ! The plenitude and permanence of bliss ! fiends of superstition ! not that oft The erring priest hath stained with brother's blood Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 387 Thunder against you from the Holy One ! But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun, Peopled with death ; or, where more hideous trade, Loud laughing, packs his bales of human anguish ; I will raise up a mourning, ye fiends ! And curse your spells, that film the eye of faith ; Hiding the present God, whose presence lost, The moral world's cohesion, we become An anarchy of spirits, toy-bewitched, Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul, No common centre man, no common sire Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing, 'Mid countless brethren, with a lonely heart, Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams, Feeling himself, his own low self the whole ; When he by sacred sympathy might make The whole one self ! self that no alien knows ! Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel ! Self, spreading still oblivious of its own, Yet all of all possessing ! this is faith ! This the Messiah's destined victory ! But first offences needs must come ! Even now (Black Hell laughs horrible to hear the scoff !) Thee to defend, meek Galilsean ! Thee And thy mild laws of love unutterable, Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands Of social peace ; and list'ning Treachery lurks, With pious fraud to snare a brother's life ; And childless widows o'er the groaning land Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread ; Thee to defend, dear Saviour of mankind ! Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince of Peace ! From all sides rush the thirsty brood of war ; Austria, and that foul woman of the North, The lustful murd'ress of her wedded lord : And he, connatural mind ! whom (in their songs So bards of elder time had haply feigned) Some fury fondled in her hate to man, 388 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe Horrible sympathy ! and leagued with these Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore ! Soul-hardened barterers of human blood ! Death's prime slave merchants ! scorpion whips of fate ! Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate, Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons ! Thee to defend, the Moloch priest prefers The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd ; That Deity, accomplice Deity, In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath Will go forth with our armies and our fleets To scatter the red ruin on their foes ! blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds With blessedness ! Lord of unsleeping Love, From everlasting Thou ! we shall not die. These, even these, in mercy didst thou form, Teachers of good through evil, by brief wrong Making truth lovely, and her future might Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. THE shepherds went their hasty way, And found the lowly stable-shed, Where the Virgin-Mother lay : And now they checked their eager tread, For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night ; While sweeter than a mother's song, Blessed angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high ! and peace on earth. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 389 She listened to the tale divine, And closer still the babe she pressed ; And while she cried, The babe is mine ! The milk rushed faster to her breast ; Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn : Peace, peace on earth ! the Prince of Peace is born. Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate ; That strife should vanish, battle cease, Oh ! why should this thy soul elate ? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory ? And is not war a youthful king, A stately hero clad in mail ? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; Him earth's majestic monarchs hail ! Their friend, their playmate ! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. " Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state ! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, That from the aged father tears his child ! " A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son, The husband kills, and from her board Steals all his widow's toil had won ; Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. " Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease ; I'm poor, and of a low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace ! Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn ; Peace, peace on earth ! the Prince of Peace is born !" 33* 390 ROBERT SOUTHEY. ROBERT SOUTHEY. ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D., was born in Bristol on the 12th of Au- gust, 1774, and was educated at Baliol College, with the design of his entering the church. His career at Oxford was a brief one ; his ten- dency towards Socinianism made the plan marked out for him disagree- able; and he returned to Bristol, where, in 1794. in conjunction with a friend, he published his first collection of poems. His heterodox no- tions in religion and politics disappeared in a few years, and applying his great abilities to literature, he gradually rose to the first rank of the authors of his country. He died at Keswick on the 21st of March, 1843, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. The best edition of the Poetical Works of Southey is that published in New York by Messrs. Appleton, in one very large octavo volume, with all his latest revisions, and his posthumous pieces. THEY sin who tell us love can die ; With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell : Earthly these passions, as of earth, They perish where they have their birth. But love is indestructible ; Its holy flame forever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returncth ; Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified, And hath in heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there. Oh ! when a mother meets on high The babe, the lost in infancy, Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of wo, the anxious night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight ? ROBERT SOUTHEY. 391 I AFFLICTION. METHINKS if ye would know How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown you here. Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky Sailing along, doth cross in her career The rolling moon. I watched it as it came, And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams ; But melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes The orb with richer beauties than her own ; Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene. REMEMBRANCE. MAN hath a weary pilgrimage, As through the world he wends ; On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends ; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. To school the little exile goes, Torn from his mother's arms : What then shall soothe his earliest woes ? What novelty hath lost its charms ? Condemned to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay, And cares where love has no concern, Hope lightens, as she counts the hours That hasten his return. From hard control and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools, The child's sad thoughts will roam, And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers, with a sigh, The comforts of his home. 392 ROBERT SOUTHEY. Youth comes : the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind ; Where shall the tired and harassed heart Its consolation find ? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah ! no ; for hopes too long delayed, And feelings blasted or betrayed, The fabled bliss destroy ; And he remembers, with a sigh, The careless days of infancy. Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on ; But, with the baseless hopes of Youth, Its generous warmth is gone ; Cold, calculating cares succeed, The timid thought, the wary deed, The dull realities of truth ; Back on the past he turns his eye, Remembering, with an envious sigh, The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our Mortal Pilgrimage, With feeble step and slow ; New ills that latter stage await, And old Experience learns too late, That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by, Its idle hopes are o'er ; Yet Age remembers, with a sigh, The days that are no more. WILLIAM HERBERT. 393 WILLIAM HERBERT. THE Hon. and Rev. William Herbert, the late Dean of Manchester, vas the third son of Henry Earl of Caernarvon, and father of Mr. Henry William Herbert, of Newark in New Jersey. He was one of Jie most thoroughly accomplished men of his time, and his numerous vvorks illustrate large abilities, fine taste, and an honorable character. His most celebrated poem is " Attila," which with his other original ind translated poems has recently been published in three volumes, >ctavo. Mr. Herbert was born in 1778, and died in 1846. HYMN TO DEATH. WHAT art thou, relentless visitant, Who with an earlier or later call, Dost summon every spirit that abides In this our fleshly tabernacle ? Death ! The end of worldly sorrowing and joy, That breakest short the fantasies of youth, The proud man's glory, and the lingering chain Of hopeless destitution ! The dark gate And entrance into that untrodden realm, Where we must all hereafter pass ! Art thou An evil or a boon ? that some shrink back With shuddering horror from the dreaded range Of thine unmeasured empire, others plunge Unbidden, goaded by the sense of ill, Or weariness of being, into the abyss ! And should we call those blest who journey on Upon this motley theatre, through life Successful, unto the allotted term Of threescore years and ten, even so strong, That they exceed it ? or those, who are brought down Before their prime, and like the winged tribes, Ephemeral, children of the vernal beam, Just flutter round the sweets of life and die ? An awful term thou art ; and still must be, To all who journey to that bourne, from whence Return is none, and from whose distant shore 394 WILLIAM HERBERT. No rumor has come back of good or ill, Save to the faithful, and even they but view Obscurely things unknown and unconceived, And judge not even, by what sense the bliss, Which they imagine, shall hereafter be Enjoyed or apprehended. And shall man Unbidden rush on that mysterious change, Which, whether he believe or mock the creed Of those who trust, awaits him, and must bring Or good, or evil, or annihilate The sense of being, and involve him quite In darkness upon which no dawn shall break ! Fearful and dreaded must thy bidding be To such as have no light within, vouchsafed From the Most High, no reason for their hope ; But go from this firm world, into the void Where no material body may reside, By fleshly cares polluted and unmeet For spiritual joy ; and ne'er have known, Or knowing, have behind them cast the love Of their Redeemer, who thine awful bonds, Grim Potentate, has broken, and made smooth The deathbed of the just through faith in Him. How oft, at midnight, have I fixed my gaze Upon the blue unclouded firmament, With thousand spheres illumined, each perchance The powerful centre of revolving worlds ! Until, by strange excitement stirred, the mind Has longed for dissolution, so it might bring Knowledge, for which the spirit is athirst, Open the darkling stores of hidden time, And show the marvel of eternal things, Which, in the bosom of immensity, Wheel round the God of Nature. Vain desire ! Illusive aspirations ! daring hope ! Worm that I am, who told me I should know More than is needful, or hereafter dive Into the counsel of the God of worlds ? V/ILLIAM HERBERT. 395 Or ever, in the cycle unconceived Of wondrous eternity, arrive Beyond the narrow sphere, by Him assigned To be my dwelling wheresoe'er ? Enough To work in trembling my salvation here, Waiting thy summons, stern, mysterious Power, Who to thy silent realm hast called away All those whom nature twined around my -breast In my fond infancy, and left me here Denuded of their love ! Where are ye gone, And shall we wake from the long sleep of death, To know each other, conscious of the ties That linked our souls together, and draw down The secret dewdrop on my cheek, whene'er I turn unto the past ? or will the change That comes to all, renew the altered spirit To other thoughts, making the strife or love Of short mortality a shadow past, Equal illusion ? Father, whose strong mind Was my support, whose kindness as the spring Which never tarries ! Mother, of all forms That smiled upon my budding thoughts most dear ! Brothers ! and thou, mine only sister ! gone To the still grave, making the memory Of all my earliest time, a thing wiped out, Save from the glowing spot, which lives as fresh In my heart's core, as when we last in joy Were gathered round the blithe paternal board ! Where are ye ? Must your kindred spirits sleep For many a thousand years, till by the trump Roused to new being ? Will affections then Burn inwardly, or all our loves gone by Seem but a speck upon the roll of time, Unworthy our regard ? This is too hard For mortais to unravel, nor has He Vouchsafed a clue to man, who bade us trust To Him our weakness, and we shall wake up After his likeness, and be satisfied. 396 C. C. COLTON. C. 0. COITON, THE author of " Lacon," was educated at Cambridge, where he ob- tained a fellowship. He entered the established church, and though he held the vicarage of Kew with Petersham, in Surrey, he was a well-known frequenter of the gaming-table ; and, suddenly disappear- ing from his usual haunts in the metropolis, about the time of a murder that attracted much attention, it was suspected he had fallen by the hand of an assassin. It wad however afterwards ascertained that he had absconded, to avoid his creditors ; and, in 1828, a succes- sor was appointed to his living. He then went to reside in America : but subsequently lived in Paris, a professed gamester. He committed suicide at Fontainebleau, in 1832. His principal poems are in three volumes, entitled " The Conflagration of Moscow," " Hypocrisy," and " Modern Antiquity, and other poems." LIFE. How long shall man's imprisoned spirit groan 'Twixt doubt of heaven and deep disgust of earth ? Where all worth knowing never can be known, And all that can be known, alas ! is nothing worth. Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage, And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, We do not quit, but change our joys in age Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from ourselves. The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame, Turmoil of action, tedium of rest, And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim How dull life's banquet is : how ill at ease the guest. Known were the bill of fare before we taste? Who would not spurn the banquet and the board Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious fast, To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended sword ? C. C. COLTON. 397 He that the topmost stone of Babel planned, And he that braved the crater's boiling bed Did these a clearer, closer view command Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they led ? Or he that in Valdarno did prolong The night, her rich star-studded page to read Could he point out, midst all that brilliant throng, His fixed and final home, from fleshy thraldom freed ? Minds that have scanned creation's vast domain, And secrets solved, till then to sages sealed, Whilst nature owned their intellectual reign Extinct, have nothing known or nothing have revealed. Devouring grave ! we might the less deplore Th' extinguished lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore, That might th' enigma solve, and doubt, man's tyrant, quelL To live in darkness in despair to die Is this indeed the boon to mortals given ? Is there no port no rock of refuge nigh ? There is to those who fix their anchor-hope in heaven. Turn then, O man ! and cast all else aside : Direct thy wandering thoughts to things above Low at the cross bow down in that confide, Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured hi love. 34 398 REGINALD HEUER. REGINALD HEBER. THIS eminent person was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, on the 21st of April, 1783, and in the seventeenth year of his age, he entered Brazen Nose College, Oxford, where he obtained the chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and greatly distinguished himself by an Eng- lish poem, entitled "Palestine." Leaving the University, he travelled on the continent, and on his return was presented with a living in Shropshire, where for several years he devoted himself with much GS- siduity to his profession. It was here that he wrote most of his hymns and other poems, made his translations from Pindar, and prepared his edition of Jeremy Taylor. In 1822, he was appointed Bishop of Calcutta, and soon after his arrival in India, he died of apoplexy, at Trichinopoli. Heber was one of the sweetest of the poets who have sung of religion. His hymns are for the Christian what the unchaste songs of Moore are for the sensualist. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. FOR many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, The hireling guards of Mizraim's throne, were there ; On either wing their fiery coursers check The parched and sinewy sons of Amalek, While close behind, inured to feast on blood, Decked in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with gold, Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots rolled ? So these are they, whom lord of Afric's fates, Old Thebes, has poured through all her hundred gates. Mother of armies ! How the emerald glowed, Where flushed with power and vengeance Pharaoh rode ; And stoled in white, those blazing wheels before Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore : And still reponsive to the trumpet's cry, The priestly sistrum murmured " Victory." Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom, Whom come ye forth to combat ? warrior, whom ? These flocks and herds, this faint and weary train, REGINALD HEBER. 399 Red from the scourge, and weary from the chain ? Fiiend of the poor ! the poor and friendless save Giver and Lord of freedom ! help the slave. North, south, and west the sandy whirlwinds fly The circling pall of Egypt's chivalry. On earth's last margin throng the weeping train, Their cloudy guide moves on And must we sweep the main ? Mid the light spray the snorting camels stood, Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood. He comes their leader comes the man of God O'er the wide water lifts his mighty rod, And onward treads ; the circling waves retreat In hoarse deep murmurs from his holy feet : And the chafed surges, inly roaring, show The hard wet sand and coral hills below. With limbs that falter and with hearts that swell, Down, down they pass a deep and slippery dell ; Round them arise, in pristine chaos hurled, The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, And caves, the sea-calf's low-roofed haunts, are seen. Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread, The seething waters storm above their head ; While far behind retires the sinking day, And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray. Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them or cheerless came the night ; Still in the van along that dreadful road Blazed broad and fierce the brandished torch of God, Its meteor glare a tenfold lustre gave On the long mirror of the rosy wave ; While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply, W T arm every cheek and dance in every eye To them alone : for Mizraim's wizard train Invoke for light their monster gods in vain : Clouds heaped on clouds their struggling sight confine, And tenfold darkness broods along their line ; Yet on they go by reckless vengeance led, 400 REGINALD IIEBER. And range unconscious through the ocean's bed. Till midway now that strange and fiery form, Showed his dread visage, lightening through the storm, With withering splendor blasted all their might, And brake their chariot wheels and marred their coursers' flight. "Fly, Mizraim, fly," the ravenous floods they see, And fiercer than the floods, the Deity ! " Fly, Mizraim, fly," from Edom's coral strand, Again the prophet stretched his dreadful wand : With one wild crash the thundering waters sweep, And all is waves a dark and lonely deep : Yet o'er those lonely waves such murmurs passed, As mortal wailing swelled the nightly blast, And strange and sad the whispering surges bore The groans of Egypt to Arabia's shore. Oh ! welcome came the morn, where Israel stood In trustless wonder by the avenging flood ! Oh ! welcome came the cheerful morn to show The drifted wreck of Zoan's pride below ; The mingled limbs of men, the broken car, A few sad relics of a nation's war : Alas, how few ! Then soft as Elim's well, The precious tears of new-born freedom fell ; And he whose hardened heart alike had borne The hours of bondage and the oppressor's scorn, The stubborn slave, by hope's new beams subdued, In faltering accents sobbed his gratitude. Till, kindling into warmer zeal around, The virgin timbrel waked its silver sound ; And in fierce joy no more by doubt suppressed, The struggling spirit throbbed in Miriam's breast. She with bare arms, and fixing on the sky The dark transparence of her lucid eye Poured on the winds of heaven her wild sweet harmony. " Where now," she sang, " the tall Egyptian spear, Oris' sunlike shield and Zoan's chariot, where ? Above their ranks the whelming waters spread ; Shout Israel ! for the Lord hath triumphed !" REGINALD HEBER. 401 THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. THOU art gone to the grave but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom. Thou art gone to the grave we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side, But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may hope since the Sinless has died. Thou art gone to the grave and its mansion forsaking, Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song. Thou art gone to the grave but 'twere wrong to deplore thee, When God was thy ranson, thy guardian, thy guide : He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. H Y M.N ON THE CREATION. OH ! blest were the accents of early creation, When the words of Jehovah came down from above, In the clods of the earth to infuse animation, And wake their cold atoms to life and to love. And mighty the tones which the firmament rended, When on the wheels of the thunder, and wings of the wind, By lightning and hail, and thick darkness attended, He uttered on Sinai his laws to mankind. And sweet was the voice of the first-born of heaven, Though poor his apparel, though earthly his form ; Who said to the mourner, " Thy sins are forgiven," " Be whole" to the sick, and, " Be still" to the storm. 34* 402 REGINALD HEBER. Judge of the world ! when arrayed in thy glory, Thy summons again shall be heard from on high, When nature stands trembling and naked before Thee, And waits on thy sentence to live or to die When the heavens shall fly fast from the sound of thy thunder, And the sun in thy lightnings grow languid and pale, And the sea yield her dead, and the tomb cleave asunder, In the hour of thy terrors, let mercy prevail. HYMN TO THE SEASONS. WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers, to paint the laughing soil ; When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil ; When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade ; The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy glade ; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon, and stars, their Maker's name in silent pomp display. Shall man the lord of nature, expectant of the sky, Shall man alone unthankful, his little praise deny ? No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love ; and, Saviour, honor Thee. The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, The Autumn droop in Winter, the birds forsake the shade, The wind be lulled, the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we in nature's latest hour, Lord ! will cling to Thee. THE FOLLOWERS OF CHRIST. THE Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain : His blood-red banner streams afar : Who follows in his train ? REGINALD HEBER. 403 Who best can drink his cup of wo, 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 Maker in the sky, And called on Him to save. Like Him, with pardon on his tongue In midst of mortal pain, He prayed for then^ that did the wrong. Who follows in his train ? A glorious band, the chosen few, On whom the Spirit came ; Twelve valiant saint$ their hope they knew, And mocked the cross and flame. They met the tyrant's brandished steel, The lion's gory mane ; They bowed their necks the death to feel. Who follows in their train ? A noble army men and boys, The matron and the maid Around the Saviour's throne rejoice, In robes of light arrayed. They climb the steep ascent of heaven, Through peril, toil, and pain ! God ! to us may grace be given To follow in their train ! WEEP not, mother, sounds of lamentation ; Weep not, widow, weep not hopelessly ! Strong is his arm, the bringer of salvation ! Strong is the Word of God to succor thee ! 404 REGINALD HEBER. Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him ; Hide his pale features with the sable pall ; Chide not the sad one wildly weeping o'er him, Widowed and childless, she has lost her all. Why pause the mourners, who forbids our weeping ? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed ? " Set down the bier he is not dead, but sleeping ! Young man, arise !" He spake, and was obeyed ! Change then, sad one, grief to exultation ; Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. Strong was his arm, the bringer of salvation ! Strong was the Word of God to succor thee. EPIPHANY. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid. Cold on his cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies his bed with the beasts of the stall ; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour of all. Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, * Odors of Edom, and offerings divine ; Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean ; Myrrh from the forest, and gold from the mine ? Vainly we offer each ample oblation, Vainly with gold would his favor secure ; Richer by far is the heart's adoration, Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid ; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid. REGINALD IIEBER. 405 MISSIONS. FROM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand ; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle ; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile : In vain with lavish kindness, The gifts of God are strown, The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone. Shall we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high ; Shall we, to men benighted The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! oh, salvation ! The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation Has learned Messiah's name. Waft, waft ye winds, His story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till, like a sea of glory, It spreads from pole to pole : Till o'er our ransomed nature, The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign. 406 BERNARD SARTON. BERNARD BARTON, A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, is the author of numerous poems, marked alike by sweetness of versification, and tender and Christian feeling. A collection of Bernard Barton's poems has recently been published, under the title of " Household Verses." HUMAN LIFE. 1 In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up ; in the evening it is cut down, and withereth." Ps. xc. 6. I WALKED the fields at morning's prime, The grass was ripe for mowing ; The skylark sang his matin chime, And all was brightly glowing. " And thus," I cried, " the ardent boy, His pulse with rapture beating, Deems life's inheritance is joy The future proudly greeting." I wandered forth at noon : Alas ! On earth's maternal bosom The scythe had left the withering grass, And stretched the fading blossom. And thus, I thought with many a sigh, The hopes we fondly cherish, Like flowers which blossom but to die, Seem only born to perish. Once more, at eve, abroad I strayed, Through lonely hay-fields musing, While every breeze that round me played, Rich fragrance was diffusing. 35* BERNARD BARTON. 407 The perfumed air, the hush of eve, To purer hopes appealing, O'er thoughts perchance too prone to grieve Scattered the balm of healing. For thus " the actions of the just," When memory hath enshrined them, E'en from the dark and silent dust Their odor leave behind them. SPIRITUAL WORSHIP. THOUGH glorious, God ! must thy temple have been, On the day of its first dedication, When the cherubim's wings widely waving were seen On high, o'er the ark's holy station ; When even the chosen of Levi, though skilled To minister standing before Thee, Retired from the cloud which the temple then filled, And thy glory made Israel adore Thee ; Though awfully grand was thy majesty then ; Yet the worship thy Gospel discloses, Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men, Far surpasses the ritual of Moses. And by whom was that ritual forever repealed But by Him, unto whom it was given To enter the Oracle, where is revealed, Not the cloud, but the brightness of heaven. Who, having once entered, Lath shown us the way, Lord ! how to worship before Thee ; Not with shadowy forms of that earlier day, But in spirit and truth to adore Thee ! This, this is the worship the Saviour made known, When she of Samaria found him By the patriarch's well sitting weary, alone, With the stillness of noontide around Him. 408 BERNARD BARTON. How sublime, yet how simple, the homage He taught, To her who inquired by that fountain, If Jehovah at Solyma's shrine would be sought, Or adored on Samaria's mountain ! " Woman ! believe me, the hour is near, When He, if ye rightly would hail Him, Will neither be worshipped exclusively here, Nor yet at the altar of Salem. " For God is a spirit ! and they who aright Would perform the pure worship He loveth, In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, That spirit the Father approveth." THE POOL OF BETHESDA. AROUND Bethesda's healing wave, Waiting to hear the rustling wing Which spoke the angel nigh, who gave Its" virtue to that holy spring, With patience and with hope endued, Were seen the gathered multitude. Among them there was one whose eye Had often seen the waters stirred ; Whose heart had often heaved the sigh, The bitter sigh of hope deferred : Beholding while he suffered on, The healing virtue given, and gone ! No power had he ; no friendly aid To him its timely succor brought ; But, while his coming he delayed, Another won the boon he sought , Until the Saviour's love was shown, Which healed him by a word alone ! BERNARD BARTON. 409 Had they who watched and waited there Been conscious who was passing by, With what unceasing, anxious care, Would they have sought his pitying eye, And craved with fervency of soul, His power divine to make them whole ! - But habit and tradition swayed Their minds to trust to sense alone ; They only hoped the angel's aid ; While in their presence stood unknown A greater, mightier far than he, With power from every pain to free. Bethesda's pool has lost its power ! No angel, by his glad descent, Dispenses that diviner dower Which with its healing waters went, But He, whose word surpassed its wave. Is still Omnipotent to save. And what that fountain once was found, Religion's outward forms remain With living virtue only crowned While their first freshness they retain ; Only replete with power to cure When, spirit-stirred, their source is pure ! Yet are there who this truth confess, Who know how little forms avail, But whose protracted helplessness Confirms the impotent's sad tale ; Who, day by day, and year by year, As emblems of his lot appear. They hear the sounds of life and love, Which tell the visitant is nigh ; They see the troubled waters move, Whose touch alone might health supply ; 35 410 BERNARD BARTON. But weak of faith, infirm of will, Are powerless, helpless, hopeless still. Saviour ! thy love is still the same As when that healing word was spoke ; Still in thine all-redeeming name Dwells power to burst the strongest yoke. Oh ! be that power, that love displayed ! Help those, whom Thou alone canst aid ! TIME'S TAKINGS AND LEAVINGS. WHAT does age take away ? Bloom from the cheek, and lustre from the eye ; The spirits light and gay, Unclouded as the summer's bluest sky. What do years steal away ? The fond heart's idol, Love, that gladdened life , Friendship, whose calmer sway We trusted to in hours of darker strife. What must with Time decay ? Young Hope's wild dreams, and Fancy's visions bright , Life's evening sky grows gray, And darker clouds prelude Death's coming night. But not for such we mourn ! We know them frail, and brief their date assigned ; Our spirits are forlorn, Less from Time's thefts, than what he leaves behind. What do years leave behind ? Unruly passions, impotent desires, Distrusts and thoughts unkind, Love of the world, and self which last expires. For these, for these we grieve ; What Time has robbed us of we know must go : But what he deigns to leave, Not only finds us poor, but keeps us so. BERNARD BARTON. 411 It ought not thus to be ; "Ni or would it, knew we meek Religion's sway ; Her votary's eye could see How little Time can give, or take awav. Faith, in the heart enshrined, Would make Time's gifts enjoyed and used, while lent ; And all it left behind, Of Love and Grace, a noble monument. POWER AND BENEVOLENCE. GOD is not great because omnipotent ! But because power in Him is understood And felt, and proved to be benevolent, And wise, and holy ; thus it ever should ! For what He wills we know is pure and good, And has in view the happiness of all : Hence love and adoration : never could The contrite spirit at his footstool fall, If power, and power alone, its feelings did appal ! If then divinest power be truly so, Because its proper object is to bless ; It follows, that all power which man can know, The highest even monarchs can possess, Displays alone their " less than littleness," Unless it seek the happiness of man And glory of the Highest ; nothing less Than such a use of power one moment can Make its possessor great, on wisdom's Godlike plan. 412 HENEY KIRKE WHITE. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. THIS Christian poet was born at Nottingham, in 1785. He was apprenticed to a hosier, and afterwards articled to a lawyer. But neither of those callings was congenial to his feelings and talents ; and, by the kindness of some friends, he was enabled to enter himself of St. John's College, Cambridge, to study for the Church. Here he obtained several prizes at the public examinations, but they were dearly purchased ; incessant study brought him to the grave, in 1807, in the twenty-second year of his age. The writings of Kirke White show that he possessed in an eminent degree the poetical faculties, and his reli- gious and social character endeared him to all his acquaintances. His works, with the interesting memoir of his life and genius by Dr. Southey, have passed through many editions in this country. THE CHRISTIAN'S PROGRESS. THROUGH sorrow's night, and danger's path, Amid the deepening gloom, We, soldiers of an injured King, Are marching to the tomb. There, when the turmoil is no more, And all our powers decay, Our cold remains in solitude Shall sleep the years away. Our labors done, securely laid In this our last retreat, Unheeded o'er our silent dust The storms of life shall beat. Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane, The vital spark shall lie ; For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise, To see its kindred sky. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 413 These ashes too, this little dust, Our Father's care shall keep, Till the last angel rise and break The long and dreary sleep. Then love's soft dew o'er every eye Shall shed its mildest rays, And the long silent dust shall burst With shouts of endless praise. HYMN. AWAKE, sweet harp of Judah, wake, Retune thy strings for Jesu's sake ; We sing the Saviour of our race, The Lamb, our shield and hiding-place. When God's right arm is bared for war, And thunders clothe his cloudy car, Where, where, oh ! where, shall man retire, T' escape the horrors of his ire ? Tis He, the Lamb, to Him we fly, While the dread tempest passes by ; God sees his Well-beloved's face, And spares us in our hiding-place. Thus, while we dwell in this low scene, The Lamb is our unfailing screen ; To Him, though guilty, still we run, And God still spares us for his Son. While yet we sojourn here below, Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow ; Fallen, abject, mean, a sentenced race, We deeply need a hiding-place. Yet, courage days and years will glide, And we shall lay these clods aside ; Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood, And washed in Jesu's cleansing blood. 35* 414 HENHY KIRKE WHITE. Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed, We through the Lamb shall be decreed ; Shall meet the Father face to face, And need no more a hiding-place. SONNET. WHAT art Thou, mighty One ? and where thy seat ? Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands, And Thou dost bear within thy awful hands The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet ; Stern on thy dark- wrought car of cloud and wind Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dread noon, Or on the red wing of the fierce monsoon Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind. In the drear silence of the polar span Dost Thou repose ? or in the solitude Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ? Vain thought ! the confines of his throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. FAITH. Lo ! on the eastern summit, clad in gray, Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes ; And from his tower of mist Night's watchman hurries down. The pious man In this bad world, where mists and couchant storms Hide heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields Of ether, where the day is never veiled With intervening vapors ; and looks down Serene upon the troublous sea that hides The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all ; But on whose billowy back, from man concealed, The glaring sunbeam plays. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 415 LINES WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS. YE many twinkling stars, who yet do tread Your brilliant places in the sable vault Of night's dominions ! planets and central orbs Of other systems, big as the burning sun Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye Small as the glow-worm's lamp ! to you I raise My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered, My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts, Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, Warped with low prejudices, to unfold, And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, The great Creator; Him, who now sublime, Wrapped in the solitary amplitude Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres, Sits on his silent throne and meditates. Th' angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, " The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies : the glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene. Th' ^Eolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note and cry, " The Lord is great !" Responding to the seraphim. O'er all, From orb to orb, to the remotest verge Of the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him. Oh ! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world and all its bustling cares, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. Oh ! what is man, when at ambition's height, 416 11 EMI Y KI11KE WHITE. What e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds ! Almighty God ! Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works, Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence ? Thou canst ; For Thou art full of universal love, And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, The pageant insects of a glittering hour ! Oh ! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gauds, and honors of the world, appear ! How vain ambition ! Why has my wakeful lamp Outwatched the slow-paced night ? Why on the page, The schoolman's labored page, have I employed The hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay The loss of health ? Or can the hope of glory Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, Relume the fires of this deep-sunken eye, Or paint new colors on this pallid cheek ? Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame, For which thou barterest health and happiness, Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs Of everlasting punishment condign ? Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! How fruitless his pursuits ! Eternal God, Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, And, oh ! assist me so to live on earth, That I may die in peace, and claim a place In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly, The vain illusions of deceitful life. JOHN PIERPONT. 417 JOHN PIERPONT, THE author of the " Airs of Palestine," is a native of Litclifield, Con- necticut, and was born on the sixth of April, 1785. Having embarked in business which resulted disastrously, in 1816 he sought a solace in literary pursuits, and in the same year published " The Airs of Pales- tine." Soon afterwards he entered seriously upon the study of theology, first by himself, in Baltimore, and afterwards as a member of the theo- logical school connected with Harvard College. He left that seminary in October, 1818, and in April, 1819, was ordained as minister of the Hollis-street Unitarian Church, in Boston, as successor to the Rev. Dr. Holley, who had recently been elected to the presidency of the Transylvania University, in Kentucky. In 1835 and 1836, in conse- quence of impaired health, he spent a year abroad, passing through the principal cities in England, France, and Italy, and extending his tour into the East, visiting Smyrna, the ruins of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, Con- stantinople, and Athens, Corinth, and some of the other cities of Greece ; of his travels in which, traces will occasionally be found in some of the short poems which he has written since his return. Many of his hymns, odes, and other brief poems, are remarkably spirited and melo- dious. Several of them, distinguished alike for energy of thought and language, were educed by events connected with the moral and reli- gious enterprises of the time. Mr. Pierpont now sixty-three years of age is settled in Troy, New York. I CANNOT make him dead ! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair ; Yet, when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes he is not there ! I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair ; I'm stepping towards the hall To give the boy a call ; And then bethink me that he is not there ! 418 JOHN PIERPONT. I thread the crowded street ; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair : And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there ! I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid ; Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead ; My hand that marble felt ; O'er it in prayer I knelt ; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there ! I cannot make him dead ! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there ! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy, Then comes the sad thought that he is not there ! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though he is not there ! Not there ! Where, then, is he ? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked ; he is not there ! JOHN PIERPONT. 419 He lives ! In all the past He lives ; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair ; In dreams I see him now ; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there /" Yes, we all live to God ! FATHER, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there ! HER CHOSEN SPOT. WHILE yet she lived, she walked alone Among these shades. A voice divine Whispered, " This spot shall be thine own ; Here shall thy wasting form recline, Beneath the shadow of this pine." " Thy will be done !" the sufferer said. This spot was hallowed from that hour ; And, in her eyes, the evening's shade And morning's dew this green spot made More lovely than her bridal bower. By the pale moon herself more pale And spirit-like these walks she trod ; And, while no voice, from swell or vale, Was heard, she knelt upon this sod And gave her spirit back to God. That spirit, with an angel's wings, Went up from the young mother's bed : So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings. She's lost to earth and earthly things ; But " weep not, for she is not dead, 420 JOHN PfERPONT. She sleepeth !" Yea, she sleepeth here, The first that in these grounds hath slept. This grave, first watered with the tear That child or widowed man hath wept, Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. The babe that lay on her cold breast A rosebud dropped on drifted snow Its young hand in its father's pressed, Shall learn that she, who first caressed Its infant check, now sleeps below. And often shall he come alone, When not a sound but evening's sigh Is heard, and, bowing by the stone That bears his mother's name, with none But God and guardian angels nigh, Shall say, " This was my mother's choice For her own grave : 0, be it mine ! Even now, methinks, I hear her voice Calling me hence, in the divine And mournful whisper of this pine." JERUSALEM. JERUSALEM, Jerusalem, How glad should I have been, Could I, in my lone wanderings, Thine aged walls have seen ! Could I have gazed upon the dome Above thy towers that swells, And heard, as evening's sun went down, Thy parting camels' bells : Could I have stood on Olivet, Where once the Saviour trod, And, from its height, looked down upon The city of our God ; JOHN PIERPONT. 421 For is it not, Almighty God, Thy holy city still, Though there thy prophets walk no more, That crowns Moriah's hill ? Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, The streets of Salem now, Nor are their voices lifted up On Zion's saddened brow ; Nor are their garnished sepulchres With pious sorrow kept, Where once the same Jerusalem, That killed them, came and wept. But still the seed of Abraham With joy upon it look, And lay their ashes at its feet, That Kedron's feeble brook Still washes, as its waters creep Along their rocky bed, And Israel's God is worshipped yet Where Zion lifts her head. Yes ; every morning, as the day Breaks over Olivet, The holy name of Allah comes From every minaret ; At every eve the mellow call Floats on the quiet air, " Lo, God is God ! Before him come, Before him come, for prayer !" I know, when at that solemn call The city holds her breath, That Omar's mosque hears not the name Of Him of Nazareth ; But Abraham's God is worshipped there Alike by age and youth, And worshipped, hopeth charity, " In spirit and in truth." 36 422 JOHN PIERPONT. Yea, from that day when Salem knelt And bent her queenly neck To him who was, at once, her priest And king, Melchisedek, To this, when Egypt's Abraham 1 The sceptre and the sword Shakes o'er her head, her holy men Have bowed before the Lord. Jerusalem, I would have seen Thy precipices steep, The trees of palm that overhang Thy gorges dark and deep, The goats that cling along thy cliffs, And browse upon thy rocks, Beneath whose shade lie down, alike, Thy shepherds and their flocks. I would have mused, while night hung out Her silver lamp so pale, Beneath those ancient olive-trees That grow in Kedron's vale, Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides The city's wall sublime, Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks Defy the scythe of time. The garden of Gethsemane Those aged olive-trees Are shading yet, and in their shade I would have sought the breeze, That, like an angel, bathed the brow, And bore to heaven the prayer Of Jesus, when in agony, He sought the Father there. 1 This name is now generally written Ibrahim. JOHN PIERPONT. 423 I would have gone to Calvary, And, where the Marys stood, Bewailing loud the Crucified, As near him as they could, I would have stood, till night o'er earth Her heavy pall had thrown, And thought upon my Saviour's cross, And learned to bear my own. Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Thy cross thou bearest now ! An iron yoke is on thy neck, And blood is on thy brow ; Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, Thou didst reject as dross, And now thy cross is on thee laid The crescent is thy cross ! It was not mine, nor will it be, To see the bloody rod That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, Thou city of our God ! But round thy hill the spirits throng Of all thy murdered seers, And voices that went up from it Are ringing in my ears, Went up that day, when darkness fell From all thy firmament, And shrouded thee at noon ; and when Thy temple's vail was rent, And graves of holy men, that touched Thy feet, gave up their dead : Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard, His blood is on thy head ! 424 GEORGE CROLY. GEORGE CROLY. THE Rev. George Croly, LL. D., eminent as a theologian and as a writer in various departments of literature, was born in Ireland, and educated at Trinity College in Dublin. He is now rector of St. Ste- phens, London. His collected " Poems" were published in two octavo volumes in 1830. THE STARS. YE stars ! bright legions that, before all time, Camped on yon plain of sapphire, what shall tell Your burning myriads, but the eye of Him Who bade through heaven your golden chariots wheel? Yet who earthborn can see your hosts, nor feel Immortal impulses Eternity ? What wonder if the o'erwrought soul should reel With its own weight of thought, and the wild eye See fate within your tracts of sleepless glory lie ? For ye behold the mightiest. From that steep What ages have ye worshipped round your Kino- ? Ye heard his trumpet sounded o'er the sleep Of earth ; ye heard the morning angels sing. Upon that orb, now o'er me quivering, The gaze of Adam fixed from Paradise ; The wanderers of the deluge saw it spring Above the mountain surge, and hailed its rise Lightning their lonely track with hope's celestial dyes. On Calvary shot down that purple eye, When, but the soldier and the sacrifice, All were departed. Mount of Agony ! But Time's broad pinion, ere the giant dies, Shall cloud your dome. Ye fruitage of the skies, Your vineyard shall be shaken ! From your urn Censers of Heaven ! no more shall glory rise, Your incense to the Throne ! The heavens shall burn: For all your pomps are dust, and shall to dust return. GEORGE CROLY. 425 Yet look, ye living intellects. The trine Of waning planets, speaks it not decay ? Does Schedir's staff of diamond wave no sign ? Monarch of midnight, Sirius, shoots thy ray Undimmed, when thrones sublunar pass away ? Dreams ! yet if e'er was graved in vigil wan Your spell on gem or imaged alchemy, The sign when empire's hourglass downwards ran, 'Twas on that arch, graved on that brazen talisman. JACOBS DREAM. FROM A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON, A. R. A. 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 toiled, and oft on day's decline Looked pale, then paused for eve's delicious air ; The summit gained, he knelt, and breathed his evening prayer. He spread his cloak and slumbered darkness fell Upon the twilight hills ; a sudden sound Of silver trumpets o'er him seemed to swell ; Clouds heavy with the tempest gathered round ; Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound ; Still deeper rolled 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, 36* 426 GEORGE CROLY. It thunders the resplendent gates unclose ; Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height, Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows, Millions on millions, brighter and more bright, Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light. But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand, Like cherub kings, with lifted, mighty plume, Fixed, sunbright 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 crowned with Deity. A DIRGE. " EARTH to earth, and dust to dust !" Here the evil and the just, Here the youthful and the old, Here the fearful and the bold, Here the matron and the maid, In one silent bed are laid : Here the vassal and the king Side by side lie withering ; Here the sword and sceptre rust " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" Age on age shall roll along, O'er this pale and mighty throng : Those that wept then, those that weep, All shall with these sleepers sleep ; Brothers, sisters of the worm : Summer's sun, or winter's storm, Song of peace, or battle's roar, Ne'er shall break their slumbers more ; Death shall keep his solemn trust " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" GEORGE CROLY. 427 But a day is coming fast, Earth, thy mightiest and thy last ; It shall come in fear and wonder, Heralded by trump and thunder ; It shall come in strife and toil, It shall come in blood and spoil, It shall come in empires' groans, Burning temples, trampled thrones ; Then, ambition, rue thy lust ! " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" Then shall come the judgment sign ; In the east the King shall shine ; Flashing from heaven's golden gate, Thousand thousands round his state ; Spirits with the crown and plume ; Tremble then, thou sullen tomb ! Heaven shall open on our sight, Earth be turned to living light, Kingdoms of the ransomed just " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" Then shall, gorgeous as a gem, Shine thy mount, Jerusalem ; Then shall in the desert rise Fruits of more than Paradise ; Earth by angel feet be trod, One great garden of her God ; Till are dried the martyr's tears, Through a glorious thousand years. Now in hope of Him we trust " Earth to earth, and dust to dust !" 428 ANDREWS NORTON. ANDREWS NORTON. MR. NORTON was born at Hingham, near Boston, in 1786. He entered Harvard College in 1800, and was graduated in 1804. He studied divinity, but never became a settled clergyman. He was for a time tutor at Bowdoin College, and afterwards tutor and librarian in Harvard University. In 1819, he became Dexter Professor of Sacred Literature in the latter institution. He resigned that office in 1830, and has since resided at Cambridge as a private gentleman. Mr. Norton is author of " The Evidences of the Genuineness of tLe Gospels," published, in three octavo volumes, in 1848 ; and of several other theological works, in which he has exhibited great abilities. His poetical writings are remarkable for elegance and a religious dignity and fervor. AFTER THE DEATH OF CHARLES ELIOT. FAREWELL ! before we meet again, Perhaps through scenes as yet unknown, That lie in distant years of pain, I have to journey on alone ; To meet with griefs thou wilt not feel, Perchance with joys thou canst not share ; And when we both were wont to kneel, To breathe alone the silent prayer ; But ne'er a deeper pang to know, Than when I watched thy slow decay, Saw on thy cheek the hectic glow, And felt at last each hope give way. But who the destined hour may tell, That bids the loosened spirit fly ? E'en now this pulse's feverish swell May warn me of mortality. ANDREWS NORTON. 429 But chance what may, thou wilt no more With sense and wit my hours beguile, Inform with learning's various lore, Or charm with friendship's kindest smile. Each book I read, each walk I tread, Whate'er I feel, whate'er I see, All speak of hopes forever fled, All have some tale to tell of thee. I shall not, should misfortune lower, Should friends desert, and life decline, I shall not know thy soothing power, Nor hear thee say, " My heart is thine." If thou hadst lived, thy well-earned fame Had bade my fading prospect bloom, Had cast its lustre o'er my name, And stood the guardian of my tomb. Servant of God ! thy ardent mind, With lengthening years improving still. Striving, untired, to serve mankind, Had thus performed thy Father's will. Another task to thee was given ; 'Twas thine to drink of early wo, To feel thy hopes, thy friendships riven, And bend submissive to thy blow ; With patient smile and steady eye, To meet each pang that sickness gave, And see with lingering step draw nigh The form that pointed to the grave. Servant of God ! thou art not there ; Thy race of virtue is not run ; What blooms on earth of good and fair, Will ripen in another sun. 430 ANDREWS NORTON. Dost thou, amid the rapturous glow With which the soul her welcome hears, Dost thou still think of us below, Of earthly scenes, of human tears ? Perhaps e'en now thy thoughts return To when in summer's moonlight walk, Of all that now is thine to learn, We framed no light nor fruitless talk. We spake of knowledge, such as soais From world to world with ceaseless flight ; And love, that follows and adores, As nature spreads before her sight. How vivid still past scenes appear ! I feel as though all were not o'er ; As though 'twere strange I cannot hear 'Thy voice of friendship yet once more. But I shall hear it ; in that day Whose setting sun I may not view, When earthly voices die away, Thine will at last be heard anew. We meet again ; a little while, And where thou art I too shall be. And then, with what an angel smile Of gladness, thou wilt welcome me ! HYMN. MY God, I thank thee ! may no thought E'er deem thy chastisements severe ; But may this heart, by .sorrow taught, Calm each wild wish, each idle fear. Thy mercy bids all nature bloom , The sun shines bright, and man is gay ; Thine equal mercy spreads the gloom That darkens o'er his little day. ANDREWS NORTON. 431 Full many a throb of grief and pain Thy frail and erring child must know ; But not one prayer is breathed in vain, Nor does one tear unheeded flow. Thy various messengers employ ; Thy purposes of love fulfil ; And, 'mid the wreck of human joy, May kneeling faith adore thy will ! x FORTITUDE. FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way Be rough, like that thy Saviour trod ; Though cold and stormy lower the day, This path of suffering leads to God. Nay, sink not ; though from every limb Are starting drops of toil and pain ; Thou dost but share the lot of Him With whom his followers are to reign. Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone, Must bear the sorrows that assail ; Look upward to the eternal throne, And know a Friend who cannot fail. Bear firmly ; yet a few more days, And thy hard trial will be past ; Then, wrapped in glory's opening blaze, Thy feet will rest on heaven at last. Christian ! thy Friend, thy Master prayed, When dread and anguish shook his frame ; Then met his sufferings undismayed : Wilt thou not strive to do the same ? O ! think'st thou that his Father's love Shone round him then with fainter rays Than now, when, throned all height above, Unceasing voices hymn his praise ? 432 ANDREWS NORTON. Go, sufferer ! calmly meet the woes Which God's own mercy bids thee bear ; Then, rising as thy Saviour rose, Go ! his eternal victory share. 'FUNERAL HYMN. HE has gone to his God ; he has gone to his home ; No more amid peril and error to roam ; His eyes are no longer dim ; His feet will no more falter ; No grief can follow him ; No pang his cheek can alter. There are paleness, and weeping, and sighs below ; For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow ; But the harps of heaven are ringing ; Glad angels come to greet him, And hymns of joy are singing, While old friends press to meet him. ! honored, beloved, to earth unconfined, Thou hast soared on high, thou hast left us behind. But our parting is not forever, We will follow thee by heaven's light, Where the grave cannot dissever The souls whom God will unite. RICHARD H. DANA. 433 RICHARD H. DANA. Tms great poet was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1787, and was educated at Harvard College. He studied law in Baltimore, and af- ter practising a short time in the courts, turned his attention to literature. In 1833 appeared his " Poems and Prose Writings," in one volume; and he has since published a few pieces in the periodicals. Mr. Dana's works are of the first rank in literary art, and they are pervaded by a profoundly religious and philosophical spirit. ISLAND OF THE BUCANIERS. THE island lies nine leagues away. Along its solitary shore, Of craggy rock and sandy bay, No sound but ocean's roar, Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird .makes her nome, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. But when the light winds lie at rest, And on the glassy, heaving sea, The black duck, with her glossy breast, Sits swinging silently ; How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. And inland rests the green, warm dell ; The brook comes tinkling down its side ; From out the trees the Sabbath bell Rings cheerful, far and wide, Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks, That feed about the vale among the rocks. Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat In former days within the vale ; Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet ; Curses were on the gale ; Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men ; Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 37 434 RICHARD H. DANA. THE OCEAN. Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade, To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, Then back into themselves in rivers run, Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide. Ho ! how the giant heaves himself, and strains And flings to break his strong and viewless chains ; Foams in his wrath ; and at his prison doors, Hark ! hear him ! how he beats and tugs and roars, As if he would break forth again, and sweep Each living thing within his lowest deep. Type of the Infinite ! I look away Over thy billows, and I cannot stay My thought .upon a resting-place, or make A shore beyond my vision, where they break ; But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain To think ; then rests, and then puts forth again. Thou hold'st me by a spell ; and on thy beach I feel all soul ; and thoughts unmeasured reach Far back beyond all date. And, ! how old Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast rolled Before an ear did hear thee, thou didst mourn, Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn ; Waiting, thou mighty minister of death, Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath. At last thou didst it well ! The dread command Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land ; And then once more, unto the silent heaven Thy lone and melancholy voice was given. And though the land is thronged again, Sea ! Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call, Share thy own spirit : it is sadness all ! How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down Yonder tall cliff he with the iron crown ! RICHARD H. DANA. 435 And see ; those sable pines along the steep, Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy deep ! Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge Over the dead, with thy low beating surge. DAYBREAK. " The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened to- wards the sun-rising : the name of the chamber was Peace ; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang." The Pilgrv-* s Progress. Now, brighter than the host that all night long, In fiery armor, far up in the sky Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song, Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh, Star of the dawning ! Cheerful is thine eye ; And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim ; Thou bidd'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him. Canst thou grow sad, thou say'st, as earth grows bright ? And sigh, when little birds begin discourse In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh source ? With creatures innocent thou must perforce A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse, Of ills and pains of life must be the cure, And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure. I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue, Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red ; Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew ; And all the woods and hilltops stand outspread With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed. Still save the bird that scarcely lifts its song The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead The silent city emptied of its throng, And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong. 436 RICHARD . DANA. But wrong-, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth, Will quicken soon ; and hard, hot toil, and strife, With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth With discord strange, and all that man calls life. With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife ; And airs and woods and streams breathe harmonies . Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife ; Nor binds his heart Avith soft and kindly ties : He, feA r erish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies. It is because man useth so amiss Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad ; Else why should she in such fresh hour as this Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, From her fair face ? It is that man is mad ! Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine When nature grieves ; nor deem this heart is bad. Thou look'st towards earth ; but yet the heavens are thine ; While I to earth am bound : When will the heaA r ens be mine *? If man would but his finer nature learn, And not in life fantastic lose the sense Of simpler things ; could nature's features stern Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense I should not yearn for God to take me hence, But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed, Remembering humbly Avhy it is, and Avhence : But when I see cold man of reason proud, My solitude is sad I'm lonely in the crowd. But not for this alone, the silent tear Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, Nor for this solemn hour : fresh life is near ; But all my joys ! they died Avhen neAvly born. Thousands will wake to joy ; while I, forlorn, And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye Shall see them pass. Breathe calm my spirit's torn ; Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high ! Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh. RICHARD H. DANA. 437 And when I grieve, 0, rather let it be That I whom nature taught to sit with her On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir Of woods and waters feel the quickening spur To my strong spirit ; who, as my own child, Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur A beauty see that I this mother mild Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce and wild ! How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft Shot 'thwart the earth ! In crown of living fire Up comes the day ! As if they conscious quaffed The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire Laugh in the wakening light. Go, vain desire ! The dusky lights are gone ; go thou thy way ! And pming discontent, like them, expire ! Be called my chamber, Peace, when ends the day ; And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. LISTEN, man! A voice within us speaks the startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices Hymn it around our souls : according harps, By angel fingers touched when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality ! Thick, clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song. 0, listen, ye, our spirits ! drink it in From all the air ! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight ; 'Tis floating in day's setting glories ; night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears ; Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve, All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast, mystic instrument, are touched 37* 438 JRICHARD H. DANA. By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee : The dying hear it ; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? And with that boding cry O'er the waves dost thou fly ? ! rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us : Thy wail What does it bring to me ? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad : as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, One spirit did ye urge The Mystery the Word. Of thousands, thou both sepulchre and pall, Old ocean, art ! A requiem o'er the dead, From out thy gloomy cells A tale of mourning tells Tells of man's wo and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light Where birds of summer sing. WILLIAM KNOX. 439 WILLIAM KNOX. WILLIAM KNOX, the author of " Songs of Israel," and " The Harp of Sion," was born in humble life In Roxburghshire, in 1789, and died in Edinburgh in 1825. Some of his pieces evince fancy and feeling, and a fine command of poetical language. MORTALITY. OH, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ! Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave He passes from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid ; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust, and together shall He. The child whom a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each all are away to their dwelling of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those who loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of -the king who the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 440 WILLIAM KNOX. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed ; So the multitude comes even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same things that our fathers have been, We see the same sights, that our fathers have seen ; We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink, To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling, But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved but their story we cannot unfold, They scorned but the heart of the haughty is cold, They grieved but no wail from their slumbers may come, They joyed but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died ay, they died ! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea ; hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and rain ; And the smile, and the tear, and the song, and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ! WILLIAM KNOX. 441 YOUTH AND AGE. OH ! Youth is like the springtide morn, When roses bloom on Jordan's strand, And far the turtle's voice is borne Through all Judea's echoing land ! When the delighted wanderer roves Through cedar woods and olive groves, That spread their blossoms to the day ; And climbs the hill, and fords the stream, And basks him in the noontide beam, " Oh ! I would live alway." But Age is like the winter's night, When Hermon wears his mantle cloud, When moon and stars withdraw their light, And Hinnom's blast is long and loud ; When the dejected pilgrim strays Along the desert's trackless maze, Forsaken by each friendly ray ; And feels no vigor in his limb, And finds no home or earth for him, And cries, amid the shadows dim, " I would not live alway." Oh ! Youth is firmly bound to earth, When hope beams on each comrade's glance His bosom chords are tuned to mirth, Like harp-strings in the cheerful dance ; But Age has felt those ties unbound, Which fixed him to that spot of ground Where all his household comforts lay ; He feels his freezing heart grow cold, He thinks of kindred in the mould, And cries, amid his grief untold, " I would not live alway." 442 WILLIAM KNOX. THE ATHEIST. THE fool hath said, " There is no God :" No God ! Who lights the morning sun, And sends him on his heavenly road, A far and brilliant course to run ? Who, when the radiant day is done, Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp, And bids the planets, one by one, Steal o'er the night-vales, dark and damp ? No God ! Who gives the evening dew, The fanning breeze, the fostering shower ? Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough, And paints the summer's noontide flower ? Who spreads in the autumnal bower, The fruit-tree's mellow stores around ; And sends the winter's icy power, T' invigorate the exhausted ground ? No God ! Who makes the bird to wing Its flight like arrow through the sky, And gives the deer its power to spring From rock to rock triumphantly ? Who formed Behemoth, huge and high, That at a draught the river drains, And great Leviathan to lie, Like floating isle, on ocean plains ? No God ! Who warms the heart to heave With thousand feelings soft and sweet, And prompts the aspiring soul to leave The earth we tread beneath our feet, And soar away on pinions fleet, Beyond the scene of mortal strife, With fair ethereal forms to meet, That tell us of an after life ? WILLIAM KNOX. 443 No God ! Who fixed the solid ground On pillars strong, that alter not ? Who spread the curtained skies around ? Who doth the ocean bounds allot ? Who all things to perfection brought On earth below, in heaven abroad ? Go ask the fool of impious thought That dares to say, " There is no God !" TO-MORROW. TO-MORROW ! Mortal, boast not thou Of time and tide that are not now ! But think, in one revolving day, How earthly things may pass away ! To-day while hearts with rapture spring, The youth to beauty's lip may cling ; To-morrow and that lip of bliss May sleep unconscious of his kiss. To-day the blooming spouse may press Her husband in a fond caress ; To-morrow and the hands that pressed, May wildly strike her widowed breast. To-day the clasping babe may drain The milk-stream from its mother's vein ; To-morrow like a frozen rill, That bosom-current may be still. To-day the merry heart may feast On herb and fruit, and bird and beast ; To-morrow spite of all thy glee, The hungry worms may feast on thee. To-morrow ! Mortal, boast not thou Of time and tide that are not now ! But think, in one revolving day, That e'en thyself may pass away. 444 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. THIS poet was born of a family distinguished in the history of Con- necticut, at New Haven, on the 26th of September, 1789. He gradu- ated at Yale College, with a high reputation for abilities and scholar- ship, in 1808, and afterwards entered upon the business of a merchant. His principal works are " The Vision of Judgment," published in 1812 ; " Percy's Mosque," published originally while he was on a visit to England, in 1820; " Hadad," which appeared in 1825, and " Demetria," written in 1816, but not printed until it was included in the collection of his works which he gave to the world in 1840, a few months before his death. As a poet, Mr. Hillhouse possessed qualities seldom found united : a masculine strength of mind, and a most deli- cate perception of the beautiful. With an imagination of the loftiest order with " the vision and the faculty divine" in its fullest exercise, the wanderings of his fancy were chastened and controlled by ex- quisite taste. The grand characteristic of his writings is their classical beauty. Every passage is polished to the utmost, yet there is no ex- uberance, no sacrifice to false and meretricious taste. He threw aside the gaudy and affected brilliancy with which too many set forth their poems, and left his to stand, like the doric column, charming by its simplicity. CLOSE OF THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. As, when from some proud capital that crowns Imperial Ganges, the reviving breeze Sweeps the dank mist, or hoary river fog Impervious mantled o'er her highest towers, Bright on the eye rush Brahma's temples, capped With spiry tops, gay-trellised minarets, Pagods of gold, and mosques with burnished domes, Gilded, and glistening in the morning sun ; So from the hill the cloudy curtains rolled, And, in the lingering lustre of the eve, Again the Saviour and his seraphs shone. Emitted sudden in his rising, flashed JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 445 Intenser light, as towards the right-hand host Mild turning, with a look ineffable, The invitation he proclaimed in accents Which on their ravished ears poured thrilling, like The silver sound of many trumpets heard Afar in sweetest jubilee ; then, swift Stretching his dreadful sceptre to the left, That shot forth horrid lightnings, in a voice Clothed but in half its terrors, yet to them Seemed like the crush of heaven, pronounced the doom. The sentence uttered, as with life instinct, The throne uprose majestically slow; Each angel spread his wings ; in one dread swell Of triumph mingling as they mounted, trumpets, And harps, and golden lyres, and timbrels sweet, And many a strange and deep-toned instrument Of heavenly minstrelsy unknown on earth, And angels' voices, and the loud acclaim Of all the ransomed, like a thunder-shout. Far through the skies melodious echoes rolled, And faint hosannas distant climes returned. Down from the lessening multitude came faint And fainter still the trumpet's dying peal, All else in distance lost ; when, to receive Their new inhabitants, the heavens unfolded. Up gazing, then, with streaming eyes, a glimpse The wicked caught of Paradise, whence streaks Of splendor, golden quivering radiance shone, As when the showery evening sun takes leave, Breaking a moment o'er the illumined world. Seen far within, fair forms moved graceful by, Slow-turning to the light their snowy wings. A deep-drawn, agonizing groan escaped The hapless outcasts, when upon the Lord The glowing portals closed. Undone, they stood Wistfully gazing on the cold, gray heaven, As if to catch, alas ! a hope not there. But shades began to gather ; night approached 38 446 JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. Murky and lowering : round with horror rolled " On one another, their despairing eyes That glared with anguish : starless, hopeless gloom Fell on their souls, never to know an end. Though in the far horizon lingered yet A lurid gleam, black clouds were mustering there ; Red flashes, followed by low muttering sounds, Announced the fiery tempest doomed to hurl The fragments of the earth again to chaos. Wild gusts swept by, upon whose hollow wing Unearthly voices, yells, and ghastly peals Of demon laughter came. Infernal shapes Flitted along the sulphurous wreaths, or plunged Their dark, impure abyss, as seafowl dive Their watery element. O'erwhelmed with sights And sounds appalling, I awoke ; and found For gathering storms, and signs of coming wo, The midnight moon gleaming upon my bed Serene and peaceful. Gladly I surveyed her Walking in brightness through the stars of heaven, And blessed the respite ere the day of doom. HADAD'S DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY OF JERUSALEM 'Tis so ; the hoary harper sings aright ; How beautiful is Zion ! Like a queen, Armed with a helm, in virgin loveliness, Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuiras, She sits aloft, begirt with battlements And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces, Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods Which tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses, Waved their dark beauty round the tower of David, Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers, The embrasures of alabaster shine ; Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound To Judah's mart with orient merchandise. JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. 447 But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned, Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense, Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here, Where saints and prophets teach, where the stern law Still speaks in thunder, where chief angels watch, And where the glory hovers, here I war. EVENING MUSIC OF THE ANGELS. Low warblings, now, and solitary harps, Were heard among the angels, touched and tuned As to an evening hymn, preluding soft To cherub voices ; louder as they swelled, Deep strings struck in, and hoarser instruments, Mixed with clear, silver sounds, till concord rose Full as the harmony of winds to heaven ; Yet sweet as nature's springtide melodies To some worn pilgrim, first with glistening eyes Greeting his native valley, whence the sounds Of rural gladness, herds, and bleating flocks, The chirp of birds, blithe voices, lowing kine, The dash of waters, reed, or rustic pipe, Blent with the dulcet, distance-mellowed bell, Come, like the echo of his early joys. In every pause, from spirits in mid air, Responsive still were golden viols heard, And heavenly symphonies stole faintly down. 448 HENRY II ATI T MILMAN, HENRY HART MILMAN. HENRY HART MILMAN was born in London on the 10th of February, 1791, and was the youngest son of Sir Francis Milman, physician to the king. In 1801 he was sent to Eton, and in 1810 he entered Bra- zen Nose College, Oxford, where he gained the first honors in exam- inations, and received many prizes for English and Latin poems and essays. In 1815 he became a fellow of his college, and two years af- terwards entered into holy orders. The living of St. Mary's, in Read- ing, was bestowed upon him in 1817, and he devoted much of his at- tention to the duties of his profession, until he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford, in 1821. Mr. Milman commenced his course as a poet with the " Judicium Regale," in which the people of the differ- ent nations of Europe pronounce their judgment against Napoleon. This was followed by the tragedy of " Fazio," and " The Fall of Jeru- salem." His "Martyr of Antioch," published in 1822, is an attempt to present in contrast the simple faith of Jesus and the most gorgeous, yet most natural of pagan superstitions, the worship of the sun. Be- sides his dramatic works, Mr. Milman is the author of " Samor, the Lord of the Bright City," an epic in twelve books ; and a volume of minor poems, none of which are equal to passages in his tragedies He now resides in London, and is prebendary of St. Peter's, and min- ister of St. Margaret's, Westminster. 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 burden of the flesh, And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest. The toilsome way thou'st travelled o'er, And borne the heavy load, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet To reach his blest abode ; MENRV HART MILMAN. . 449 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. HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR. FOR thou wert born of woman, Thou didst come, Holiest ! to this world of sin and gloom, Not in thy dread omnipotent array ; And not by thunders strewed, Was thy tempestuous road ; Nor indignation burned before Thee on thy way. But Thee, a soft and naked child, Thy mother, undefiled, In the rude manger laid to rest, From off her virgin breast. The heavens were not commanded to prepare A gorgeous canopy of golden air ! 38* i50 HENRY HART MILMAN. Nor stooped their lamps th' enthroned fires on high ; A single silent star Came wandering from afar, Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky ; The Eastern Sages leading on, As at a kingly throne, To lay their gold and odors sweet Before thy infant feet. The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear Bright harmony from every starry sphere ; Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song From all the cherub-choirs, And seraphs' burning lyres, Poured through the host of heaven the charmed clouds along ; One angel-troop the strain began. Of all the race of man By simple shepherds heard alone That soft Hosanna's tone. And when Thou didst depart, no car of flame To bear Thee hence in lambent radiance came ; Nor visible angels mourned with drooping plumes ; Nor didst Thou mount on high, From fatal Calvary, With all thine own redeemed out-bursting from their tombs. For Thou didst bear away from earth But one of human birth, The dying felon by thy side, to be In Paradise with Thee. Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake ; A little while the conscious earth did shake At that foul deed by her fierce children done ; A few dim hours of day The world in darkness lay, Then basked in bright repose beneath the cloudless sun : HENRY HART MILMAN. 451 While Thou didst sleep within the tomb, Consenting to thy doom, Ere yet the white-robed angel shone Upon the sealed stone. And when Thou didst arise, Thou didst not stand With devastation hi thy red right hand, Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew ; But Thou didst haste to meet Thy mother's coming feet, And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few Then calmly, slowly didst Thou rise Into thy native skies ; Thy human form dissolved on high In its own radiancy. THE CRUCIFIXION. BOUND upon the 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-dewed brow, Son of Man ! 'tis Thou ! 'tis Thou ! Bound upon the accursed tree, Dread and awful, who is He ? By the sun at noonday pale, Shivering rocks, and rending veil, By earth that trembled 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 ! 152 HENRY HART MILMAN. Bound upon the accursed tree, Sad and dying, who is He ? By the last and bitter cry, The ghost given up in agony ; By the lifeless body laid In the chambers 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 the accursed tree, Dread and awful, who is He ? By the prayer for them that slew, " Lord ! they know not what they do !" By the spoiled 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 ! THE JUDGMENT. THE chariot ! the chariot ! its wheels roll on fire, As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire : Self -moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud, And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bo wed , The glory ! the glory ! by myriads are poured The hosts of the angels to wait on their Lord ; And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there, And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear ! The trumpet ! the trumpet ! the dead have all heard : So the depths of the stone-covered charnel are stirred : From the sea, from the land, from the south and the north, *The vast generations of man are come forth. HENRY HART MILMAN. 453 The judgment ! the judgment ! the thrones are all set, Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are met! All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord, And the doom of eternity hangs on his word ! Mercy ! Mercy ! look down from above, Creator ! on us, thy sad children, with love ! When beneath, to their darkness the wicked are driven, May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven ! 'THE MERRY HEART. I WOULD not from the wise require The lumber of their learned lore ; Nor would I from the rich desire A single counter of their store. For I have ease, and I have wealth, And I have spirits light as air ; And more than wisdom, more than wealth, A merry heart that laughs at care. At once, 'tis true, two witching eyes Surprised me in a luckless season, Turned all my mirth to lonely sighs, And quite subdued my better reason. Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve, And love you know's a reason fair, And much improved, as I believe, The merry heart, that laughed at care. So now, from idle wishes clear, I make the good I may not find ; Adown the stream I gently steer, And shift my sail with every wind. And half by nature, half by reason, Can still with pliant heart prepare, The mind, attuned to every season, The merry heart, that laughs at care. 454 BISHOP MANT. Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, Ye social feelings of the mind, Give, sometimes give your sunny gleam, And let the rest good-humor find. Yes, let me hail and welcome give To every joy my lot may share, And pleased and pleasing let me live With merry heart, that laughs at care. BISHOP MANT. DR. RICHARD MANT, one of the editors of a most valuable edition of the Holy Bible, is a living writer of great eminence. After filling for a time the office of Chaplain to the Archbishop of Canterbury, he be- came rector of St. Botolph, Bishopsgate, and in 1820 was appointed to the see of Killaloe, whence he was translated in 1823 to Down and Connor. Beside an admirable treatise on " The Happiness of the Blessed," some volumes of " Sermons," and a valuable " History of the Church of Ireland," Bishop Mant has published numerous small poems on sacred subjects which have a high degree of merit. 7 CHRISTIAN CONSOLATION ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS. OH ! come it first, or come it last, The shadow o'er my passage cast, Grant it may find me on my guard, And at thy will, God, prepared To welcome the approaching gloom, The deep dark stillness of the tomb ! 'Tis but a transitory night : The sun shall rise, and all be light ! Sweet thought, and of sweet solace full, And apt the swelling grief to lull Of those, beside a parting friend Constrained in bitterness to bend ; The form, so cherished once and dear, To follow on his funeral bier ; And see the grave above it close, The last "long home" of man's repose. BISHOP MANT. 455 It has been said, and I believe, Though tears of natural sorrow start, 'Tis mixed with pleasure when we grieve For those the dearest to the heart, From whom long-lived at length we part ; As by a Chiistian's feelings led We lay them hi their peaceful bed. Yet speak I not of those who go The allotted pilgrimage on earth, With earth-born passions grovelling low, Enslaved to honor, avarice, mirth, Unconscious of a nobler birth : But such as tread with loftier scope The Christian's path with Christian hope. We grieve to think, that they again Shall ne'er in this world's pleasure share : But sweet the thought, that this world's pain No more is theirs ; that this world's care It is no more their lot to bear. And surely in this scene below The joy is balanced by the wo ! We grieve to see the lifeless form, The livid cheek, the sunken eye : But sweet to think, corruption's worm The living spirit can defy, And claim its kindred with the sky. Lo ! where the earthen vessel lies ! Aloft the unbodied tenant flies. We grieve to think, our eyes no more That form, those features loved, shall trace : But sweet it is from memory's store To call each fondly-cherished grace, And fold them in the heart's embrace. No bliss 'mid worldly crowds is bred, Like musing on the sainted dead ! 456 BISHOP MANT. We grieve to see expired the race They ran, intent on works of love : But sweet to think, no mixture base, Which with their better nature strove, Shall mar their virtuous deeds above. Sin o'er their soul has lost his hold, And left them with their earthly mould ! We grieve to know, that we must roam Apart from them each wonted spot : But sweet to think, that they a home Have gained, a fair and goodly lot, Enduring, and that changeth not. And who that home of freedom there Will with this prison-house compare ? "Tis grief to feel, that we behind, Severed from those we love, remain : 'Tis joy to hope, that we shall find, Exempt from sorrow, fear, and pain, With them our dwelling-place again. ? Tis but like them to sink to rest, With them to waken and be blessed. Thou, who form'st thy creature's mind With thoughts that chasten and that cheer, Grant me to fill my space assigned For sojourning a stranger here With holy hope and filial fear : Fear to be banished far from Thee, And hope thy face unveiled to see ! There, before Thee, the Great, the Good, By angel myriads compassed round, " Made perfect" by the Saviour's blood, With virtue clothed, with honor crowned, " The spirits of the just" are found : There tears no more of sorrow start, Pain flies the unmolested heart, And life in bliss unites whom death no more shall part. BISHOP MANT. 457 TRUE KNOWLEDGE. WHAT is true knowledge ? Is it with keen eye Of lucre's sons to thread the mazy way ? Is it of civic rights, and royal sway, And wealth political, the depths to try ? Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky ; To marshal nature's tribes in just array ; To mix, and analyze, and mete, and weigh Her elements, and all her powers descry ? These things, who will may know them, if to know Breed not vain-glory : but o'er all to scan God, in his works and word shown forth below ; Creation's wonders ; and Redemption's plan ; Whence came we ; what to do ; and whither go : This is true knowledge, and " the whole of man." THE LORD'S DAY. HAIL to the day, which He, who made the heaven, Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blessed, Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest ! Hail to the day, when He, by whom was given New life to man, the tomb asunder riven, Arose ! That day his Church hath still confessed, At once Creation's and Redemption's feast, Sign of a world called forth, a world forgiven. Welcome that day, the day of holy peace, The Lord's own day ! to man's Creator owed, And man's Redeemer ; for the soul's increase In sanctity, and sweet repose bestowed ; Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease, The rest remaining for the loved of God ! ''THE HOUSE OF GOD. IT is the Sabbath bell, which calls to prayer, Even to the House of God, the hallowed dome, Where He who claims it bids his people come To bow before his throne, and serve Him there 39 458 BISHOP MANT. With prayers, and thanks, and praises. Some there are Who hold it meet to linger now at home, And some o'er fields and the wide hills to roam, And worship in the temple of the air ! For me, not heedless of the lone address, Nor slack to greet my Maker on the height. By wood, or living stream ; yet not the less Seek I his presence in each social rite Of his own temple : that He deigns to bless, There still He dwells, and there is his delight. THE VILLAGE CHURCH. DEAR is the ancient village church, which rears By the lone yew, on lime or elm-girt mound, Its modest fabric : dear, 'mid pleasant sound Of bells, the gray embattled tower, that wears, Of changeful hue, the marks of bygone years ; Buttress, and porch, and arch with mazy round Of curious fret or shapes fantastic crowned ; Tall pinnacles, and mingled window-tiers, Norman, or misnamed Gothic. Fairer spot Thou givest not, England, to the tasteful eye, Nor to the heart more soothing. Blest their lot, Knew they their bliss, who own, their dwelling nigh, Such resting-place ; there, by the world forgot, In life to worship, and, when dead, to lie ! THE CHURCH BELLS. WHAT varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles Sweep o'er the ear, and claim the heart's reply ! Now the blithe peal of home festivity, Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells : Now the brisk chime, or voice of altered bells, Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh : And now the last stage of mortality The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells. BISHOP MA^T. 459 How much of human life those sounds comprise ; Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb ' Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise, Such as befit our being, free from gloom Monastic, prayer that communes with the skies, And musings mindful of the final doom. SOCIAL WORSHIP. THERE is a joy, which angels well may prize : To see, and hear, and aid God's worship, when Unnumbered tongues, a host of Christian men, Youths, matrons, maidens, join. Their sounds arise, "Like many waters ;" now glad symphonies Of thanks and glory to our God ; and then, Seal of the social prayer, the loud Amen, Faith's common pledge, contrition's mingled cries. Thus, when the Church of Christ was hale and young, She called on God, one spirit and one voice ; Thus from corruption cleansed, with health new strung, Her sons she nurtured. Oh ! be theirs, by choice, What duty bids, to worship, heart and tongue ; At once to pray, at once in God rejoice ! 'PR A Y ER . ERE the morning's busy ray Call you to your work away ; Ere the silent evening close Your wearied eyes in sweet repose, To lift your heart and voice in prayer Be your first and latest care. He, to whom the prayer is due, From heaven his throne shall smile on you ; Angels sent by Him shall tend, Your daily labor to befriend, And their nightly vigils keep To guard you in the hour of sleep. 460 BISHOP MANT. When through the peaceful parish swells The music of the Sabbath-bells, Duly tread the sacred road Which leads you to the house of God ; The blessing of the Lamb is there, And " God is in the midst of her." And oh ! where'er your days be passed, And oh ! howe'er your lot be cast, Still think on Him whose eye surveys, Whose hand is over all your ways. Abroad, at home, in weal, in wo, That service which to Heaven you owe, That bounden service duly pay, And God shall be your strength alway. He only to the heart can give Peace and true pleasure while you live ; He only, when you yield your breath, Can guide you through the vale of death. He can, He will, from out the dust Raise the blest spirits of the just ; Heal every wound, hush every fear ; From every eye wipe every tear ; And place them where distress is o'er, And pleasures dwell for evermore. FELICIA HEMANS. 461 FELICIA HEMANS. MRS. HEMANS was born in Liverpool on the 21st of September, 1793. Her history is well known. An unhappy marriage embittered the larger part of her life, and after an illness singularly protracted and painful, she died, in Dublin, on the 16ih of May, 1835. The most remarkable characteristics of Mrs. Hemans's poetry are a religious purity and a womanly delicacy of feeling, never exaggerated, rarely forgotten. Writing less of love, in its more special acceptation, than most female poets, her poems are still unsurpassed in feminine tender- ness. Devotion to God, and quenchless affection for kindred, for friends, for the suffering, glow through all her writings. Her sympa- thies were not universal. They appear often to be limited by country, creed, or condition ; and she betrays a reverent admiration for rank, power, and historic renown. Yet as the poet of home, a painter of the affections, she was perhaps the most touching and beautiful writer of her age. The tone of her poetry is indeed monotonous ; it is pervaded by the tender sadness which forever preyed upon her spirit, and made her an exile from society; but it is all informed with beauty, and rich with most apposite imagery and fine descriptions. Many editions of the works of Mrs. Hemans have appeared in this country, of which the best, indeed the only one that has any pretensions to completeness, is that of Lea and Blanchard, in seven volumes, with a preliminary notice by Mrs. Sigourney. THE AGED PATRIARCH. OF life's past woes, the fading trace Hath given that aged patriarch's face Expression, holy, deep, resigned, The calm sublimity of mind. Years o'er his snowy head have passed, And left him of his race the last : Alone on earth, but yet his mien Is bright with majesty serene ; 39* 462 FELICIA HEMANS. And those high hopes, whose guiding star Shines from eternal worlds afar, Have with that light illumed his eye, Whose fount is immortality, And o'er his features poured a ray Of glory not to pass away : He seems a being who hath known Communion with his God alone ; On earth by naught but pity's tie, Detained a moment from on high ; One to sublimer worlds allied, One from all passions purified : E'en now half-mingled with the sky, And all prepared, oh ! not to die, But, like the prophet, to aspire To heaven's triumphal car of fire. CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. FEAR was within the tossing bark, When stormy winds grew loud ; And waves came rolling high and dark, And the tall mast was bowed. And men stood breathless in their dread, And baffled in their skill ; But One was there, who rose and said To the wild sea, " Be still !" And the wind ceased it ceased that word Passed through the gloomy sky ; The troubled billows knew their Lord, And sank beneath his eye. And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast : As when the righteous fall asleep, When death's fierce throes are past. FELICIA HEMANS. 463 Thou, that didst rule the angry hour, And tame the tempest's mood, Oh ! send thy Spirit forth in power, O'er our dark souls to brood. Thou, that didst bow the billow's pride, Thy mandates to fulfil, So speak to passion's raging tide, Speak and say," Peace, be still !" A DOMESTIC SCENE. 'TWAS early day and sunlight streamed Soft through a quiet room That hushed, but not forsaken, seemed Still, but with naught but gloom, For there, secure in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of heaven's recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright On his gray holy hair, And touched the book with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there ; But oh ! that patriarch's aspect shone With something lovelier far A radiance all the spirits own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met His calm benignant eye ; Some ancient promise breathing yet Of immortality ; Some heart's deep language, where the glow Of quenchless faith survives ; For every feature said, " I know That my Redeemer lives." 464 FELICIA HEMANS. And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ersweeping death ; Silent yet did not each young breast, With love and reverence melt ? Oh ! blest be those fair girls and blest That home where God is felt. / THE BETTER LAND. "I HEAR thee speak of the better land, Thou call'st its children a happy band ; Mother ! oh where is that radiant shore ? Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? Is it where the flower of the orange blows, And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle-boughs ?" " Not there, not there, my child !" " Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? Or 'midst the green islands on glittering seas, Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, And strange, bright birds, on their starry wings, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ?" " Not there, not there, my child !" " Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ?" " Not there, not there, my child ! " Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ! FELICIA HEMAN8. 405 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, Sorrow and death may not enter there ; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom ; Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb It is there, it is there, my child !" 'THE HOUE OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north- wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! Day is for mortal care, Ere for glad meetings round tne joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer : But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! We know when moons shall wane, When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain : But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 466 FELICIA HEMANS. Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? They have one season all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ; Thou art around us in our peaceful home, And the world calls us forth and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, ^And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! HYMN OF THE MOUNTAIN CHRISTIAN. FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! Thou hast made thy children mighty By the touch of the mountain sod. Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! We are watchers of a beacon Whose lights must never die ; We are guardians of an altar Midst the silence of the sky ; The rocks yield founts of courage, Struck forth as by thy rod, For the strength of the hills we bless thee. Our God, our fathers' God ! FELICIA HEMANS. 467 For the dark, resounding heavens, Where thy still small voice is heard, For the strong pines of the forests, That by thy breath are stirred ; For the storms on whose free pinions Thy spirit walks abroad, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! The royal eagle darteth On his quarry from the heights, And the stag that knows no master Seeks there his wild delights ; But we for thy communion Have sought the mountain sod, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! The banner of the chieftain Far, far below us waves ; The war-horse of the spearman Cannot reach our lofty caves ; Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold Of freedom's last abode ; For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! For the shadow of thy presence Round our camp of rock outspread ; For the stern defiles of battle, Bearing record of our dead ; For the snows, and for the torrents, For the free heart's burial sod, For the strength of the hills we bless thee, Our God, our fathers' God ! 468 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. MRS. SIGOURNEY, formerly Miss Lydia Huntley, was born in Nor- wich, Connecticut, about the year 1794, and in 1819 was married to Mr. Charles Sigourney, an opulent merchant of Hartford, in which city she now resides. She began to write verses at a very early age, and in 1815 gave to the press her first book, under the title of "Moral Pieces." She has since published six or seven volumes in verse, and about as many in prose. " The Aborigines," her longest poeri, ap- peared anonymously, at Cambridge, and attracted but little attention. During a visit which she made to Europe in 1840-41, a selection from her poetical writings was printed in London, and soon after her return, in 1842, the most finished and sustained of her longer poems, "Poca- hontas," was published in a volume with some minor pieces, in New York. Among her prose works are " Connecticut Forty Years Since," " Letters to Young Ladies," " Letters to Mothers," Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands," " Scenes in My Native Land," and " Myrtis, and other Sketchings," the last of which appeared in the fall of 1846. In a reviewal of the poems of Mrs. Sigourney, pub- lished by the late Hon. Alexander H. Everett, this accomplished critic remarks that " they commonly express, with great purity, and evident sincerity, the tender affections which are so natural to the female heart, and the lofty aspirations after a higher and better state of being, which constitute the truly ennobling and elevating principle in art, as well as in nature. Love and religion are the unvarying elements of her song. This is saying, in other words, that the substance of her poetry is of the very highest order. If her powers of expression were equal to the purity and elevation of her habits of thought and feeling, she would be a female Milton, or a Christian Pindar." A full and splendidly illustrated edition of the Poetical Works of Mrs. Sigourney, has just been published by Carey & Hart, of Philadelphia. BARZILLAI THE GILEADITE. ' Let me be buried by the grave of my father and of my mother." 2 Sam. xix. 37. SON of Jesse ! let me go, Why should princely honors stay me ? Where the streams of Gilead flow, Where the light first met mine eye, LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 469 Thither would I turn and die ; Where my parents' ashes lie, King of Israel ! bid them lay me. Bury me near my sire revered, Whose feet in righteous paths so firmly trod, Who early taught my soul with awe To heed the prophets and the law, And to my infant heart appeared Majestic as a God : O ! when his sacred dust The cerements of the tomb shall burst, Might I be worthy at his feet to rise To yonder blissful skies, Where angel-hosts resplendent shine, Jehovah ! Lord of hosts, the glory shall be thine. Cold age upon my breast Hath shed a frostlike death ; The wine- cup hath no zest, The rose no fragrant breath ; Music from my ear hath fled, Yet still the sweet tone lingereth there. The blessing that my mother shed Upon my evening prayer. Dim is my wasted eye To all that beauty brings, The brow of grace the form of symmetry Are half-forgotten things ; Yet one bright hue is vivid still, A mother's holy smile, that soothed my sharpest ill. Memory, with traitor-tread Methinks, doth steal away Treasures that the mind hath laid Up for a wintry day. Images of sacred power, Cherished deep in passion's hour, Faintly now my bosom stir : 40 470 LYDIA H. S1GOURNEY. Good and evil like a dream Half obscured and shadowy seem, Yet with a changeless love my soul remembereth her, Yea it remembereth her : Close by her blessed side, make ye my sepulchre. DEATH OF AN INFANT. DEATH found strange beauty on that polished brow, And dashed it out. There was a tint of rose On cheek and lip. He touched the veins with ice, And the rose faded. Forth from those blue eyes There spake a wishful tenderness, a doubt Whether to grieve or sleep, which innocence Alone may wear. With ruthless haste he bound The silken fringes of those curtaining lids Forever. There had been a murmuring sound With which the babe would claim its mother's ear, Charming her even to tears. The spoiler set The seal of silence. But there beamed a smile, So fixed, so holy, from that cherub brow, Death gazed, and left it there. He dared not steal The signet-ring of heaven. THE CHURCH BELL. WHEN glowing in the eastern sky, The Sabbath morning meets the eye, And o'er a weary, careworn scene, Gleams like the ark-dove's leaf of green, How welcome over hill and dale, Thy hallowed summons loads the gale, Sweet bell ! Church bell When earthly joys and sorrows end, And towards our long repose we tend, How mournfully thy tone doth call The weepers to the funeral, LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 471 And to the last abode of clay, With solemn knell mark out the way, Sad bell! Church bell! If to the clinie where pleasures reign, We through a Saviour's love attain, If freshly to an angel's thought, Earth's unforgotten scenes are brought, Will not thy voice, that warned to prayer, Be gratefully remembered there, Blessed bell! Church bell? THE TREE OF LOVE. BESIDE the dear domestic bower, There sprang a tree of healing power ; Its leaflets, damp with gentle rain, Could soothe or quell the pang of pain ; And 'neath its shade a maiden grew, She shared its fruit, she drank its dew. Oft at her side a youth was seen, With glance of love and noble mien ; At twilight hour a favored guest, Her trembling hand he warmly pressed ; At length with guileless heart and free, She said, " I'll plant that tree for thee." Her little brother climbed her knee : " You must not go away from me ; The nightly prayer with me you say, And soothe me when I'm tired of play :" His sister's eye with tears was dim : She said, " fll plant that tree for him." " Its roots are deep," the mother said ; " Beyond the darkling grave they spread ;" " Thy hand is weak/' the father cried ; " Too young thou art to be a bride." 40* 472 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Serene she spake, " I look above For strength to plant the tree of love." Before the holy priest she stood, Her fair cheek dyed with rushing blood ; And as, with hands to heaven displayed, Strong vows upon her soul he laid, Her heaving breast, like fluttering bird, Her snowy mantle wildly stirred. But when the hallowed cirque of gold, Of deathless love the promise told, Mysterious power her spirit felt, And at the altar's foot she knelt : " My God, my God, I'll cling to thee, And plant for him that blessed tree." Around their home its branches spread, Its buds she nursed, its root she fed ; Though flaunting crowds, with giddy look, Of toil so meek slight notice took, Yet hovering angels marked with pride The green tree of the blessed bride. Dfc ATH OF A FRIEND. IT is not when the good obey The summons of their God, And meekly take the narrow couch Beneath the burial sod, That keenest anguish pours its wail, Despairing o'er their rest, For praise should mingle with the pang That wring's the mourner's breast. It is not when the saint departs, Whose wealth was hid on high, That bitterest tears of grief should gush From sad bereavement's eye ; LYDIA 11. SltiOURNEY. 473 For in the consummation blest Of every wish and prayer, He to his Father's courts ascends, And finds a mansion there. But yet, oh friend, revered and blest, Who from our arms this day Hast risen to gain thy perfect rest In realms of cloudless day, Though faith reveals thee to our view From every sorrow free, How shall we check the bursting tear That wildly flows for thee ? Self-sacrificing, upright, pure, Of feeble hope the guide, " With judgment clear, a soul subdued, And wealth without its pride, The widow in her lowly cell Must long thy loss deplore, The orphans wait thy step in vain, Thou comest to them no more. The path of duty and of zeal, Who now, like thee shalt tread ? And deeply for ourselves we mourn That thou art of the dead. /U LORD, REMEMBER US." BEHOLD the babe, with ceaseless cry, Just entering on mortality. Oh Saviour ! thou for whom wert spread, 'Mid wondering brutes, the manger-bed, With pity view its feeble strife, And fan the trembling spark of life. The boy, with giddy footsteps, strays Through hidden Danger's devious maze ; 40* 474 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. Ihou ! who in childhood's wayward hour, Wert subject to thy mother's power, Withdraw his heart from Folly's snare, And in Thy wisdom let him share. The man mature, 'mid noontide heat, Temptation's countless forms must meet ; Redeemer ! thou who scorn and care With meek, unanswering love didst bear. His burdens ease, his thoughts control, And with thy patience arm his soul. The lonely stranger sorrowing roves, An exile from the land he loves ; Thou, who but in one cottage glade At Bethany wert welcome made, Speak peace when deep despondence sighs, And tell of mansions in the skies. The mourner droops with heaving breast, Low, where his buried idols rest ; Remember, Thou, who once didst shed The tear of grief o'er friendship's bed, Remember ! let thy mercy flow, And bless for heaven those pangs of wo. The death-struck, on his couch of pain, Feels every earthly solace vain ; The eye is glazed, the spirit faint, Redeemer ! cheer thy suffering saint ; Infuse thy strength when nature dies, And to thy presence bid him rise. CARLOS WILCOX. 475 CARLOS WILCOX. THE Rev. Carlos Wilcox was born in Newport, New Hampshire, on the 22d of October, 1794, and his youth was passed in Orwell, Ver- mont. After graduating at Middlebury College, in 1813, he studied divinity at Andover, and he was subsequently, as his precarious health permitted, a minister of the congregational churches in Hartford, Dan- bury, and other places, until his death, at Danbury, on the 27th of May, 1827. His principal poems are " The Age of Benevolei ce," and the " Religion of Taste," both of which are included in the collection of nis works published soon after his death. Wilcox was pious, gentle- hearted, and unaffected and retiring in his manners. The general char- acter of his poetry is religious and sincere. He was a lover of nature, and he described rural sights and sounds with singular clearness and fidelity. In the ethical and narrative parts of his poems, he was less successful than in the descriptive ; but an earnestness and simplicity pervaded all that he wrote. THE SABBATH. WHO scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. Emblem and earnest of eternal rest. A festival with fruits celestial crowned, A jubilee releasing him from earth, The day delights and animates the saint. It gives new vigor to the languid pulse Of life divine, restores the wandering feet, Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, Establishing them all upon a rock. Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretastes of the long, longr spring to come. To every new-born soul, each hallowed mom Seems like the first, when even* thing was new. 476 CARLOS VVILCOX. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his brigh^ hourglass running sands of gold. In every thing a smiling God is seen. On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines. In objects overlooked On other days, he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell. While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not heeded now To bring him near ; for Faith performs the work ; In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, With such transparent vividness, she feels Struck with admiring awe, as if transformed To sudden vision. Such is oft her power In God's own house, which, in the absorbing act Of adoration, or inspiring praise, She with his glory fills, as once a cloud Of radiance filled the temple's inner court. GOD'S OMNIPRESENT AGENCY. How desolate were nature, and how void Of every charm, how like a naked waste Of Africa, were not a present God Beheld employing, in its various scenes, His active might to animate and adorn ! What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes, Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work !- When it is viewed unfolding every bud, Each blossom tinging, shaping every leaf, Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky, CARLOS WILCOX. 477 Rolling each billow, moving every wing That fans the air, and every warbling throat Heard in the tuneful woodlands ! In the least, As well as in the greatest of his works, Is ever manifest his presence kind ; As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen Quick to and fro, within a foot of air, Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more, As in the systems of resplendent worlds, Through time revolving in unbounded space. His eye, while comprehending in one view The whole creation, fixes full on me ; As on me shines the sun with his full blaze, While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same. His hand, while holding oceans in its palm, And compassing the skies, surrounds my life, Guards the poor rush-light from the blast of death. ROUSSEAU AND COW PER. ROUSSEAU could weep yes, with a heart of stone The impious sophist could recline beside The pure and peaceful lake, and muse alone On all its loveliness at eventide : On its small running waves, in purple dyed Beneath bright clouds, or all the glowing sky, On the white sails that o'er its bosom glide, And on surrounding mountains wild and high, Till tears unbidden gushed from his enchanted eye. But his were not the tears of feeling fine, Of grief or love ; at fancy's flash they flowed, Like burning drops from some proud, lonely pine, By lightning fired ; his heart with passion glowed Till it consumed his life, and yet he showed A chilling coldness both to friend and foe ; As Etna, with its centre an abode Of wasting fire, chills with the icy snow Of all its desert brow the living world below. 478 CARLOS WILCOX. Was he but justly wretched from his crimes ? Then why was Cowper's anguish oft as keen, With all the heaven-born virtue that sublimes Genius and feeling, and to things unseen Lifts the pure heart through clouds that roll between The earth and skies, to darken human hope ? Or wherefore did those clouds thus intervene To render vain faith's lifted telescope, And leave him in thick gloom his weary way to grope ? He, too, could give himself to musing deep ; By the calm lake at evening he could stand, Lonely and sad, to see the moonlight sleep On all its breast, by not an insect fanned, And hear low voices on the far-off strand, Or through the still and dewy atmosphere The pipe's soft tones waked by some gentle hand, From fronting shore and woody island near In echoes quick returned more mellow and more clear. And he could cherish wild and mournful dreams, In the pine grove, when low the full moon fair Shot under lofty tops her level beams, Stretching the shades of trunks erect and bare, In stripes drawn parallel with order rare, As of some temple vast or colonnade, While on green turf, made smooth without his care, He wandered o'er its stripes of light and shade, And heard the dying day-breeze all the boughs pervade. 'Twas thus in nature's bloom and solitude He nursed his grief till nothing could assuage ; 'Twas thus his tender spirit was subdued, Till in life's toils it could no more engage ; And his had been a useless pilgrimage, Had he been gifted with no sacred power, To send his thoughts to every future age ; But he is gone where grief will not devour, Where beauty will not fade, and skies will never lower. CARLOS WILCOX. 479 THE CURE OF MELANCHOLY. AND thou, to whom long worshipped nature lends No strength to fly from grief or bear its weight, Stop not to rail at foes or fickle friends, Nor set the world at naught, nor spurn at fate ; None seek thy misery, none thy being hate ; Break from thy former self, thy life begin ; Do thou the good thy thoughts oft meditate, And thou shalt feel the good man's peace within, And at thy dying day his wreath of glory win. With deeds of virtue to embalm his name, He dies in triumph or serene delight ; Weaker and weaker grows his mortal frame At every breath, but in immortal might His spirit grows, preparing for its flight : The world recedes and fades like clouds of even, But heaven comes nearer fast, and grows more bright, All intervening mists far off are driven ; The earth will vanish soon, and all will soon be heaven. Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief? Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold ? Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief? Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold : 'Tis when the rose is wrapped in many a fold Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there Its life and beauty ; not when, all unrolled, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air. Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers, Lest these lost years should haunt thee on the night When death is waiting for thy numbered hours To take their swift and everlasting flight ; Wake ere the earthborn charm unnerve thee quite, 41 480 CARLOS VVILCOX. And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed ; Do something do it soon with all thy might ; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself inactive were no longer blessed. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, And kindle in thy heart a flame refined ; Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose to begin, pursue, With thoughts all fixed and feelings pureiy kind, Strength to complete, and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due. No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit To light on man as from the passing air ; The lamp of genius, though by nature lit, If not protected, pruned, and fed with care, Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ; And learning is a plant that spreads and towers Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare, That, 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers. Has immortality of name been given To them that idly worship hills and groves, And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven ? Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, To measure worlds, and follow where each moves ? Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves ? Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace, By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece ? Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim Thy want of worth ; a charge thou could st not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame, Or pride indignant ; then be thine the blame, CARLOS WILCOX. 481 And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 'Tis infamy to die and not be missed, Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. Rouse to some work of high and holy love, And thou an angel's happiness shalt know, Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; The good begun by thee shall onward flow In many a branching stream, and wider grow ; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow, Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers. LIVE FOR ETERNITY. A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view, With all its fixed, unutterable things, What madness in the living to pursue, As their chief portion, with the speed of wings, The joys that death-beds always turn to stings ! Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste To dance along the path that always brings Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced ! Our life is like the hurrying on the eve Before we start, on some long journey bound, When fit preparing to the last we leave, Then run to every room the dwelling round, And sigh that nothing needed can be found , Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break ; We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound For our departure calls ; we rise and take A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake. Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence, 41 482 JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. Men come and go like vegetable forms, Though heaven appoints for them a work immense, Demanding constant thought and zeal intense, Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room For rest to mortals in the dread suspense, While yet they know not if beyond the tomb A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom. What matter whether pain or pleasures fill The swelling heart one little moment here ? From both alike how vain is every thrill, While an untried eternity is near ! Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career , The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide, Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide. JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. THE Rev. James Wallis Eastburn was born in New York in 1797. and after graduating at Columbia College, studied theology under Bishop Griswold. He was the most intimate friend of Robert C. Sands, and wrote with him " Yamoyden," which was first published in 1820. After receiving orders, Mr. Eastburn went to Virginia, but sickness compelled him to abandon his profession, and he died at sea, on a voyage in search of health, on the 2d of December, 1819. The Bishop of the Episcopal Church in Massachusetts, is a brother of the deceased poet. THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL. MOUNTAINS of Israel, rear on high Your summits, crowned with verdure new, And spread your branches to the sky, Refulgent with celestial dew. O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow, And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile, And far reflect the lovely glow Where ocean's waves incessant toil. JAMES WALL1S EASTBURN. 483 See where the scattered tribes return ; Their slavery is burst at length ; And purer flames to Jesus burn, And Zion girds on her new strength ; New cities bloom along the plain, New temples to Jehovah rise, The kindling voice of praise again Pours its sweet anthems to the skies. The fruitful fields again are blest And yellow harvests smile around ; Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest, Where peace and innocence are found. The bloody sacrifice no more Shall smoke upon the altars high, But ardent hearts, from hill to shore, Send grateful incense to the sky ! The jubilee of man is near, When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign ; He comes to wipe the mourner's, tear, And cleanse the heart from sin and pain. Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise " The king that ransomed you from wo : Nations, the hymn of triumph raise, And bid the song of rapture flow ! TO PNEUMA. TEMPESTS their furious course may sweep Swiftly o'er the troubled deep, Darkness may lend her gloomy aid, And wrap the groaning world in shade ; But man can show a darker hour, And bend beneath a stronger power ; There is a tempest of the soul, A gloom where wilder billows roll ! 484 JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. The howling wilderness may spread Its pathless deserts, parched and dread, Where not a blade of herbage blooms, Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes ; Where silence, death, and horror reign, Unchecked, across the wide domain ; There is a desert of the mind More hopeless, dreary, undefined ! There Sorrow, moody Discontent, And gnawing Care, are wildly blent ; There Horror hangs her darkest clouds, And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds ', A sickly ray is cast around, Where naught but dreariness is found ; A feeling that may not be told, Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold. The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom's strife ; The tempest, in its blackest form, Is beauty tp the bosom's storm ; The ocean, lashed to fury loud, Its high wave mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity To passion's dark and boundless sea. There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest, When storms are warring in the breast ; There is no moment of repose In bosoms lashed by hidden woes ; The scorpion sting, the fury rears, And every trembling fibre tears ; The vulture preys with bloody beak Upon the heart that can but break ! PART OF THE NINETEENTH PSALM. THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow, And sparkling spheres of golden light, JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN. 485 Jehovah's work and glory show, By burning day or gentle night. In silence, through the vast profound, They move their orbs of fire on high, Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound, Is heard upon the tranquil sky ; Yet to the earth's remotest bar Their burning glory, all is known ; Their living light has sparkled far, And on the attentive silence shone. God, 'mid their shining legions, rears A tent where burns the radiant sun : As, like a bridegroom bright, appears The monarch, on his course begun, From end to end of azure heaven He holds his fiery path along ; To all his circling heat is given, His radiance flames the spheres among, By sunny ray, and starry throne, The wonders of our mighty Lord To man's attentive heart are known, Bright as the promise of his word. 41* 48G W. B. O. PEABODY W. B. 0. PEABODY. THE late Rev. William B. O. Peabody was born at Exeter, New Hampshire, in 1799. He was educated at Cambridge, where he grad- uated in 1816. In 1820 he was established as a minister in the vil- lage of Springfield, Massachusetts, and resided there until his death, in 1848, discharging his professional duties, and writing much for the North American Review, and other periodicals. HYMN OF NATURE. GOD of the earth's extended plains ! The dark, green fields contented lie ; The mountains rise like holy towers, Where man might commune with the sky ; The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, With joyous music in their flow. GOD of the dark and heavy deep ! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summoned up their thundering bands ; Then the white sails are dashed like foam, Or hurry, trembling, o'er the seas, Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale Serenely breathes, Depart in peace. GOD of the forest's solemn shade ! The grandeur of the lonely tree, That wrestles singly with the gale, Lifts up admiring eyes to thee ; W. B. O. PEABODY. 487 But more majestic far they stand, When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm. GOD of the light and viewless air ! Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; All from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry, Breathe forth the language of thy power. GOD of the fair and open sky ! How gloriously above us springs The tented dome, of heavenly blue, Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to thee. GOD of the rolling orbs above ! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at thy burning throne. GOD of the world ! the hour must come, And nature's self to dust return ; Her crumbling altars must decay ; Her incense fires shall cease to burn ; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow ; T^or hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below. 488 W. B. O. PEABODY. DEATH. LIFT high the curtain's drooping fold, And let the evening sunlight in ; I would not that my heart grew cold Before its better years begin. 'Tis well ; at such an early hour, So calm and pure, a sinking ray Should shine into the heart, with power To drive its darker thoughts away. The bright, young thoughts of early days Shall gather in my memory now, And not the later cares, whose trace Is stamped so deeply on my brow. What though those days return no more ? The sweet remembrance is not vain, For Heaven is waiting to restore The childhood of my soul again. Let no impatient mourner stand In hollow sadness near my bed, But let me rest upon the hand, And let me hear that gentle tread Of her, whose kindness long ago, And still, unworn away by years, Has made my weary eyelids flow With grateful and admiring tears. I go, but let no plaintive tone, The moment's grief of friendship tell ; And let no proud and graven stone Say where the weary slumbers well. A few short hours, and then for heaven ! Let sorrow all its tears dismiss ; For who would mourn the warning given Which calls us from a world like this ? W. B. O. PEABODY. 489 AUTUMN EVENING. BEHOLD the western evening light ! It melts in deepening gloom ; So calmly Christians sink away, Descending to the tomb. The wind breathes 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. How mildly on the wandering cloud 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 hi 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. 490 HERBERT KNOVVLES. HERBERT KNOWLES. THE following stanzas are the production of a youth of only eigh- teen years of age, and are replete with originality and fancy, happily blended with Christian feeling. The author, whom disagreements with his family induced to enlist as a private soldier, died of consump- tion at a very early age, in 1817. THE THREE TABERNACLES. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build, but for whom ? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition ? 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 ? Ah ! no : she forgets The charms that 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 wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas ! they are all laid aside ; And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed, 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 squandered again ; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. HERBERT KNOWLE-S. 491 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 ; Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine 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. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the Great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies, 492 GEORGE W. DOANE. GEORGE W. DOANE. THE Rt. Rev. George Washington Doane, D. D., LL. D., was born in Trenton, New Jersey, in 1799. He was graduated at Union Col- lege, Schenectady, when nineteen years of age, and immediately after commenced the study of theology. He was ordained deacon by Bishop Hobart, in 1821, and priest by the same prelate in 1823. He officia- ted in Trinity Church, New York, three years, and, in 1824, was ap- pointed Professor of Belles-Lettres and Oratory in Washington Col- lege, Connecticut. He resigned that office in 1828, and soon after was elected rector of Trinity Church, in Boston. He was consecrated Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey, on the thirty-first of October, 1832. The church has few more active, efficient, or popular prelates. Bishop Doane's " Songs by the Way," a collection of poems, chiefly devotional, were published in 1824, and appear to have been mostly produced during his college-life. He has since, from time to time, written poetry for festival-days and other occasions, but has published no second volume. THE VOICE OF RAMA. " Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted." HEARD ye, from Rama's ruined walls, That voice of bitter weeping ! Is it the moan of fettered slave, His watch of sorrow keeping ? Heard ye, from Rama's wasted plains, That cry of lamentation ! Is it the wail of Israel's sons, For Salem's devastation ? Ah, no a sorer ill than chains That bitter wail is waking, And deeper wo than Salem's fall That tortured heart is breaking : 'Tis Rachel, of her sons bereft, Who lifts that voice of weeping ; And childless are the eyes that there Their watch of grief are keeping. GEORGE W. DOANE. 493 O ! who shall tell what fearful pangs That mother's heart are rending, As o'er her infant's little grave Her wasted form is bending ! From many an eye that weeps to-day Delight may beam to-morrow ; But she her precious babe is not ! And what remains but sorrow ? Bereaved one ! I may not chide Thy tears and bitter sobbing Weep on ! 'twill cool that burning biow, And still that bosom's throbbing : But be not thine such grief as theirs To whom no hope is given Snatched from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven. THE WATERS OF MARAH. "And Moses cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which. rhen. he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet." BY Marah's stream of bitterness When Moses stood and cried, Jehovah heard his fervent prayer, And instant help supplied : The prophet sought the precious tree With prompt, obedient feet ; 'Twas cast into the fount, and made The bitter waters sweet. Whene'er affliction o'er thee sheds Its influence malign, Then, sufferer, be the prophet's prayer And prompt obedience, thine : 'Tis but a Marah's fount, ordained Thy faith in God to prove, And prayer and resignation shall Its bitterness remove. 42 494 GEORGE W. DOANE. MOTHER.' WHAT is that, Mother ? The lark, my child ! The morn has but just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble grassy nest, And is up and away, with the dew on his breast, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure, bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, Mother ? The dove, my son ! And that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, Constant and pure, by that lonely nest, As the wave is poured from some crystal urn, For her distant dear one's quick return : Ever, my son, be thou like the dove, , In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, Mother ? The eagle, boy ! Proudly careering his course of joy ; Firm, on his own mountain vigor relying, Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying, His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine, Onward, and upward, and true to the line. What is that, Mother ? The swan,, my love ! He is floating down from his native grove, No loved one now, no nestling nigh, He is floating down, by himself to die ; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet his sweetest song is the last he sings. Live so, my love, that when death shall come, Swan-like and sweet, it may waft thee home. GEORGE W. DOANE. 495 7 A CHERUB. " Dear Sir, I am in some little disorder by reason of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that lately made us very glad ; but now he rejoices in his little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as safe as he is." JEREMY TA* LOB to EVELYN, 1656. BEAUTIFUL thing ! with thine eye of light, And thy brow of cloudless beauty bright, Gazing for aye on the sapphire throne Of Him who dwelleth in light alone Art thou hasting now, on that golden wing, With the burning seraph choir to sing ? Or stooping to earth, in thy gentleness, Our darkling path to cheer and bless ? Beautiful thing ! thou art come in love, With gentle gales from the world above, Breathing of pureness, breathing of bliss, Bearing our spirits away from this, To the better thoughts, to the brighter skies, Where heaven's eternal sunshine lies ; Winning our hearts by a blessed guile, With that infant look and angel smile. Beautiful thing ! thou art come in joy, With the look and the voice of our darling boy Him that was torn from the bleeding hearts He had twined about with his infant arts, To dwell, from sin and sorrow far, In the golden orb of his little star : There he rejoiceth in light, while we Long to be happy and safe as he. Beautiful thing ! thou art come in peace, Bidding our doubts and our fears to cease ; Wiping the tears which unbidden start From that bitter fount in the broken heart, Cheering us still on our lonely way, Lest our spirits should faint, or our feet should stray, Till, risen with Christ, we come to be, Beautiful thing, with our boy and thee. 496 GEORGE W. DOANE. LINES BY THE LAKE SIDE. THIS placid lake, my gentle girl, Be emblem of thy life, As full of peace and purity As free from care and strife ; No ripple on its tranquil breast That dies not with the day, No pebble in its darkest depths, But quivers in its ray. And see, how every glorious form And pageant of the skies, Reflected from its glassy face, A mirrored image lies ; So be thy spirit ever pure, To God and virtue given, And thought, and word, and action bear The imagery of heaven. X THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. LIFT not thou the wailing voice, Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth, Up, where blessed saints rejoice, Ransomed now, the spirit flieth ; High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth, Full the song of triumph swelleth ; Freed from earth, and earthly failing, Lift for her no voice of wailing ! Pour not thou the bitter tear ; Heaven its book of comfort opeth ; Bids thee sorrow not, nor fear, But, as one who alway hopeth, Humbly here in faith relying, Peacefully in Jesus dying, JOHN KEBLE. 497 Heavenly joy her eye is flushing, Why should thine with tears be gushing ! They who die in Christ are blessed, Ours be, then, no thought of grieving ! Sweetly with their God they rest, All their toils and troubles leaving : So be ours the faith that saveth, Hope that every trial braveth, Love that to the end endureth, And, through Christ, the crown secureth ! JOHN KEBLE. MR. KEBLE was educated at Oxford, entered holy orders, and was for some time pastor of a rural congregation, to whose spiritual inter- ests he devoted himself with untiring ardor and affection. He was subsequently elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and he has been distinguished as one of those eminent scholars and divines, among whom are Newman, Hook, and Pusey, who have since shaken the religious world with some of the most ingenious and able theological discussions of modern times, in the Oxford Tracts. Mr. Keble is known as a poet chiefly through " The Christian Year," which was first published in 1827. It has passed through more than thirty editions in England, and has been several times reprinted in this country. The American impressions contain a preface and other valu- able additions by the author's friend, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Doane, Bishop of the Episcopal church in New Jersey. Besides this, he has written " The Child's Christian Year ;" some of the finest pieces in the " Lyra Apostolica," and a new translation of the Psalms of David. MORNING. HUES of the rich unfolding morn, That, ere the glorious sun be born, By some soft touch invisible, Around his path are taught to swell. 42* 498 JOHN KEBLE. Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay, That dancest forth at opening day, And brushing by with joyous wing, Wakenest each little leaf to sing. Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, By which deep grove and tangled stream Pay for soft rains, in season given, Their tribute to the genial heaven ; Why waste your treasures of delight Upon our thankless, joyless sight, Who, day by day to sin awake, Seldom of heaven and you partake ? Oh ! timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise ; Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new. New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove ; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought. New mercies each returning day, Hover around us while we pray ; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be, As more of heaven in each we see ; Some softening gleam of love and prayer Shall dawn on every cross and care. Only, Lord, in thy dear love, Fit us for perfect rest above ; And keep us this, and every day, To live more nearly as we pray. JOHN KEBLE. 499 AUTUMN. RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun, The line of yellow light dies fast away That crowned the eastern copse ; and chill and dun Falls on the moon the brief November day. Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And echo bids good-night from every glade . Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float, Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. How like decaying life they seem to glide And yet no second spring have they in store ; But where they fall, forgotten, to abide, Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold ; The green buds glisten in the dews of spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old. Unconscious, they in waste oblivion lie ; In all the world of busy life around No thought of them ; in all the bounteous sky No drop for them of kindly influence found. Man's portion is to die and rise again, Yet he complains ; while these, unmurmuring, part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain As his, when Eden held his virgin heart. And haply half-unblamed, his murmuring voice Might sound in heaven, were all his second life Only the first renewed the heathen's choice, A round of listless joy and weary strife. For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Though brightened oft by dear affection's kiss : Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall ? But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. 500 JOHN KEBLE. Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart : Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart O'er wave or field, yet breezes laugh to scorn Our puny speed ; and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main. And stars that shoot through freezing air at even, Who but would follow, might he break his chain ? And thou shalt break it soon ; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord, with lightning form And snowy vest such grace He won for thee, When from the grave He sprung at dawn of morn, And led through boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born, Might fearless follow to their blest abode. But first, by many a stern and fiery blast, The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine And many a gale of keenest wo be passed, Till every pulse beat time to airs divine, Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul the call by Jesus given : He whom the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to heaven. THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD. SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies, Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies, To fill the heart's fond view ? In childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on life's downward way, How soothing ! in our last decay Memorials prompt and true. JOHN KEBLF. 501 Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crowned the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fallen all beside the world of life, How is it stained with fear and strife ! In Reason's world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare ! But cheerful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow. The stars of heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought ; Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know. Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man, where'er he roams, Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meet But we may taste your solace sweet, And come again to-morrow. Ye fearless in your nests abide Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes : For ye could draw the admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys ; Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize. Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and owned you good ; His blessing on earth's primal bower, Ye felt it all renewed. 502 JOHN KEBLE. What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form ? Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, Ye fear no vexing mood. Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find Of your calm loveliness ! " Live for to-day ! to-morrow's light To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight, Go sleep like closing flowers at night, And heaven thy morn will bless." ADDRESS TO POETS. YE whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of poesy, Heirs of more than royal race, Framed, by Heaven's peculiar grace, God's own work to do on earth, (If the word be not too bold,) Giving virtue a new birth, And a life that ne'er grows old Sovereign masters of all hearts ! Know ye who hath set your parts ? He, who gave you breath to sing, By whose strength ye sweep the string, He hath chosen you to lead His hosannas here below ; Mount, and claim your glorious meed ; Linger not with sin and wo. But if ye should hold your peace, Deem not that the song would cease - Angels round His glory-throne, Stars, His guiding hand that own, JOHN KEBLE. 503 Flowers, that grow beneath our feet, Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest, High and low in choir shall meet, Ere His name shall be unblest. Lord, by every minstrel tongue Be thy praise so duly sung, That thine angels' harps may ne'er Fail to find fit echoing here ! We the while, of meaner birth, Who in that divinest spell Dare not hope to join on earth, Give us grace to listen well. But should thankless silence seal Lips that might half-heaven reveal Should bards in idol-hymns profane The sacred soul-enthralling strain, (As in this bad world below Noblest things find vilest using,) Then, thy power and mercy show, In vile things noble breath infusing. Then waken into sound divine The very pavement of thy shrine, Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor, Faintly give back what we adore. Childlike though the voices be, And untunable the parts, Thou wilt own the minstrelsy, If it flow from childlike hearts. THE UNITED STATES; TYRE of the farther west ! be thou too warned, Whose eagle wings thine own green world o'erspread, Touching two oceans : wherefore hast thou scorned Thy fathers' God, O proud and full of bread ? 504 JOHN KEBLE. Why lies the cross unhonored on thy ground, While in mid-air thy stars and arrows flaunt ? That sheaf of darts, will it not fall unbound, Except, disrobed of thy vain earthly vaunt, Thou bring it to be blessed where saints and angels haunt? The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar grace, Is rooted here and there in thy dark woods ; But many a rank weed round it grows apace, And Mammon builds beside thy mighty floods, O'ertopping nature, braving nature's God ; Oh, while thou yet hast room, fair, fruitful land, Ere war and want have stained thy virgin sod, Mark thee a place on high, a glorious stand, Whence truth her sign may make o'er forest, lake, and strand. Eastward, this hour, perchance thou ^urn'st thine ear, Listening if haply with the surging sea, Blend sounds of ruin from a land once dear To thee and Heaven. trying hour for thee ! Tyre mocked when Salem fell ; where now is Tyre ? Heaven was against her. Nations thick as waves Burst o'er her walls, to ocean doomed and fire ; And now the tideless water idly laves Her towers, and lone sands heap her crowned mer- chants' graves. ROBERT POLLOK. 505 ROBERT POLLOK. THIS poet was born of parents in humble circumstances at Eagle- sham, in Ayrshire, in 1799. He was educated at the University of Glasgow, and in 1827 took orders in the Scottish Secession Church. In the same year he published " The Course of Time," and, on account of impaired health, left Scotland with an intention to proceed to Italy, but died, on his way, at Southampton, on the fifteenth of September. The " Course of Time" was written during his student-life, and when, unfriended and unknown, he offered it to the publishers of Edinburgh, none of them were willing to bring it out. The manuscript was for- tunately seen by Professor Wilson, who quickly perceived its merits, and effected an arrangement between the poet and Messrs. Blackwood. which resulted in its publication. The plot of the poem is very sim- ple : The events of Time are finished, and a being from some remote world arrives in Paradise, where he inquires the meaning of the hell he has seen on his way heavenward ; a bard, once of our earth, sings the story of humanity, from the beginning until time is finished, the righteous saved, the wicked damned, And God's eternal government approved. The subject is a noble one, and in the poem there are graphic concep- tions and passages of beauty and tenderness ; but it is disfigured by amplifications and a redundancy of moral pictures ; it has no continuous interest, and in parts of it which should have been and which the author endeavored to make the most impressive, particularly those in which he subjects himself to a comparison with Dante and Milton, he utterly failed. BYRON. ADMIRE the goodness of Almighty God ! He riches gave, he intellectual strength, To few, and therefore none commands to be Or rich, or learned ; nor promises reward Of peace to these. On all, He moral worth Bestowed, and moral tribute asked from all. And who that could not pay ? who born so poor, Of intellect so mean, as not to know What seemed the best ; and, knowing, might not do ? 43 506 ROBERT POLLOK. As not to know what God and conscience bade, And what they bade not able to obey ? And he, who acted thus, fulfilled the law Eternal, and its promise reaped of peace ; Found peace this way alone : who sought it else, Sought mellow grapes beneath the icy pole, Sought blooming roses on the cheek of death, Sought substance in a world of fleeting shades. Take one example, to our purpose quite, A man of rank, and of capacious soul, Who riches had and fame, beyond desire, An heir of flattery, to titles born, And reputation, and luxurious life ; Yet, not content with ancestorial name, Or to be known because his fathers were, He on this height hereditary stood, And, gazing higher, purposed in his heart To take another step. Above him seemed, Alone, the mount of song, the lofty seat Of canonized bards ; and thitherward, By nature taught, and inward melody, In prime of youth, he bent his eagle eye. No cost was spared. What books he wished, he read ; What sage to hear, ht heard ; what scenes to see, He saw. And first in rambling schoolboy days Britannia's mountain- walks, and heath -girt lakes, And story-telling glens, and founts, and brooks, And maids, as dewdrops pure and fair, his soul With grandeur filled, and melody, and love. Then travel came, and took him where he wished. He cities saw, and courts, and princely pomp ; And mused alone on ancient mountain brows ; And mused on battle-fields, where valor fought In other days ; and mused on ruins gray With years ; and drank from old and fabulous wells, And plucked the vine that first-born prophets plucked, And mused on famous tombs, and on the wave Of ocean mused, and on the desert waste ; ROBERT POLLOK. 507 The heavens and earth of every country saw. Where'er the old inspiring genii dwelt, Aught that could rouse, expand, refine the soul, Thither he went, and meditated there. He touched his harp, and nations heard, entranced ; As some vast river of unfailing source, Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, And opened new fountains in the human heart. Where fancy halted, weary in her flight, In other men, his, fresh as morning, rose, And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great, Beneath their argument, seemed struggling whiles ; He from above descending stooped to touch The loftiest thought ; and proudly stooped, as though It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest At will with all her glorious majesty. He laid his hand upon " the ocean's mane," And played familiar with his hoary locks ; Stood on the Alps, stood on the Apennines, And with the thunder talked, as friend to friend ; And wove his garland of the lightning's wing, In sportive twist, the lightning's fiery wing, Which, as the footsteps of the dreadful God, Marching upon the storm in vengeance, seemed ; Then turned, and with the grasshopper, who sung His evening song beneath his feet, conversed. Suns, moons, and stars, and clouds, his sisters were ; Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas and winds and storms His brothers, younger brothers, whom he scarce As equals deemed. All passions of all men, The wild and tame, the gentle and severe ; All thoughts, all maxims, sacred and profane ; All creeds, all seasons, Time, Eternity ; All that was hated, and all that was dear ; All that was hoped, all that was feared, by man ; He tossed about, as tempest, withered leaves, 508 ROBERT POLLOK. Then, smiling, looked upon the wreck he made. With terror now he froze the cowering blood, And now dissolved the heart in tenderness ; Yet would not tremble, would not weep himself ; But back into his soul retired, alone, Dark, sullen, proud, gazing contemptuously On hearts and passions prostrate at his feet. So ocean from the plains his waves had late To desolation swept, retired in pride, Exulting in the glory of his might, And seemed to mock the ruin he had wrought. As some fierce comet of tremendous size, To which the stars did reverence, as it passed, So he through learning and through fancy took His flight sublime, and on the loftiest top Of fame's dread mountain sat ; not soiled and worn, As if he from the earth had labored up ; But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, He looked, which down from higher regions came, And perched it there, to see what lay beneath. The nations gazed, and wondered much, and praised. Critics before him fell in humble plight. Confounded fell, and made debasing signs To catch his eye, and stretched, and swelled themselves To bursting nigh, to utter bulky words Of admiration vast : and many, too, Many that aimed to imitate his flight, With weaker wing, unearthly fluttering made, And gave abundant sport to after days. Great man ! the nations gazed, and wondered much, And praised ; and many called his evil good. Wits wrote in favor of his wickedness, And kings to do him honor took delight. Thus, full of titles, flattery, honor, fame, Beyond desire, beyond ambition, full, He died. He died of what ? Of wretchedness ; Drank every cup of joy, heard every trump Of fame, drank early, deeply drank, drank draughts ROBERT POLLOK. 509 That common millions might have quenched ; then died Of thirst, because there was no more to drink. His goddess, Nature, wooed, embraced, enjoyed, Fell from his arms, abhorred ; his passions died, Died, all but dreary, solitary pride ; And all his sympathies in being died. As some ill-guided bark, well built and tall, Which angry tides cast out on desert shore, And then, retiring, left it there to rot And moulder in the winds and rains of heaven ; So he, cut from the sympathies of life, And cast ashore from pleasure's boisterous surge, A wandering, weary, worn, and wretched thing, Scorched, and desolate, and blasted soul, A gloomy wilderness of dying thought, Repined, and groaned, and withered from the earth. His groanings filled the land his numbers filled ; And yet he seemed ashamed to groan : Poor man ! Ashamed to ask, and yet he needed help. Proof this, beyond all lingering of doubt, That not with natural or mental wealth Was God delighted, or his peace secured ; That not in natural or mental wealth Was human happiness or grandeur found. Attempt, how monstrous, and how surely vain ! With things of earthly sort, with aught but God, With aught but moral excellence, truth, and love To satisfy and fill the immortal soul ! Attempt, vain inconceivably ! attempt, To satisfy the ocean with a drop, To marry immortality to death, And with the unsubstantial shade of time, To fill the embrace of all eternity ! PRAISE. HARPS of eternity ! begin the song : Redeemed, and angel harps ! begin to God, Begin the anthem ever sweet and new, 43* 510 ROBERT POLLOK. While I extol Him, holy, just, and good, Life, beauty, light, intelligence, and love ! Eternal, uncreated, infinite ! Unsearchable Jehovah ! God of truth ! Maker, Upholder, Governor of all : Thyself unmade, ungoverned, unupheld. Mysterious more the more displayed, where still Upon thy glorious throne thou sitt'st alone : Hast sat alone, and shalt forever sit Alone ; invisible, immortal One ! Behind essential brightness unbeheld ; Incomprehensible ! what weight shall weigh, What measure measure Thee ? What know we more Of Thee, what need to know, than Thou hast taught, And bidd'st us still repeat at morn and even. God ! Everlasting Father ! Holy One ! Our God, our Father, our Eternal all ! Source whence we came, and whither we return ; Who made the heaven, who made the flowery land ; Thy works all praise Thee : all thy angels praise ; Thy saints adore, and on thy altars burn The fragrant incense of perpetual love. They praise Thee now : their hearts, their voices praise, And swell the rapture of the glorious song. Harp, lift thy voice on high ! shout, angels, shout ! And loudest, ye redeemed ! " Glory to God !" And to the Lamb who bought us with his blood, From every kindred, nation, people, tongue ; And washed, and sanctified, and saved our souls ; And gave us robes of linen pure, and crowns Of life, and made us kings and priests to God. Shout back to ancient Time ! Sing loud, and wave Your palms of triumph ! sing, " Where is thy sting, Death ? where is thy victory, Grave ?" Thanks be to God ! eternal thanks, who gave Us victory through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Harp, lift thy voice on high ! shout, angels, shout! And loudest, ye redeemed ! " Glory to God !" ROBERT POLLOK. 511 PRIDE. PRIDE, self-adoring pride, was primal cause Of all sin past, all pain, all wo to come. Unconquerable pride ! first, eldest sin, Great fountain-head of evil ! highest source, Whence flowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent, Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill. Pride at the bottom of the human heart Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all That grew above. Great ancestor of vice ! Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God ; Envy and slander ; malice and revenge ; And murder, and deceit, and every birth Of hateful sort, was progeny of pride. It was the ever-moving, acting force, The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish Of every sinner unrenewed, to be A god ; in purple or in rags, to have Himself adored. Whatever shape or form His actions took, whatever phrase he threw About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life, To be the highest was the inward cause Of all ; the purpose of the heart to be Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow The knee to one who served, and was dependent ? Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day, To prove he was his own proprietor, And independent of his God ; that what He had might be esteemed his own, and praised As such. He labored still, and tried to stand Alone, unpropped,.to be obliged to none ; And, in the madness of his pride, he bade His God farewell, and turned away to be A god himself ; resolving to rely, Whatever came, upon his own right hand. 512 JOHN MOULTRIE. JOHN MOULTRIE. JOHN MOULTRIE is a clergyman of the established church, and was born in the winter of 1799. He was educated at Eton, where he was distinguished for his fine scholarship and excellent taste, and enjoyed the friendship of the late Winthrop M. Praed, Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Dr. Chalmers, and many others who have since gained dis- tinction in the world of letters. One of his earliest poetic efforts was entitled " My Brother's Grave." It was published when he was nine- teen years old. X THE THREE SONS. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air : I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency : But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. JOHN MOULTRIE. 513 Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be : And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee: I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love re- vealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love : And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. 514 JOHN MOULTRIE. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery, When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. TO THE REV. DR. CHALMERS. WELL hast thou reasoned, Chalmers, on the deep And awful mystery of redeeming love ; With argument profound intent to prove How the Omniscient Mind doth ever keep Protective watch on heaven's empyreal steep, O'er suns and systems through all space that move ; While yet its sleepless eyes minutely rove Through lowliest dwellings in which mortals sleep. Methinks, great Teacher, of that Mind thine own Yields a faint emblem, who hast power to soar On wing seraphic towards the Eternal Throne, And heaven and hell's mysterious depths explore ; Yet on the meanest cot where poor men srroan Deignest thy wisdom's healing light to pour. GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 515 GEORGE W. BETHUNE. THE Rev. George W. Betnune, }. D., is a native of New York, and is widely known as one of the finest scholars and most eloquent preachers in the American churches. He is author of several vol- umes of literary and religious discourses, which are as much distin- guished as his poems by a genial, loving spirit, and a classical elegance of diction. A collection of his poems was published in Philadelphia in 1847. Dr. Bethune has been for several years a minister of the Re- formed Dutch Church in Philadelphia, where he now resides. X TO MY MOTHER. MY mother ! Manhood's anxious brow And sterner cares have long been mine ; Yet turn I to thee fondly now, As when upon thy bosom's shrine My infant griefs were gently hushed to rest, And thy low-whispered prayers my slumber blessed. I never call that gentle name, My mother ! but I am again E'en as a child ; the very same That prattled at thy knee ; and fain Would I forget, in momentary joy, That I no more can be thy happy boy ; The artless boy, to whom thy smile Was sunshine, and thy frown, sad night, (Though rare that frown, and brief the while It veiled from me thy loving light ;) For well-conned task, ambition's highest bliss, To win from thine approving lips a kiss. I've loved through foreign lands to roam, And gazed o'er many a classic scene ; Yet would the thought of that dear home, Which once was ours, oft intervene, And bid me close again my weary eye To think of thee, and those sweet days gone by. 516 GEORGE W. Biri'iff .ViJ. That pleasant home of fruits and flowers, Where, by the Hudson's verdant side My sisters wove their jasmine bowers, And he, we loved, at eventide Would hastening come from distant toil to bless Thine, and his children's radiant happiness. Alas, the change ! the rattling car On flint-paved streets profanes the spot, Where o'er the sod, we sowed the Star Of Bethlehem, and Forget-me-not. Oh, wo to Mammon's desolating reign ! We ne'er shall find on earth a home again ! I've pored o'er many a yellow page Of ancient wisdom, and have won, Perchance, a scholar's name but sage Or bard have never taught thy son Lessons so dear, so fraught with holy truth, As those his mother's faith shed on his youth. If, by the Saviour's grace made meet, My God will own my life and love, Methinks, when singing at His feet, Amid the ransomed throng above, Thy name upon my glowing lips shall be, And I will bless that grace for heaven and thee. For thee and heaven ; for thou didst tread The way that leads me heavenward, and My often wayward footsteps led In the same path with patient hand ; And when I wandered far, thy earnest call Restored my soul from sin's deceitful thrall. I have been blessed with other ties, Fond ties and true, yet never deem That I the less thy fondness prize ; No, mother ! in my warmest dream Of answered passion, through this heart of mine One chord will vibrate to no name but thine. GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 517 Mother ! thy name is widow well I know no love of mine can fill The waste-place of thy heart, or dwell Within one sacred recess : still Lean on the faithful bosom of thy son, My parent, thou art mine, my only one ! NIGHT STUDY. I AM alone ; and yet In the still solitude there is a rush Around me, as were met A crowd of viewless wings ; I hear a gush Of uttered harmonies heaven meeting earth, Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. Ye winged Mysteries, Sweeping before my spirit's conscious eye, Beckoning me to arise, And go forth from my very self, and fly With you far in the unknown, unseen immense Of worlds beyond our sphere What are ye ? Whence ? Ye eloquent voices, Now soft as breathings of a distant flute, Now strong as when rejoices The trumpet in the victory and pursuit ; Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. I know you now I see With more than natural light ye are the good, The wise departed ye Are come from heaven to claim your brotherhood With mortal brother, struggling in the strife And chains, which once were yours in this sad life. Ye hover o'er the page Ye traced in ancient days with glorious thought For many a distant age ; Ye love to watch the inspiration caught 44 518 GEORGE W. BETHUNE. From your sublime examples, and so cheer The fainting student to your high career. Ye come to nerve the soul Like him who near the Atoner stood, when He, Trembling, saw around him roll The wrathful potents of Gethsemane, With courage strong : the promise ye have known And proved, rapt for me from the Eternal throne. Still keep ! 0, keep me near you, Compass me round with your immortal wings : Still let my glad soul hear you Striking your triumphs from your golden strings Until with you I mount, and join the song, An angel, like you, 'mid the white-robed throng. LINES WRITTEN ON SEEING THORWALDSEN's BAS-RELIEF REPRESENTING NIGHT. YES ! bear them to their rest ; The rosy babe, tired with the glare of day, The prattler fallen asleep e'en in his play, Clasp them to thy soft breast, Night, Bless them in dreams with a deep hushed delight. Yet must they wake again, Wake soon to all the bitterness of life, The pang of sorrow, the temptation strife, Ay, to the conscience-pain Night, Canst thou not take with them a longer flight ? Canst thou not bear them far E'en now all innocent before they know The taint of sin, its consequence of wo, The world's distracting jar, O Night, To some ethereal, holier, happier height ? GEORGE W. BETHUNE. 519 Canst thou not bear them up Through starlit skies, far from this planet dim And sorrowful, e'en while they sleep, to Him Who drank for us the cup, Night, The cup of wrath for hearts in faith contrite ? To Him, for them who slept A babe all lowly on His mother's knee, And from that hour to cross-crowned Calvary, In all our sorrows wept, O Night, That on our souls might dawn Heaven's cheering light. So, lay their little heads Close to that human breast, with love divine Deep beating, while his arras immortal twine Around them as he sheds, O Night, On them a brother's grace of God's own boundless might. Let them immortal wake Among the breathless flowers of Paradise, Where angel-songs of welcome with surprise This their last sleep may break, Night, And to celestial joy their kindred souls invite. There can come no sorrow, The brow shall know no shade, the eye no tears, Forever young through heaven's eternal years, In one unfading morrow, Night, Nor sin, nor age, nor pain their cherub-beauty blight. Would we could sleep as they, So stainless and so calm, at rest with thee, And only wake in immortality ! Bear us with them away, Night, To that ethereal, holier, happier height. 520 WILLIAM CROSWELL. WILLIAM CROSWELL. THE Rev. William Croswell, D. D., is a son of the Rev. Dr. Croswell, of New Haven, and was educated at Yale College, where he was graduated in the summer of 1824. He was subsequently, for two years, associated with Dr. Doane, now Bishop of New Jersey, in the editorship of the " Episcopal Watchman," at Hartford, after which he removed to Boston, and then to Auburn, in the western part of the state of New York. He is now rector of church in New Ha- ven. Bishop Doane, in a note to his edition of Keble's " Christian Year," remarks that " he has more unwritten poetry in him" than any man he knows. His published poems are characterized by an elegant fancy and a fine vein of religious sentiment. THE SYNAGOGUE. " But even unto this day, when Moses is read, the veil is upon their heart. Nev ertheless, when it shall turn to the Lord, the veil shall be taken away." ST. PAUL I SAW them in their synagogue, As in their ancient day, And never from my memory The scene will fade away, For, dazzling on my vision, still The latticed galleries shine With Israel's loveliest daughters, In their beauty half- divine ! It is the holy Sabbath eve, The solitary light Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, A lustre nothing bright ; On swarthy brow and piercing glance It falls with saddening tinge, And dimly gilds the Pharisee's Phylacteries and fringe. The two-leaved doors slide slow apart Before the eastern screen, As rise the Hebrew harmonies, With chanted prayers between, WILLIAM CROSWELL. 521 And mid the tissued vails disclosed, Of many a gorgeous dye, Enveloped in their jewelled scarfs, The sacred records lie. Robed in his sacerdotal vest, A silvery-headed man With voice of solemn cadence o'er The backward letters ran ; And often yet methinks I see The glow and power that sate Upon his face, as forth he spread The roll immaculate. And fervently that hour I prayed, That from the mighty scroll Its light, in burning characters, Might break on every soul, That on their hardened hearts the veil Might be no longer dark, But be forever rent in twain Like that before the ark. For yet the tenfold film shall fall, 0, Judah ! from thy sight, And every eye be purged to read Thy testimonies right, When thou, with all Messiah's signs. In Christ distinctly seen, Shall, by Jehovah's nameless name, Invoke the Nazarene. THE CLOUDS. " Cloud land ! Gorgeous land !" COLEBIDQK. I CANNOT look above and see Yon high-piled, pillowy mass Of evening clouds, so swimmingly In gold and purple pass, 44* WILLIAM CROSWELL. And think not, Lord, how thou wast seen On Israel's desert way, Before them, in thy shadowy screen, Pavilioned all the day ! Or, of those robes of gorgeous hue Which the Redeemer wore, When, ravished from his followers' view, Aloft his flight he bore, When lifted, as on mighty wing, He curtained his ascent, And, wrapt in clouds, went triumphing Above the firmament. Is it a trail of that same pall Of many colored dyes, That high above, o'ermantling all, Hangs midway down the skies Or borders of those sweeping folds Which shall be all unfurled About the Saviour, when he holds His judgment on the world ? For in like manner as he went, My soul, hast thou forgot ? Shall be his terrible descent, When man expecteth not ! Strength, Son of man, against that hour, Be to our spirits given, When thou shalt come again with power, Upon the clouds of heaven ! THE ORDINAL. ALAS for me if I forget The memory of that day Which fills my waking thoughts, nor yet E'en sleep can take away ! WILLIAM CROSWELL. 523 In dreams I still renew the rites Whose strong but mystic chain The spirit to its God unites, And none can part again. How oft the bishop's form I see, And hear that thrilling tone Demanding with authority The heart for God alone ! Again I kneel as then I knelt, While he above me stands. And seem to feel, as then I felt, The pressure of his hands. Again the priests in meet array, As my weak spirit fails, Beside me bend them down to pray Before the chancel-rails ; As then, the sacramental host Of God's elect are by, When many a voice its utterance lost, And tears dimmed many an eye. As then they on my vision rose, The vaulted aisles I see, And desk and cushioned book repose In solemn sanctity, The mitre o'er the marble niche, The broken crook and key, That from a bishop's tomb shone rich With polished tracery ; The hangings, the baptismal font, All, all, save me unchanged, The holy table, as was wont, With decency arranged ; The linen cloth, the plate, the cup, Beneath their covering shine, Ere priestly hands are lifted up To bless the bread and wine. 524 WILLIAM CROSWELL. The solemn ceremonial past, And I am set apart To serve the Lord, from first to last, With undivided heart ; And I have sworn, with pledges dire, Which God ana man have heard, To speak the holy truth entire, In action and in word Thou, who in thy holy place Hast set thine orders three, Grant me, thy meanest servant, grace To win a good degree ; That so, replenished from above, And in my office tried, Thou mayst be honored, and in love Thy church be edified ! CHRISTMAS EVE. THE thickly- woven boughs they wreathe Through every hallowed fane A soft, reviving odor breathe Of summer's gentle reign ; And rich the ray of mild green light Which, like an emerald's glow, Comes struggling through the latticed height Upon the crowds below. 0, let the streams of solemn thought Which in those temples rise, From deeper sources spring than aught Dependent on the skies : Then, though the summer's pride departs. And winter's withering chill Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts Shall be unchanging still. WILLIAM CROSWELL. 525 THE DEATH OF STEPHEN. WITH awful dread his murderers shook, As, radiant and serene, The lustre of his dying look . Was like an angel's seen ; Or Moses* face of paly light, When down the mount he trod, All glowing from the glorious sight And presence of his God. To us, with all his constancy, Be his rapt vision given, To look above by faith, and see Revealments bright of heaven. And power to speak our triumphs out, As our last hour draws near, While neither clouds of fear nor doubt Before our view appear. THE CHRISTMAS OFFERING. WE come not with a costly store, Lord, like them of old, The masters of the starry lore, From Ophir's shore of gold : No weepings of the incense tree Are with the gifts we bring, No odorous myrrh of Araby Blends with our offering. But still our love would bring its best, A spirit keenly tried By fierce affliction's fiery test, And seven times purified : The fragrant graces of the mind, The virtues that delight To give their perfume out, will find Acceptance in thy sight. 526 JOHN G. WHITTIER. JOHN G. WHITTIER, A MEMBER of the Society of Friends, and one of the most brilliant poets of the age, was born in 1808, at Haverhill, Massachusetts, where he now resides. A complete collection of his works has just teen published in one large octavo volume, with illustrative engravings, by B. B. Mussey & Co. of Boston. PALESTINE. BLEST land of Judea ! thrice hallowed of song, Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng ; In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, A 0n the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore, Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. Blue sea of the hills ! in my spirit I hear Thy waters, Gennesaret, chime on my ear ; Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, And thy spray on the dust of His sandals was thrown. Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green, And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarene ; And I pause on the goat- crags of Tabor to see The gleam of thy waters, dark Galilee ! Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and strong, Thy river, Kishon, is sweeping along ; Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain, And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. There, dow r n from his mountains stern Zebulon came, And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame, And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son ! JOHN G. WHITTIER. 527 There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang, When the princes of Issachar stood by her side, And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. Lo, Bethlehem's hiil-sit3 before me is seen, With the mountains around ana the valleys between ; There rested the shepherds of Judah, and tiire The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw Their shadows at noon on the ruins below ; But where are the sisters who hastened to greet The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet ? I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod : I stand whdfre they stood with the chosen of God Where His blessings were heard and his lessons were taught, Where the blind were restored and the healingwas wrought. 0, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came These hills He toiled over in grief, are the same The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow, And the same airs are blowing which breathed on his brow And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet, But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet; For the crown of her p.ide to the mocker hath gone, And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone. But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode Of humanity clothed in the brightness of God? Were my spirit but turned from the outward and dim, It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him ! Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, In love and in meekness, He moved among men ; And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea, In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me ! 528 JOHN G. VVIIJTT1EK. And what if my feet may not tread where He stood, Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood, Nor my eyes see the cross which he bowed him to bear, Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer : Yet, Loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here ; And the voice of thy love is the same even now, As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow. 0, the outward hath gone ! but, in glory and power, The Spirit surviveth the things of an hour ; Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame On the heart's secret altar is burning the same ! THE FEMALE MARTYR. MARY G , aged 18, a " Sister of Charity," died in one of our Atlantic cities, during the prevalence of the Indian Cholera, while in voluntary attendance on the sick. " BRING out your dead !" the midnight street Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ; Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet ; Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, Her coffin and her pall. " What ! only one !" the brutal hackman said, As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. How sunk the inmost hearts of all, As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, With creaking wheel and harsh hoof -fall ! The dying turned him to the wall, To hear it and to die ! Onward it rolled ; while oft the driver stayed, And hoarsely clamored, " Ho! bring out your dead." It paused beside the burial-place : " Toss in your load !" and it was done. With quick hand and averted face, Hastily to the grave's embrace They cast them, one by one Stranger and friend the evil and the just, Together trodden in the churchyard dust. JOHN G. WHITTIER. 529 And thou, young martyr ! tbou wast there : No white-robed sisters round thee trod, Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer Rose through the damp and noisome air, Giving thee to thy God ; Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave ! Yet, gentle sufferer, there shall be, In every heart of kindly feeling, A rite as holy paid to thee As if beneath the convent-tree Thy sisterhood were kneeling, At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. For thou wast one in whom the light Of Heaven's own love was kindled well, Enduring, with a martyr's might, Through weary day and wakeful night, Far more than words may tell : Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown, Thy mercies measured by thy God alone ! Where manly hearts were failing, where The throngful street grew foul with death, 0, high-souled martyr ! thou wast there, Inhaling from the loathsome air Poison with every breath ; Yet shrinking not from offices of dread From the wrung dying and the unconscious dead. And, where the sickly taper shed Its light through vapors, damp, confined, Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, A new Electra by the bed Of suffering humankind ! Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, To that pure hope which fadeth not away. 45 530 JOHN G. WHITTIER. Innocent teacher of the high And holy mysteries of Heaven ! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy, As thy low prayers were given ; And the o'erhovering spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features, a deliverer's smile ! A blessed task ! and worthy one Who, turning from the world, as thou, Ere being's pathway had begun To leave its spring-time flower and sun, Had sealed her early vow. Giving to God her beauty and her youth, Her pure affections and her guileless truth. Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Could be for thee a meet reward ; Thine is a treasure far more dear : Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear Of living mortal heard The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, The holy presence of Eternal Love ! Sleep on in peace. The earth has not A nobler name than thine shall be. The deeds by martial manhood wrouerht, J O ' The lofty energies of thought, The fire of poesy These have but frail and fading honors ; thine Shall time unto eternity consign. Yea : and when thrones shall crumble down, And human pride and grandeur fall The herald's pride of long renown, The mitre and the kingly crown Perishing glories all ! The pure devotion of thy generous heart Shall live in heaven, of which it was a part ! SIR ROBERT GRANT. 531 SIR ROBERT GRANT. THE Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Grant, late governor of Bombay, was of one of the most ancient families of Scotland, and was a brother of the present Lord Glenelg. He died in 1838, and a collection of his " Sacred Poems" was published soon after in London. LINES. SAVIOUR, whose mercy, severe in its kindness, Has chastened my wanderings and guided my way, Adored be the power which illumined my blindness, And weaned me from phantoms that smiled to betray. Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair, 1 followed the rainbow ; I caught at the toy, And still in displeasure, thy goodness was there, Disappointing the hope, and defeating the joy. The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below ; The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in the beam ; Sweet whispered the breeze, but it whispered of wo ; And bitterness flowed in the soft-flowing stream. So, cured of my folly, yet cured but in part, I turned to the refuge thy pity displayed ; And still did this eager and credulous heart Weave visions of promise that bloomed but to fade. I thought that the course of the prilgrim to heaven Would be bright as the summer, and glad as the morn ; Thou show'dst me the path ; it was dark and uneven, All rugged with rocks, and all tangled with thorn. I dreamed of celestial reward and renown ; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the brave ; I asked for the palm-branch, the robe and the crown ; I asked and thou show'dst me a cross and a grave. Subdued and instructed, at length, to thy will, My hopes and my longings I fain would resign ; O give me the heart that can wait and be still, Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but thine. 532 SIR ROBERT GRANT. There are mansions exempted from sin and from wo. But they stand in a region by mortals untrod ; There are rivers of joy but they roll not below ; There is rest but it dwells in the presence of God, TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR. WHEN gathering clouds around I view, And d ys are dark, and friends are few ; On him I lean, who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain. He sees my griefs, allays my fears, And counts and treasures up my tears. If aught should tempt my soul to stray, From heavenly wisdom's narrow way, To fly the good I would pursue, Or do the thing I would not do ; Still He who felt temptation's power, Will guard me in that dangerous hour. If wounded love my bosom swell, Despised by those I prized too well ; He shall his pitying aid bestow, Who felt on earth severer wo ; At once betrayed, denied, or fled, By those who shared his daily bread. When vexing thoughts within me rise, And, sore dismayed, my spirit dies ; Yet, He, who once vouchsafed to bear The sickening anguish of despair, Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. PRAYER. SAVIOUR ! when in dust to thee, Low we bow the adoring knee, When repentant to the skies Scarce we lift our streaming eyes, SIR ROBERT GRANT. 533 0, by all thy pains and wo, Suffered once for man below, Bending from thy throne on high, Hear our solemn litany. By thy helpless infant years, By thy life of wants and tears, By thy days of sore distress In the savage wilderness, By the dread permitted hour, Of the insulting tempter's power, Turn, turn a pitying eye, Hear our solemn litany ! By the sacred griefs that wept, O'er the grave where Lazarus slept, By the boding tears that flowed Over Salem's loved abode, By the anguished sigh that told Treachery lurked within thy fold, From thy seat above the sky Hear our solemn litany ! By thine hour of dire despair, By thine agony of prayer, By the cross, the nail, the thorn, Piercing spear, and torturing scorn, By the gloom that veiled the skies O'er the dreadful sacrifice, Listen to our humble cry, Hear our solemn litany ! By the deep expiring groan, By the sad sepulchral stone, By the vault whose dark abode Held in vain the rising God, O, from earth to heaven restored, Mighty reascended Lord, Listen, listen to the cry Of our solemn litany ! 45* 534 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. MR. BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, in 1794. He was educated for the bar, but after passing ten years in the courts he abandoned an uncongenial profession and removed to New York, where, in 1826, he assumed the editorship of the Evening Post, with which he has ever since been connected. He wrote the poem entitled '' Thana- topsis" in his eighteenth year, and the annals of literary composition furnish nothing equal to it produced at the same age. Mr. Bryant is unquestionably the greatest poet who now writes in the English lan- guage. In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. Bryant had then written was published in New York ; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching Washington Irving, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published " The Fountain, and other Poems ;" in 1844, " The White-footed Deer, and other Po- ems ;" and in 1846, a splendid edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze, was published in Philadelphia by Carey and Hart. " BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." OH, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears ; And weary hours of wo and pain Are promises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 535 And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, v Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny, Though with a pierced and oroken heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God has marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. " NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE." WHEN he, who, from the scourge of wrong, Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, Saw the fair region, promised long, And bowed him on the hills to die : s God made his grave, to men unknown, Where Moab's rocks a vale infold, And laid the aged seer alone To slumber while the world grows old. Thus still, whene'er the good and just Close the dim eye on life and pain, Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust Till the pure spirit comes again. Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, His servant's humble ashes lie, Yet God has marked and sealed the spot, To call its inmate to the sky. THE FUTURE LIFE. How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps The disembodied spirits of the dead, When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread ? 536 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given ? My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, Shall it be banished from thy tongue in heaven ? In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfettered mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here ? The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, Shall it expire with life, and be no more ? A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there ; for thou hast bowed thy will In cheerful homage to the rule of right, And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell, Shrink and consume my heart, as heat the scroll ; And wrath has left its scar that fire of hell Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. Yet though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, The wisdom that I learned so ill in this The wisdom which is love till I become Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 537 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. THE Rev. A. C. Coxe is a son of the Rev. Samuel H. Coxe, D.D., of Brooklyn, and was bora at Mendham, in New Jersey, on the 10th of May, 1818. He was educated at a gymnasium in Pittsfield, Massa- chusetts, the University of New York, and the Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Church at Chelsea. He was admitted to deacon's orders on the 28th of June, 1841, and has for several years been rector of St. Paul's Church in Hartford, Connecticut. His po- etical works are included principally in volumes entitled " Athanasion, and other Poems," " Christian Ballads," " Saul, a Mystery," and " Hal- loween, a Romaunt, with Lays meditative and devotional." HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. WHEN o'er Judea's vales and hills, Or by her olive-shaded rills, Thy weary footsteps went of old, Or walked the lulling waters bold, How beauteous were the marks divine That in thy meekness used to shine, That lit thy lonely pathway, trod In wondrous love, Lamb of God ! Oh ! who like thee, so calm, so bright, Thou Holy child, Thou Light of Light, Oh ! who like thee, did ever go So patient, through a world of wo ! Oh ! who like thee, so humbly bore The scorn, the scoffs of men before, So meek, so lovely yet so high, So glorious in humility ! The morning saw thee, like the day, Forth on thy light-bestowing way ; And evening in her holy hues, Shed down her sweet baptismal dews, 538 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. Where bending angels stooped to see, The lisping infant clasp thy knee, And smile, as in a father's eye, Upon thy mild Divinity ! The hours when princes sought their rest Beheld thee, still, no chamber's guest ; But when the chilly night hung round, And man from thee sweet slumber found, Thy wearied footsteps sought, alone, The mountain to thy sorrows known, And darkness heard thy patient prayer, Or hid thee, in the prowler's lair. And all thy life's unchanging years, A man of sorrows, and of tears, The cross, where all our sins were laid, Upon thy bending shoulders weighed ; And death, that sets the prisoner free, Was pang, and scoff, and scorn to thee ; Yet love through all thy torture glowed, And mercy with thy life-blood flowed. wondrous Lord ! my soul would be Still more and more conformed to thee, Would lose the pride, the taint of sin, That burns these fevered veins within, And learn of Thee, the lowly One, And like thee, all my journey run, Above the world, and all its mirth, Yet weeping still with weeping earth. Oh ! in thy light, be mine to go, Illuming all my way of wo ; And give me ever, on the road, To trace thy footsteps, my God ! My passions lull, my spirit calm, And make this lion-heart a lamb ; And give me, all my life, to be A sacrifice to love and thee ! ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 539 AMERICAN MISSIONS. LORD, when thou didst come from Heaven, Edom sought thee, from afar, With her gold and incense given, By the leading of a star ; Westward then, from Eden guiding, Was the light of Bethlehem shed ; Like the pillared blaze abiding O'er the wandering Hebrew's head. Westward still, the world alluring, Hath the risen Day-Star beamed. And, the sinking soul assuring, O'er the world's wide ocean streamed. Westward still, the midnight breaking, Westward still, its light be poured ! Heathen thy possession making, Utmost lands thy dwelling, Lord ! Westward, where from giant fountains, Oregon comes down in flood, Westward to Missouri's mountains, Or to wild Iowa's wood : Where the broad Arkansas goeth, Winding o'er savannahs wide ; Where, beyond old Huron, floweth Many a strong eternal tide. Westward, where the wavy prairie Dark as slumbering ocean lies, Let thy starlight, Son of Mary, O'er the shadowed billows rise ! There, be heard ye herald voices Till the Lord his glory shows, And the lonely place rejoices, With the bloom of Sharon's rose. 540 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. Where the wilderness is lying, And the trees of ages nod, Westward, in the desert crying, Make a highway for our God : Westward till the Church be kneeling In the forest aisles so dim, And the wildwood's arches pealing, With the people's holy hymn ! Westward, still, oh Lord, in glory Be thy bannered cross unfurled, Till from vale to mountain hoary, Rolls the anthem round the world ; Reign, oh reign o'er every nation, Reign, Redeemer, Father, King, And with songs of thy salvation, Let the wide creation ring ! RIGHT GLAD WAS I. RIGHT glad was I when unto me, They said with one accord, Oh let us up to Zion-hill, The city of our Lord ! Our feet shall stand within thy gates, Jerusalem, our home, And to thy temples beauty-built, Our wearied steps shall come. Oh thither all the tribes go up, The people of our God ! And there the golden censers smoke, And music sounds abroad ! There incense-wreaths forever rise, And there the Lord is known, And there is set his judgment-seat, His glory, and his throne ! ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 541 Oh pray ye for Jerusalem, Who blesseth her is blest ; Peace be within thy palaces, And in thy temples rest ! And on her golden shrines be light, And sunshine ever fair, For there my father's children dwell ; Our fathers' God is there. BERKELEY. OFT when the eve-star, sinking into day, Seems empire's planet on its westward way, Comes, in soft light from antique window's groin, The pure ideal, mitred saint of Cloyne ! Taught, from sweet childhood, to revere in thee Earth's every virtue, writ in poesie, Nigh did I leap, on Clio's calmer line, To see thy story with our own entwine. On Yale's full walls, no pictured shape to me Like Berkeley's seemed, in priestly dignity, Such as he stood, fatiguing, year by year, In our behoof, dull prince and cavalier ; And dauntless still, as erst the Genoese ; Such as he wandered o'er the Indy seas To vexed Bermoothes, witless that he went Mid isles that beckoned to a continent. Such there he seemed, the pure, the undefiled ! And meet the record ! Though, perchance, I smiled That those, in him, themselves will glorify, Who reap his fields, but let his doctrine die, Yet, let him stand : the world will note it well, And Time shall thank them for the chronicle By such confessed, Columbus of new homes For song, and Science with her thousand tomes. Yes pure apostle of our western lore, Spoke the full heart, that now may breathe it more, 46 542 AUTHUii CLEVELAND COXE. Still in those halls, where none without a sneer Name the dear title of thy ghostly fear, Stand up, bold bishop in thy priestly vest ; Proof that the Church bore letters to the West ! OLD CHURCHES. HAST been where the full blossomed bay-tree is blowing With odors like Eden's around ? Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is growing, And wild vines are fringing the ground ? Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon, And ate the cool gourds of their clime ; Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon, And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme ? And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping eve, Some ruin peer high o'er thy way, With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave A mantle for turrets so gray ? Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind Lived there, when the country was young ? And burned not the blood of a Christian, to find How there the old prayer-bell had rung ? And did ye not glow, when they told ye the Lord Had .dwelt in that thistle-grown pile ; And that bones of old Christians were under its sward, That once had knelt down in its aisle ? And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep When ye thought o'er your country so broad, The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, Save only these churches of God ? ye that shall pass by those ruins again, Go kneel in their alleys and pray, And not till their arches have echoed amen, Rise up, and fare on in your way ; ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 543 Pray God that those aisles may be crowded once more, Those altars surrounded and spread, While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore, As they take of the wine-cup and bread. Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane They have left to the bat and the mole, May sound with the loud-pealing organ again, And the full-swelling voice of the soul. Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey thereby Even-bells shall ring out on the air, And the dim -lighted windows reveal to thine eye The snowy-robed pastor at prayer. THE HEART'S SONG. IN the silent midnight watches, List thy bosom-door ! How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, Knocketh evermore ! Say not 'tis thy pulse's beating ; 'Tis thy heart of sin : 'Tis thy Saviour knocks, and crieth Rise, and let me in ! Death comes down with reckless footstep To the hall and hut : Think you Death will stand a-knocking Where the door is shut ? Jesus waiteth waiteth waiteth ; But thy door is fast ! Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth : Death breaks in at last. Then 'tis thine to stand entreating Christ to let thee in : At the gate of heaven beating, Wailing for thy sin. 544 ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin, Hast thou then forgot, Jesus waited long to know thee, But he knows thee not ! THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. THE chimes, the chimes of Motherland, Of England green and old, That out from fane and ivied tower A thousand years have tolled ; How glorious must their music be As breaks the hallowed day, And calleth with a seraph's voice A nation up to pray ! Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, Sweet tales of olden time ! And ring a thousand memories At vesper, and at prime ; At bridal, and at burial, For cottager and king Those chimes those glorious Christian chimes How blessedly they ring ! Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, Upon a Christmas morn, Outbreaking, as the angels did, For a Redeemer born ; How merrily they call afar, To cot and baron's hall, With holly decked and mistletoe, To keep the festival ! The chimes of England, how they peal From tower and gothic pile, Where hymn and swelling anthem fill The dim cathedral aisle ; ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE. 545 Where windows bathe the holy light On priestly heads that falls, And stain the florid tracery And banner-dighted walls ! And then, those Easter bells, in spring! Those glorious Easter chimes ; How loyally they hail thee round, Old queen of holy times ! From hill to hill, like sentinels, Responsively they cry, And sing the rising of the Lord, From vale to mountain high. I love ye chimes of Motherland, With all this soul of mine, And bless the Lord that I am sprung Of good old English line ! And like a son I sing the lay That England's glory tells ; For she is lovely to the Lord, For you, ye Christian bells! And heir of her ancestral fame, And happy in my birth, Thee, too, I love, my forest-land, The joy of all the earth ; For thine thy mother's voice shall be, And here where God is king, With English chimes, from Christian spires, The wilderness shall ring 46* 546 ISAAC WILLIAMS. ISAAC WILLIAMS. THE Rev. Isaac Williams, of the University of Oxford, is the au- thor of " The Cathedral," " Thoughts in Past Years," and some of tlu " Oxford Tracts." He was an unsuccessful candidate for the Profes- sorship of Poetry in the University upon the retirement of Mr. Keble. His poems have been reprinted in this country by Messrs. Appleton, and have been much less read than for their merit they deserve to be. TRANSLATION OF THE ANCIENT HYMN, " DIES DAY of wrath ! that awful day Shall the bannered cross display, Earth in ashes melt away ! The trembling, the agony, When His coming shall be nigh, Who shall all things judge and try ! * In the admirable work entitled " The Conservative Principle in our Litera- ture," by the Rev. William R. Williams, D. D., of New York, this profoundly learned and eloquent author alludes to the statement that Dr. Johnson, stern and rugged as was his nature, could not repeat, without bursting into a flood of tears, this werse from the old monkish hymn of " Dies Irae, Dies Ilia," "Quaerens me sedisti lassus. Redemisti erucem passus, Tantus labor non sit cassus !" And in a note he gives the following curious and interesting account of this cele- brated composition : " It is to Mrs. Piozzi that we owe this anecdote of Johnson. ' When he would try to repeat the celebrated Prosa Ecclesiastica pro Mortuis, as it is called, beginning Dies Ira, dies ilia, he could never pass the stanza ending thus Tantus labor non sit cassus, without bursting into a flood of tears : which sensibility I used to quote against him when he would inveigh against devotional poetry, and protest that all religious verses were cold and feeble, and unworthy the subject.' Crokers Bosieeli, London, 1839. vol. ix., p. 73. " > smaL Tolume, not without interest, might be compiled from the literary his- tory of the Dies Irae, and the versions it has received into various European lan- guages, and from examples of the powerful influence it has exercised upon the feelings and course of individuals. It can scarce be regarded as a waste of time to observe and analyze the power this hymn, from the awfulness of its theme, and its own quaint, antique, and massive grandeur of structure, has acquired over the hearts of men. Unlike the Stabat Mater, another hymn of the Romish service, with which by mere critics it is ordinarily classed, it is free from idolatry. A devout Protestant cannot unite in the Stab;,; Mater. It degrades the Redeemer by idol- ISAAC WILLIAMS. 547 When the trumpet's thrilling tone, Through the tombs of ages gone, Summons all before the throne. Death and Time shall stand aghast, And Creation, at the blast, Rise to answer for the past. Then the volume shall be spread, And the writing shall be read Which shall judge the quick and dead ! izing his earthly parent. But in the Dies Irae, salvation is represented as being of Christ alone, and as being of mere grace : ' Qui aalvaados salvos gratia. 1 Combining somewhat of the rhythm of classical Latin, with the rhymes of the Mediaeval Latin, treating of a theme full of awful sublimity, and grouping together the most start- ling imagery of scripture, as to the last judgment, and throwing this into yet stronger relief by the barbaric simplicity of the style in which it is set, and adding to all these its full and trumpet-like cadences, and uniting with the impassioned feelings of the South, whence it emanated, the gravity of the North, whose severer style it adopted, it is well fitted to arouse the hearer, It forms a part of the Ro- mish service for the dead. Albert Knapp, one of the living sacred poets of Prot- estant Germany, and the compiler of a large body of hymns, the Liederschatz, has inserted a German version of it in his voluminous collection. (Evang. Liederschatz. Stuttgart, 1837, vol. ii., p. 786, hymn 3475.) He compares the original to a blast from the trump of the resurrection, and while himself attempting a version of it, declares its original power inimitable in any translation. (Ibid. p. 870.) This is the judgment of a man not to be contemned as a critic or a translator, for Knapp himself is called by a recent German critic, who seems far removed from any sym- pathy with the religious school to w hich Knapp belongs, ' unquestionably the most distinguished religious poet of the day.' (Tkimm's Literature of Germany, Lond., 1844 ; p. 26(1.) He refers to other versions of it made by the distinguished scholar, Aug. Wm. Schlegel, by Claus Harms, one of the most eminent of the living evan- gelical preachers of Germany, as well as by J. G. Fichte. by A. L. Pollen, J. G. Von Meyer, and the Chevalier Bunsen. The translation of Bunsen, with some slight variations, is appended by Tholuck to his sermon on the Feast-day of the Dead. (Tholuck. Predigten. Hamburg, 1838, vol. i., pp. 28-149.) Professors Edwards and Park, in their ' Selections from German Literature,' (Andover, 1839,) quote the remark of Tholuck, as to the deep sensation produced by the singing of this hymn in the University church : ' The impression, especially that which was made by the last words, as sung by the University choir alone, will be forgotten by no one.' They introduce also the words of an American clergyman, present on the occasion, who says, ' It was impossible to refrain from tears, when at the seventh stanza, all the trumpets ceased, and the choir, accompanied by a softened tone of the organ, sung those touching lines, Quid sum miser tune dicturusj &c. Like Knapp. they unite in the judgment, that no translation has equalled, or can equal the original Latin. (German Selections, p. 185.) Dr. H. A. Daniel, another German scholar, in his ' Bluethenstrauss alt-latein, Kirchenpoesie, Halle, 1840,' has insert- ed, besides the original Latin, and the German version of Bunsen, (pp. 78 and 116,) another version of his own, (p. 110.) Goethe has introduced snatches of the orig- iu-l Latin into the first part of his Faust. The a irni ration which Sir Walter Scott felt for it is well known. He has ii* 548 ISAAC WILLIAMS. Then the Judge shall sit ! oh ! then, All that's hid shall be made plain, Unrequited naught remain. What shall wretched I then plead ? Who for me shall intercede, When the righteous scarce is freed ? King of dreadful Majesty, Saving souls in mercy free, Fount of Pity, save Thou me ! troduced an English version of a few of its opening stanzas into the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel,' whence Bishop Heber adopted it into his ' Hymns for the Church Service.' They are too few to give any just idea of the original, and the measure of the old hymn is not as well retained as in the best German versions. Knapp, Daniel, and Bunsen, all preserve the double rhymes of the Latin original ; Scott and the earlier English translators have given but a single rhymed ending to their verses. In this respect the English version of the London Christian Observer, (vol. xxvi., p. 26,) copied by Edwards and Park, (German Selections, p. 15,) also comes short of its model, as does that of the Rev. Isaac Williams, one of the writers of the Oxford Tracts, and who contested unsuccessfully with the Rev. Mr. Garbett, the election to the Professorship of Poetry in Oxford, on the retirement of Keble. Williams' version may be found in his ' Thoughts in Past Years,' (Am. ed., p. 308 ) A writer in the New York Evangelist (October, 1841) has judiciously retained the double rhyme, but the reader misses the antique simplicity and rugged strength of the original. Sir Walter Scott in his letter to a brother poet, Crabbe, remarks : ' To my Gothic ear, the Stabat Mater, the Dies Iras, and some of the other hymns of the Catholic church, are more solemn and affecting than the fine classical poetry of Buchanan ; the one has the gloomy dignity of a Gothic church, and reminds us constantly of the worship to which it is dedicated ; the other is more like a pagan temple recalling to our memory the classical and fabulous deities.' (Lockharl's Life of Scott, Philad., 1838, vol. i. p. 430.) In his last days of life and reason, he was overheard quoting it with fragments of the Bible, and the old Scotch Psalms. ' We very often,' says his kinsman and biographer, heard distinctly the cadence of the Dies /rte.' (Ib., vol. ii., p. 734.) Its lines haunted in like manner the dying hours of an earlier and inferior poet, the Earl of Roscommon. He was the au- thor of an English version of the hymn, and, as we learn from Johnson's ' Lives of the Poets,' he uttered, in the moment when he expired, with great energy and devotion, two lines of his own translation of the ' Dies Irae :' 'My God, my Father, and my Friend, Do not forsake me in my end.' Milman, another distinguished name in English poetry, has, in his ' History of Christianity,' rated this hymn as superior to any of the poetry of the Christian church in the early ages. ' As to the hymns, (setting aside the " Te Deum,") para- doxical as it may sound, I cannot but think the latter and more barbarous the best. There is nothing, in my judgment, to be compared with the monkish " Dies Irae dies ilia," or even the " Stabat Mater." (Milman, Galignani's ed. ii., p. 336, note ; Roscommon's translation, already the subject of reference, is said by Warton to be largely indebted to the earlier version of Crashaw, a sacred poet of true genius, whose rendering of the ' Dies Irae' was, in the judgment of Pope, the best of his ISAAC WILLIAMS. 549 Bear me, Lord, in heart I pray, Object of Thy saving way, Lest Thou lose me on that day. Weary, seeking me, wast Thou, And for me in death didst bow- Be Thy toils availing now ! Judge of Justice, Thee, I pray, Grant me pardon while I may, Ere that awful reckoning day. compositions. (Willmott's Lives of Sacred Poets, Lond. 1839, vol. i., p. 317.) This work of Crashaw may be found in ' Anderson's British Poets,' (vol. iv., p. 745.) Crashaw was one of the clergymen of the English church, who during, or soon after the days of Laud, and probably from the influence of that school, whose leader and martyr Laud was, went over, as by a natural progression, into the Ro- mish communion. Drummond of Hawthornden has also imitated the ' Dies Irae.' (Anderson, vol. iv., p. 682.) Evelyn, the author of the ' Sylva,' and the friend of Jeremy Taylor, seems also to have tested his strength upon the same task. In their correspondence, Taylor asks a copy of his friend's version. (Memoirs of Evelyn, vol. iv., p. 26.) " Upon the Dies Irae, f Mozart has founded his celebrated ' Requiem,' the latest, and not the least celebrated of his works. The excitement of his feelings whilst employed on this musical composition, is supposed to have hastened his end, which occurred, indeed, before he could fully complete the task. ' What has wrought so strongly on the graver temperament of the North, was not, although Gothic in its structure, likely to remain without any effect on the quicker feelings of the South. Ancina, at that time a Professor of Medicine in the University of Turin, was one day hearing mass, when the ' Dies Irae,' as chanted in the service for the dead, so strongly affected him, that he determined to abandon the world. He afterwards became Bishop of Saluzzo. (Biogr. Diet, of Soc. Biff. Usef. Kn., ' Ancina.') ' The authorship of the hymn is generally ascribed to one of the Franciscan or- der, or the Minorites as they are also called. Thomas de Celano, the friend and biographer of Francis of Assisi, the founder of this order, and who lived in the thirteenth century, is generally supposed to have written it about the year 1250. (Gieseler j s Ch. Hist., Am. ed. II., 288 ; Knapp Liederschats, II., 870 ; Tholuck and Daniel ut supra.) Celano, it may be observed by the way, is one of those on whose au- thority is made to rest the legend that Francis received the stigmata or miraculous impressions of Christ's wounds. (Alban Butler, Lives of Saints.) It has also been attributed to others of the same order. Matthew of Aquasparta, a general of the Minorites, who died with the rank of Cardinal, in 1302, and Frangipani, a Minorite, and a Cardinal, who died in 1294. (Knapp.) Churton, the author of the ' Early English Church,' would give it, however, a much earlier origin, or he has fallen into a gross anachronism ; for he places it in the lips of the dying Thurstan, the Archbishop of York, who ended his course in the year 1140, a full century before the time generally fixed fa its composition by T. de Celano. (Churton, Am. ed., p. 272.) " Issuing, as it certainly did, from an age of great superstition and corruption, it is remarkable that it should be so little incrusted with the prevalent errors of the time. The lines, ' Quempatronum rogaturus Cum vix Justus sit securus?' seem almost 550 ISAAC WILLIAMS. O'er my crimes I guilty groan, Blush to think what I have done, Spare Thy suppliant, Holy One. Thou didst set th' adultress free, Heard'st the thief upon the tree, Hope vouchsafing e'en to me. Naught of thee my prayers can claim, Save in Thy free mercy's name, Save me from the deathless flame ! a renunciation of the Romish doctrine of the advocacy of saints. Like the ' Imi- tation of Christ,' by Thomas a Kempis, it remains as a monument of the truth, that in ages of general declension, God had his own hidden ones, and that beneath the drifting and accumulating mass of heresies, and human inventions, and tra- ditions, there was an under-current of simple faith in Christ, that kept alive and verdant some less noticed portions of the blighted vineyard of the church. If really the work of the historian of the stigmata of the fanatical Francis of Assisi, it affords another of the many examples that show how much excellence and how much error may exist together. " A composition that has, with no effort at elaboration or poetic art, so long at- tracted the admiration of poets like Goethe and Scott, distinguished for their skill in the mere art ; and yet met also the wants and won the sympathies of men, who, disregarding poetry, looked mainly to piety of sentiment a poem that has thus united the suffrages of religion and taste, deserves some study, as a model, in that walk of such difficulty and dignity, the walk of sacred poetry. " The Latin original has, within a fewyears, become accessible to American readers in Edwards and Park's German selections, p. 185 ; in the Encyclopaedia Americana, (art. Dies Irce ;) and in Isaac Williams' ' Thoughts in Past Years,' Am. ed., p. 309. The readings of the first stanza at Rome and Paris differ. The former has as the second line, ' Cruets expandens vexilla,' in allusion to the old Romish tradition that the ' Sign of the Son of Man,' to be seen in the heavens on his coming to judgment is the cross. The latter, omitting this line, has for its third line, ' Teste David cum Sibylla,' a reference to the Sybilline oracles, whose genuineness as Christian pro- phecies seems never in the Mediaeval times to have been questioned, and whose authority Bishop Horsley has sought to revive. (Journee du Chretien, Paris, 1810, pp. 82, 84.) This seems the more ancient, and to Protestants, is perhaps the less objectionable reading. The closing sentence, ' Pie Jesu Domine, Dona eis requiem, Amen,' is a prayer for the dead ; but not having the rhymes of the rest, we should suppose the words rather a part of the burial service into which the hymn is inlaid, than a portion originally of the hymn itself. Since the first edition of this address was issued, the writer has received a copy of a work on the ' Stabat Mater,' by a German Protestant clergyman, Dr. Frederick G. Lisco, preacher at the church of St. Gertrude, in Berlin, already advantageous- ly known to British and American Christians, from his work on the ' Parables of our Lord,' translated and issued in the Edinburgh Biblical Cabinet. Besides a his- tory of the Hymn, the pamphlet contains fifty-three several versions, mostly Ger- man, of the ' Stabat Mater.' From the appendix to this work the present writer discovered, of which he was before ignorant, that Lisco had in an earlier year issued a similar collection of the translations into German of the ' Dies Irae.' This the present writer has been unable to obtain. But in the appendix to the ' Stabat ISAAC WILLIAMS. 551 With Thy sheep ray place assign, Separate from th' accursed line, Set me on Thy right with Thine. When the lost, to silence driven, To devouring flames are given, Call me with the blest to Heaven ' Suppliant, fallen, low I bend, My bruised heart to ashes rend, Care Thou, Lord, for my last end ! Mater,' Lisco subjoins seventeen additional versions of the ' Judgment Hymn.' One of these is a translation of it into modern Greek, by the Rev. Mr. Hiidner, a Missionary of the (English) Church Missionary Society at Syra, and was sent by its author to the Litt. ^Imeiger of the distinguished Prof. Tholuek. As double rhymes in Greek may be a curiosity to some readers, we subjoin the verse already quoted, in the modern Greek garb given it by Mr. Hiidner : At' c/i. K Lisco refers to one German, Lecke, who wrote and published twelve several ver- sions of the ' Dies Irae.' " The Franciscan order, in its earlier history, would seem to have cultivated sacred poetry. Francis, its founder, was the writer of some Italian verses, two of the earliest poetical flights in the language,' (Eustace, Classical Tour, II., 148 ;) to Thomas de Celano, the authorship of the ' Dies Irae' is generally attributed ; and to another Franciscan, Jacopone, is ascribed by the chief authorities the composition of the ' Stabat Mater.' " The closest of the English versions of the ' Dies Irae,' that have fallen under the eye of the present writer, is that of the Rev Richard C. Trench, a clergyman of the Established Church in England or Ireland. His rendering does not reach, however, the flowing freedom or full cadences of the original It is subjoined. DIES IR.E. O that day, that day of ire, When the Judge his place has ta'en, Told of Prophet, when in fire, All things hid shall be made plain, Shall a world dissolved expire ! Nothing unavenged remain. O what terror shall be then, When the Judge shall come again, Strictly searching deeds of men : When a trump of awful tone, Thro' the caves sepulchral blown, Summons all before the throne. What amazement shall o'ertake Nature, when the dead shall wake, Answer to the Judge to make ! Open then the book shall lie All o'erwrit for every eye, With a world's iniquity. What then, wretched ! shall I speak. Or what intercession seek, When the just man's cause is weak ? Jesus, Lord, remember, pray, I the cause was of thy way ; Do not lose me on that day. King of awful majesty, Who the saved dost freely free ; Fount of mercy, pity me ! Tired thou satest, seeking me Crucified, to set me free ; Let such pain not fruitless be. 552 ISAAC WILLIAMS. Full of tears the day shall prove, When, from ashes rising, move To the judgment guilty men, Spare, Thou God of mercy, then ! Lord, all pitying, Jesu blest ! Grant them Thine eternal rest. Amen. Terrible Avenger, make Though my prayer unworthy be, Of thy mercy me partake, Yet, O set me graciously E'er that day of vengeance wake. From the fire eternal free. As a criminal I groan, Mid thy sheep my place command, Blushing deep my faults I own ; From the goats far off to stand ; Grace be to a suppliant shown. Set me, Lord, at thy right hand. Thou who Mary didst forgive, And when them who scorned thee here And who bad'st the robber live, Thou hast judged to doom severe, Hope to rne dost also give. Bid me with thy saved draw near. Lying low before thy throne, Crushed my heart in dust, I groan , Grace be to a suppliant shown. THE END. RETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT TO +> 202 Main Library LOAN PERIOD 1 HOME USE 2 3 4 5 6 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS Renewals and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date. Books may be Renewed by calling 642-3405. DUE AS STAMPED BELOW UN 2 5 1987 mm JilN 2 5 1987 FORM NO. 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