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Cloth gilt, beautiful engravings, by Selous, Franklin, etc., 4s. Froissart's Chronicles of England, France, Spain, etc., adapted, with Notes and Illustrations, by Rev. H. P. Dunstek, 2 vols., cloth gilt, fine illustrations by Tenniel, 7s. Gold-Makers' Village. — Translated from the Seventh ( -erinan Edition of Zschokke. Elegantly printed, cloth, Is. 6d. Grossi, Marco Visconti. — An Italian Tale of the fourteenth Century. Illustrations by Warren, cloth gilt, 4s. Gulliver's Travels. — Dean Swift's celebrated work, >w for the first time presented in an entirely unexceptionable form, for Family Beading, cloth, very clever plates by Brown (Phiz), engraved by '^oper, cloth gilt, 2s. mna. FAGE 141. %\)Z I jftefo l&ttum, Snfacgefc. fntrta: Trips' TJC *|S 2}^ rf* Now this is all I heard, mother, And all that I did see ; So prithee make my bed, mother, For I'm tired as I can be." MARY HOW1TT. ,PT. I. B 2 AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE. Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view ! The fountain's fall, the river's flow, The woody valleys warm and low, The windy summit wild and high, Roughly rushing on the sky ; The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower, The naked rock, the shady bower ; The town and village, dome and farm, — Each give each a double charm, As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. See on the mountain's southern side, Where the prospect opens wide, Where the evening gilds the tide, How close and small the hedges lie ! What streaks of meadows cross the eye ! A step, methinks, may pass the stream, So little distant dangers seem ; So we mistake the future's face, Ey'd through hope's deluding glass : As yon summits soft and fair, Clad in colours of the air, Which to those who journey near, Barren, brown, and rough appear ; Still we tread the same coarse way, — The present's still a cloudy day. Oh, may I with myself agree, And never covet what I see ! AN ENGLISH LANDSCAPE?. Content me with an humble shade, My passions tam'd, my wishes laid ! For while our wishes wildly roll, We banish quiet from the soul : 'Tis thus the busy beat the air, And misers gather wealth and care. Now, even now, my joys run high, As on the mountain-turf I lie ; While the wanton zephyr sings, And in the vale perfumes his wings ; While the waters murmur deep, While the shepherd charms his sheep, While the birds unbounded fly, And with music fill the sky ; Now, even now, my joys run high. Be full, ye courts ; be great who will ; Search for Peace with all your skill ; Open wide the lofty door, Seek her on the marble floor : In vain you search— she is not there ; In vain ye search the domes of care ! Grass and flow'rs Quiet treads On the meads and mountain-heads, Along with Pleasure close allied, Ever by each other's side ; And often by the murmuring rill Hears the thrush, while all is still Within the groves of Grongar Hill. ft. I. DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD. " Oh, tell me about that bright, bright star ; I have watch' d it long, and it seems so far, And yet so near ; oh, tell to me How this wonderful thing may be !" " Thy question seems simple, my darling child" (Then answered the lady with voice so mild) ; "Yet, dear one, I cannot tell to thee, How this wonderful thing may be ; I see the star, and so dost thou, Twinkling (as ever it twinkleth) now ; But how, or why, it twinkleth so, Nor I, nor thou, my child, may know. We see its beauty is very bright, — That it adds new beauty to beautiful night ; And we know that He hath fixed it there, The God who heareth thine evening prayer. And so we know it is very meet That we with love that star should greet ; As it looketh down from its home above To lead our soul to the Father of love. I know but little, my gentle child" (Thus spoke the lady with voice so mild) : " I am a child in things so high As the wonders of earth, and air, and sky. But I will teach thee all I can, And then when thou growest to be a man, ODE TO THE CUCKOO. V Thou wilt know that the depth of a mother's love Is wondrous and strange as that star above. Though she may be numbered with the dead, Whose hand now rests on thy shining head, Her spirit shall look from the land afar, And yet seem near thee like that bright star." H. B. ODE TO THE CUCKOO. Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! Thou messenger of Spring ! Now Heaven repairs thy ruraJ seat, And woods thy welcome sing. What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear ; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant ! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers. The schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts the new voice of Spring to hear, And imitates thy lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fliest thy vocal vale ; PT. I. 10 FATHER WILLIAM. An annual guest in other lands, Another Spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year. Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make with joyful wing Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the Spring. LOGAN. FATHER WILLIAM. " You are old, Father William," the young man cried, " The few locks which are left you are grey ; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ; Now tell me the reason, I pray." "In the days of my youth," Father Wilham replied, " I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last." " You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away ; And yet you lament not the days that are gone ; Now tell me the reason, I pray." LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. 11 " In the days of my youth," Father William replied, " I remember' d that youth could not last ; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past." "You are old, Father William," the young man " And life must be hastening away ; [cried, You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death ; Now tell me the reason, I pray." "lain cheerful, young man," Father William re- "Let the cause thy attention engage ; [plied, In the days of my youth I remember' d my God, And He hath not forgotten my age." LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. The spearman heard the bugle sound, And cheerly smil'd the morn ; And many a brach 1 and many a hound Attend Llewellyn's horn. And still he blew a louder blast. And gave a louder cheer, — " Come, Gelert, why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear? Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, The flower of all his race ? So true, so brave — a lamb at home, A lion in the chase !" 1 A species of dog which hunts by scent. PT. I. 12 LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare ; And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there. Unpleas'd Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal-seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet. But when he gain'd the castle- door, Aghast the chieftain stood ; The hound was smear' d with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood ! Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise, Unused such looks to meet ; His favourite check' d his joyful guise, And crouch' d and lick'd his feet. Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd, (And on went Gelert too), And still where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood-gouts shock' d his view ! O'erturned, his infant's bed he found, The blood-stain' d cover rent ; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent. He call'd his child — no voice replied ; He search' d with terror wild : Blood ! blood ! he found on ev'ry side, But nowhere found the child ! LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG. 13 " Hell-hound ! by thee my child's devour' d !" The frantic father cried ; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side ! His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart ; But still his Gelert's dying yell Pass'd heavy o'er his heart. Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer waken' d nigh : What words the parent's joy can tell To hear his infant cry ! Conceal' d beneath a mangled heap, His hurried search had miss'd, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kiss'd ! Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread : But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead — Tremendous still in death ! Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain ! For now the truth was clear — The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn's heir. Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe : " Best of thy kind, adieu ! The frantic deed which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue," PT. I. C 14 INCIDENT OF A And now a gallant tomb they raise, With costly sculpture deck'd ; And marble, storied with his praise, Doth Gelert's bones protect. Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved; Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved. And here he hung his horn and spear ; And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear Poor Gelert's dying yell. INCIDENT CHARACTERISTIC OF A FAVOURITE DOG. On his morning rounds the master Goes to learn how all things fare ; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and cattle eyes with care ; And for silence and for talk He hath comrades in his walk ; Four dogs, each pair of different breed, Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed. See, a hare before them started : Off they fly in earnest chase ; Every dog is eager-hearted, All the four are in the race : FAVOURITE DOG 15 And the hare whom they pursue Hath an instinct what to do ; Her hope is near : no turn she makes ; But like an arrow to the river takes. Deep the river was, and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost ; But the nimble hare hath trusted To the ice, and safely crost ; She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When, lo, the ice, so thinly spread, Breaks — and the greyhound, Dart, is overhead ! Better fate have Prince and Swallow — See them cleaving to the sport ! Music hath no heart to follow, Little Music she stops short. She hath neither wish nor heart ; Hers is now another part ; A loving creature she and brave, And fondly strives her struggling friend to save. From the brink her paws she stretches, Very hands as you would say ! And afflicting moans she fetches, As she breaks the ice away. For herself she hath no fears, — Him alone she sees and hears, — Makes efforts and complainings, nor gives o'er Until her fellow sank and re-appeared no more. WORDSWORTH. PT. I. 16 TO THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake ! So put thou forth thy small white rose, — I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant bowers, Thou need'st not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers : For dull the eye, the heart is dull, That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are. How delicate thy gauzy frill ! How rich thy branchy stem ! How soft thy voice, when woods are still, And thou sing'st hymns to them ! While silent showers are falling slow, And, 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough, Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn-flower is dead ; The violet by the moss'd grey stone Hath laid her weary head. THE ARMADA. 17 But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power, The fresh green days of life's fair spring And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorn' d bramble of the brake ! once more Thou bid'st me be a boy, To gad with thee the woodlands o'er In freedom and in joy. THE ARMADA. 'Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble Eng- land's praise ; I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay ; Her crew hath seen Castille's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. pt. i. e 2 18 THE ARMADA. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's espe- cial grace ; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall ; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall ; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast ; And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes ; Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums ; His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that I famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle-shield. THE ARMADA. 19 So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he tinned to bay, And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flag-staff deep, sir knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids : Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously — ye breezes, waft her wide ; Our glorious Semper Eadem — the banner of our pride. I The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that ban- ner's massy fold ; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold ; Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the. purple sea, — Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day ; For swift to east and swift to west the warning radiance spread ; High on St. Michael's Mount it shone — it shone on Beachy Head. Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twink- ling points of fire ; FT. I. 20 THE ARMADA. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glitter- ing v/aves, — The rugged miners poured to war from Men dip's sunless caves. O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew ; He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night, And sawo'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light. Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates arose the answer* ing fires ; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reel- ing spires ; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear ; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer : And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street ; THE ARMADA. 21 And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in : And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth ; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north ; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still : All night from tower to tower they sprang — they sprang from hill to hill : Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales — Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Yfales — Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Mal- vern's lonely height — Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light — Till bread and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Line Jn sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; PT. I. 22 REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt' s embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. MACAULAY. ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. Do you ask what the Birds say.? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, " I love and I love !" In the winter they're silent, — the wind is so strong — What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving — all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky abo^e, That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he— " I love my love, and my love loves me !" S. T. COLERIDGE. REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. Thy memory as a spell Of love comes o'er my mind, As dew upon the purple bell, As perfume on the wind, REMEMBRANCE OF THE DEAD. 23 As music on the sea, As sunshine on the river ; So hath it always been to me, So shall it be for ever. I hear thy voice in dreams Upon me softly call, Like echo of the mountain streams In sportive waterfall. I see thy form as when Thou wert a living thing, And blossom' d in the eyes of men Like any flower of spring. Thy soul to heaven hath fled, From earthly thraldom free j Yet 'tis not as the dead That thou appear' st to me : In slumber I behold Thy form as when on earth \ Thy locks of waving gold, Thy sapphire eye of mirth. I hear in solitude The prattle kind and free Thou uttered' st in joyful mood While seated on my knee. So strong each vision seems, My spirit that doth fill, I think not they are dreams, But that thou livest still. blackwood's magazine. 24 MORNING IN THE COUNTRY. To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing, startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine : "While the cock, with lively din, Scatters th' rear of darkness thin ; And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before ; Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedgerow elms or hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state ; Rob'd in flames and amber bright, The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight : While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow' d land ; And the milkmaid singeth blithe ; And the mower whets his scythe ; And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. MEDITATION. 25 Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures, — Russet lawns and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The lab'ring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; Shallows, brooks, and rivers wide : Towers and battlements it sees, Bosom' d high in tufted trees ; Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks ; Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their sav'ry dinner set, Of herbs and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses : And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead. MEDITATION. When the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that sylvan loves, PT. I. D 26 MEDITATION. Of pine or monumental oak ; Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow' d haunt. There in close covert, by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye : While the bee, with honied thigh, That at her flow'ry work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather 'd sleep ; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in airy stream Of lively portraiture display'd, Softly on my eyelids laid. And as T wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals, good, Or th' unseen genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowed roof With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light : There let the peeling organ blow To the full-voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness through mine ear THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Dissolve me into ecstacies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes ! And may, at last, my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew ; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain : These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer' d the lab' ring swain, Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, And parting Summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd : Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth when ev'ry sport could please ; How often have I loiter' d o'er thy green, Where humble happiness en dear' d each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter' d cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill, 28 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. The hawthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made ! How often have I bless' d the comiDg day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree : While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey' d ; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round : And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. n» »1» «T» *{» Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain : No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges works its weary way ; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. # * * # THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 29 Sweet was the sound when oft, at evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came soften' d from below ; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school ; The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind : These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, | No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, But all the blooming flush of life is fled : All but yon widow' d solitary thing, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring • The wretched matron forced in age for bread To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn : She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. GOLDSMITH. PT. I. D"2 so THE FORCE OF PRAYER*; OR, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY. % ©ratn'ttott. " What is good for a bootless bene V 9 Y/ith these dark words begins my tale ; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail ? " What is good for a bootless bene V 9 The falconer to the lady said ; And she made answer, " Endless sorrow P' For she knew that her son was dead. •She knew it by the falconer's words, And from the look of the falconer's eye ; And from the love which was in her soul For her youthful Eomilly. Young Romilly through Barden woods Is ranging high and low ; And holds a greyhound in a leash To let slip on buck or doe. The pair have reached that fearful chasm, How tempting to bestride ! For lordly Wharf is there pent in With rocks on either side. This striding place is called the Strid, A name which it took of yore : THE FORCE OF PEAYER. 31 A thousand years it hath borne that name, And shall a thousand more. And hither is young Eomilly come, And what may now forbid That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, Shall bound across The Strid ? He sprang in glee, — for what cared he That the river was strong and the rocks were steep ? — But the greyhound in the leash hung back, And check' d him in his leap. The boy is in the arms of Wharf, And strangled by a merciless force, For never more was young Eomilly seen, Till he rose a lifeless corse. Now there is stillness in the vale, And deep, unspeaking sorrow : Wharf shall be to pitying hearts A name more sad than Yarrow. If for a lover the lady wept, A solace she might borrow From Death and from the passion of Death, — Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. She weeps not for the wedding-day, Which was to be to-morrow ; Her hope was a further-looking hope, And hers is a mother's sorrow. FT. i. 32 THE RAINBOW. He was a tree that stood alone., And proudly did its branches wave ; And the root of this delightful tree Was in her husband's grave ! Long, long in darkness did she sit, And her first words were, " Let there be In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, A stately priory." The stately priory was reared ; And Wharf, as he moved along, To matins joined a mournful voice > Nor failed at even- song. And the lady prayed in heaviness That looked not for relief ; But slowly did her succour come, And a patience to her grief. Oh, there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn, and ask Of Him to be our Friend ! WORDSWORTH. THE RAINBOW. Still young and fine ! but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled though fresh and new ; How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burning flaming arch did first descry ; SWEET SOUNDS. 33 When Zerah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, The youthful world's grey fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower. When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object of His eye ! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distant and low, I can in thine see Him Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne, And minds the covenant betwixt all and one. HENRY VAUGHAN. SWEET SOUNDS. Around, around flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seem'd to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! PT. I. L 34 THE PIG. And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute, And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon — A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singe th a quiet tune. CONCLUSION. Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell To thee, thou wedding guest ; He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast : He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God, who loveth us, He made and loveth all. COLERIDGE. (Ancient Mariner.) THE PIG. % tolloqutal ^oem. Jacob, I do not love to see thy nose Turn'd up in scornful curve at yonder pig. It would be well, my friend, if we like him THE PIG. 35 Were perfect in our kind ! And why despise The sow-born grunter ? . . . He is obstinate, Thou answerest ; ugly, and the filthiest beast That banquets upon offal. Now, I pray you, Hear the pig's counsel. Is he obstinate ? We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words, By sophist sounds. A democratic beast, He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt That pigs were made for man, — born to be brawn' d And baconised ; that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take ; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defence, the general privilege ; Perhaps, . . . hark, Jacob, dost thou hear that horn ? Woe to the young posterity of Pork ! Their enemy's at hand. Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him ! Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face,- — nay, Jacob, Jacob, were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille ? Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that I The wanton hop marries her stately spouse : So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude 36 THE PIG. Of parts harmonious ? give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glory of the peacock's pride ; Give him the swan's white breast ; for his horn- hoofs Shape such a foot and ancle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss, When Venus from the enamoured sea arose. . , . Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him ! All alteration man could think would mar His pig-perfection. The last charge : — he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With noble and right -reverend precedents, And shew by sanction of authority That 'tis a very honourable thing To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defence. The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, — what is dirt? If matter, . . . why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but, as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified ; Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep. And there ! that breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile CASABIANCA. 37 That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom' d field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise. SOUTHEY. CASABIANCA. Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken lire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder. The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but he had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, A proud though childlike form. The flames rolled on — he would not go, Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud, " Say, father, say, If yet my task is done !" He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. PT. I. E CASABIANCA. " Speak, father !" once again he cried, " If I may yet be gone ! And," — but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolFd on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And look'd from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair. And shouted but once more aloud, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile. "Leicester!" she cried, cc is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immur'd in shameful privity f No more thou com'st with lover's speed Thy once beloved bride to see ; But be she 'live, or be she dead, I fear, stern earl, ? s the same to thee. Not so the usage I receiv'd When happy in my father's hall : No faithless husband then me griev'd, No chilling fears did me appal. I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay ; And like the bird that haunts the thorn, So merrily sung the livelong day. CUMNOR HALL. 129 If that my beauty is but small, Amongst court ladies all despis'd — Why didst thou rend it from that hall Where, scornful earl, it well was priz'd? And when you first to me made suit, How fair I was you oft would say ; And, proud of conquest, pluck' d the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay. Yes, now neglected and despis'd, The rose is pale — the lily's dead ; But he that once their charms so priz'd Is, sure, the cause those charms are fled. For, know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay — What flow' ret can endure the storm ? At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, Where every lady 's passing rare ; That eastern flowers that shame the sun Are not so glowing, not so fair : Then, earl, why did'st thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by ? 'Mong rural beauties I was one ; Among the fields wild flowers are fair : Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare. PT. II. 130 CUMNOR HALL. But, Leicester, or I much am wrong, Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows ; Rather ambition's gilded crown Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. Then, Leicester, why, again I plead — (The injur' d surely may repine) — Why didst thou wed a country-maid, When some fair princess might be thine ? Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh, then leave them to decay ? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave me mourn the live-long day ? The village-maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as I go ; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe. The simple nymphs ! they little know How far more happy 's their estate ; To smile for joy — than sigh for woe ; To be content — than to be great. How far less blest am I than them, Daily to pine and waste with care ! Like the poor plant that from its stem Divided feels the chilling air ! Nor, cruel earl, can I enjoy The humble charms of solitude : Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or prating rude. CUM NOR HALL. 131 Last night, as sad I chanc'd to stray, The village death-bell smote my ear : They wink'd aside, and seem'd to say, 1 Countess, prepare ; thy end is near !' And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn ; No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn. My spirits flag, my hopes decay — Still that dread death-bell smites my ear ; And many a boding seems to say, 6 Countess, prepare ; thy end is near !' " Thus, sore and sad, that lady griev'd, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring ; An aerial voice was heard to call ; And thrice the raven napp'd his wiugs Around the towers of Cumnor Hail : The mastiff howl'd at village-door ; The oaks were shatter' d on the green : Woe was the hour, — for never more That hapless countess e'er was seen ! FT. II. 132 A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall ! The village- maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a trav'ller oft hath sigh'd, And pensive wept the countess' fall, As, wand' ring onwards, he has spied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. M1CKLB. A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. Clarence's; 33ream. Oh, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights ! Methought that I had broken from the Tower, And was embark' d to cross to Burgundy ; And in my company my brother Glo'ster, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches : thence we look'd tow'rd Eng- land, And cited up a thousand heavy times During the wars of York and Lancaster That had befallen us. As we pac'd along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, A GUILTY CONSCIENCE. 133 Methouglit that Glo'ster stumbled, and, in falling, Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard, Into the tumbling billows of the main. Lord, methouglit what pain it was to drown ! What dreadful noise of water in mine ears ! What sights of ugly death within mine eyes ! Methought I saw a thousand fearful wrecks, A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upou ; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scatter' d in the bottom of the sea. Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept (As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep, And mock'd the dead bones that lay scattered. — And then my dream was lengthen' d after life, And then began the tempest to my soul ! 1 pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood, With that grim ferryman that poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger-soul YVas my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who cried aloud, "What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence ?" — And so he vanish' d. Then came wandering by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood ; and he shriek' d out aloud, "Clarence is come! — false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence, That stabb'd me in the field by Tewkesbury: PT. II. N 134 ON HIS BLINDNESS. Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments If With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends Environ' d me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous noises, that with the very noise I trembling wak'd, and, for a season after, Could not believe but that I was in hell ; Such terrible impression made my dream. SHAKSPEliE. ON HIS BLINDNESS. When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wk « And that one talent, which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, — Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts : who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Is kingly : thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean, without rest : They also serve who only stand and wait." MII/TON. 1S5 DISCORD'S HOUSE. Hard by the gates of hell her dwelling is, There whereas all plagues and harmes abound. Which punish wicked men that walk amiss : It is a darksome delve farre under ground, With thorns and barren brakes environ'd round, That none the same way may out win. Yet many ways to enter may be found, But none to issue forth when one is in ; For discord harder is to end than to begin. And all within the riven walles were hung With ragged monuments of times fore-past, Of which the sad effects of discord sung : There were rent robes and broken sceptres plac't, Altars dehTd, and holy things defac't, Dishevered spears, and shields ytorne in twaine, Great cittys ransack' t, and strong castles ras't, Nations captived, and huge armies slain ; Of all which ruines there some reliques did re- main. There was the signe of antique Babylon, Of fatal Thebes, of Rome that reigned long, Of sacred Salem, and sad Ilion ; For memory of which on high there hong The golden apple (cause of all their wrong), For which the three faire goddesses did strive : There also was the name of Nimrod strong ; PT. II. 136 discord's house. Of Alexander, and his princes five, Which shar'd to them the spoils which he had got alive. And there the reliques of the drunken fray The which among the Lapithees befell ; And of the bloody feast, which sent away So many centaurs' drunken souls to hell, That under great Alcides' fury fell ; And of the dreadful discord which did drive The noble Argonauts to outrage fell, That each of life sought other to deprive, All mindless of the golden fleece which made them strive. And eke of private persons many moe, That 'twere too long a work to count them all : Some of sworne friends, that did their faith forgo e ; Some of borne brethren, prov'd unnatural ; Some of deare lovers, foes perpetual ; — Witness their broken bands there to be seen, Their girlonds rent, their bowres dispoiled all ; The monuments whereof there byding been, As plaine as at the first, when they were fresh and green. Such was the house within : but all without, The barren ground was full of wicked weeds Which she herself had sowen all about, Now growen great, at first of little seeds, The seeds of evil words, and factious deedes ; THE MESSIAH. 137 Which when to ripeness due they growen are, Bring forth an infinite increase, that breedes Tumultuous trouble, and contentious jarre, The which must often end in bloodshed and in warre. SPENSER. THE MESSIAH. Ye nymphs of Solyma, begin the song : To heav'nly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids, Delight no more. Thou, my voice inspire, Who touch'd Isaiah's hallo w'd lips with fire ! Rapt into future times, the bard begun : A virgin shall conceive, a virgin bear a Son ! From Jesse's root behold a Branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies ; Th' ethereal Spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic Dove. Ye heavens, from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower ; The sick and weak the healing Plant shall aid, From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail; Returning justice lift aloft her scale ; Peace o'er the world her olive-wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend. FT. II. k 2 138 THE MESSIAH. Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected mom ; Oh, spring to light ! auspicious Babe, be born ! See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all th' incense of the breathing spring ; See lofty Lebanon his head advance ; See nodding forests on the mountains dance ; See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise, And Carmel's flow ry top perfume the skies ! Hark ! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers : Prepare the way ! a God, a God appears ! A God ! a God ! the vocal hills reply ; The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. Lo, earth receiyes Him from the bending skies ; Sink down, ye mountains ; and, ye valleys, rise ; With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay ; Be smooth, ye rocks ; ye rapid floods, give way ! The Saviour comes, by ancient bards foretold ; Hear him, ye deaf ; and all ye blind, behold ! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eyeball pour the day ; 'Tis He th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear, And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear ; The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe : No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear ; From every face He wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall Death be bound, And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air ; Explores the lost, the wand' ring sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects ; THE SPELL OF POETRY. 139 The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms — Thus shall mankind His guardian care engage, The promis'd Father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover' d o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more ; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end : Then palaces shall rise ; the joyful son Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun ; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield, And the same hand that sow'd shall reap the field. The swain in barren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise ; And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. THE SPELL OF POETRY. I broke the spell that held me long, The dear, dear witchery of song. I said, the poet's idle lore Shall waste my prime of years no more ; For poetry, though heavenly born, Consorts with poverty and scorn. I broke the spell — nor deemed its power Could fetter me another hour. 140 from pope's satires. Ah, thoughtless ! how could T forget ? Its causes were around me yet ; For wheresoe'er I look'd, the while Was nature's everlasting smile. Still came and linger' d on my sight, Of flowers and stars, the bloom and light, And glory of the stars and sun ; — And these and poetry are one ; They ere the world had held me long Recall' d me to the love of song. FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES AD- DRESSED TO ARBUTHNOT EY POPE. Shut up the door, good John ! fatigued, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, — I'm dead. The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide ; By land, by water, they renew the charge ; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free. Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me ; UNA. 141 Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. Is there a mortal much bemused in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk foredoomed his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross, — Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? All fly to Twick'nham, and in humble strain Apply to me to keep them, mad or vain. What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped ; If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. Seized, and tied down to judge, how wretched I ; Who can't be silent, and who will not lie : To laugh were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave exceeds all power of face. I sit with sad civility ; I read With honest anguish and with aching head, And drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counsel, " Keep your piece nine years." UNA. Nought is there under heaven'swide hollowness That moves more dear compassion of the mind, Than beauty brought t' unworthy wretchedness Through envy's snares, or fortune's freaks un- kind. PT. II, 142 UNA. I, whether lately through her brightness blind, Or through allegiance and fast fealty Which I do owe unto all womankind, Feel my heart pierced with so great agony When such I see, that all for pity I could die. And now it is empassioned so deep For fairest Una's sake, of whom I sing, That my frail eyes these lines with tears do steep, To think how she, through guilefull handeling, Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, Though fair as ever living wight was fair, Though nor in word nor deed ill meriting, Is from her knight divorced in despair ; And her due loves derived to that vile witche's share. Yet she, most woefull lady, all this while Forsaken, woefull, solitary maid, Far from all people's press as in exile, In wilderness and wasteful deserts stray' d To seek her knight ; who, subtilly betray'd Through that late vision which th' enchanter wrought, Had her abandon'd : she of nought affray'd, Through woods and wasteness wide him daily sought, Yet wished tidings none of him unto her brought. One day, nigh weary of the irksome way, From her unhasty beast she did alight, And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; HYMN TO THE SEA. 143 From her fair head her fillet she undight^ And laid her stole aside : her angel's face* As the great eye of heaven, shined bright. And made a sunshine in the shady place , Did never mortal eye behold such heav'nly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lion rushed suddenly, Hunting full greedy after savage blood ; Soon as the royal virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily, To have at once devour'd her tender corse : But to the prey whenas he drew more nigh, His bloody rage assuaged with remorse, And with the sight amazed, forgot his furious force. Instead thereof, he kist her weary feet, And lick'd her lily hands with fawning tongue ; As he her wronged innocence did weet. Oh, how can beauty master the most strong, And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! SPENSER. HYMN TO THE SEA. Who shall declare the secret of thy birth, Thou old companion of the circling earth ? And having reached with keen poetic sight Ere beast or happy bird Through the vast silence stirred, Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night ? PT. II. 144 HYMN TO THE SEA. Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; Whose ancient awful form, With inly-tossing storm, Unquiet heavings kept — a birth-place and a tomb. Till the life-giving Spirit moved above The face of the waters, with creative love Warming the hidden seeds of infant light : What time the mighty word Through thine abyss was heard, And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright. Thou and the earth, twin-sisters as they say, In the old prime were fashioned in one day ; And therefore thou delightest evermore With her to lie and play The summer hours away,- Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. She is a married matron long ago, With nations at her side ; her milk doth flow Each year : but thee no husband dares to tame ; Thy wild will is thine own, Thy sole and virgin throne — Thy mood is ever changing — thy resolve the same. Sunlight and moonlight minister to thee ; — O'er the broad circle of the shoreless sea HYMN TO THE SEA. 145 Heaven's two great lights for ever set and rise ; While the round vault above, In vast and silent love, Is gazing down upon thee with his hundred eyes. All night thou utterest forth thy solemn moan, Counting the weary minutes all alone ; Then in the morning thou dost calmly lie, Deep-blue, ere yet the sun His day-work hath begun, Under the opening windows of the golden sky. The Spirit of the mountain looks on thee Over an hundred hills ; quaint shadows flee Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie Storm-mists of infant cloud, With a sight-baffling shroud Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high Into the tempest-cloud that blurs the sky, Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast, Whose stiff breath, whistling shrill, Pierces with deadly chill [mast. The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered Foam-white along the border of the shore Thine onward leaping billows plunge and roar ; While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide Cloaked figures, dim and grey, Through the thick mist of spray, [tide. Watchers for some struck vessel in the boiling TT. II. o 14c NEW YEAR S DAY. Daughter and darling of remotest eld — Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld ; His arm is feeble, and his eye is dim : He tells old tales again — He wearies of long pain : — Thou art as at the first : thou journeyedst not with him. ALFORD. NEW YEAR'S DAY. The year is born to-day — methinks it hath A chilly time of it ; for down the sky The flaky frost-cloud stretches, and the Sun Lifted his large light from the Eastern plains, With gloomy mist-enfolded countenance, And garments rolled in blood. Under the haze Along the face of the waters, gather fast Sharp spikes of the fresh ice — as if the year That died last night had dropt down suddenly In his full strength of genial government, Prisoning the sharp breath of the Northern winds ; "Who now burst forth and revel unrestrained Over the new king's months of infancy. The bells rung merrily when the old year died ; He past away in music ; his death-sleep Closed on him like the slumber of a child When a sweet hymn in a sweet voice above him Takes up into its sound his gentle being. ; TO THE SONS OF BURNS. 147 And we will raise to him two monuments ; One where he died, and one where he lies buried ; One in the pealing of those midnight bells, Their swell and fall, and varied interchange, The tones that come again upon the spirit In years far off, mid unshaped accidents ; — And one in the deep quiet of the soul, The mingled memories of a thousand moods Of joy and sorrow ; — and his epitaph Shall be upon him — " Here lie the remains Of one, who was less valued while he lived, Than thought on when he died." ALFORD. TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THE TOMB OF THEIR FATHER. Mid crowded obelisks and urns I sought the untimely grave of Burns ; Sons of the bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true ; And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you ! Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill ; And more than common strength and skill Must ye display, If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. PT. II, 148 TO THE SONS OF BUJtNS. Hath nature strung your nerves to bear Intemp' ranee with less harm, beware ! But if the poet's wit ye share, Like him can speed The social hour — for tenfold care There will be need. Even honest men delight will take To spare your failings for his sake, Will natter you ; — and fool and rake Your steps pursue, And of your father's name will make A snare for you. Far from their noisy haunts retire, And add your voices to the choir That sanctify the cottage fire With service meet ; There seek the glories of your sire, — His spirit greet. Or where, mid " lonely heights and hows-, He paid to nature tuneful vows ; Or wiped his honourable brows Bedew' d with toil, While reapers strove, or busy ploughs Upturn' d the soil: His judgment with benignant ray Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way ; But ne'er to a seductive lay Let faith be given ; Nor deem that "light which leads astray Is light from Heaven/' VOICE OF THE WIND. 149 Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; Be independent, generous, brave ; Your father such example gave, And such revere ; But be admonish' d by his grave, And think and fear ! WORDSWORTH. VOICE OE THE WIND. Constancy On all things works for good ; the barren breeds, The fluent stops, the fugitive is fixed By constancy. I told you, did I not, The story of the wind, how he himself, The desultory wind, was wrought upon ? The wind, when first he rose and went abroad Through the waste region, felt himself at fault, Wanting a voice ; and suddenly to earth Descended with a wafture and a swoop, Where, wandering volatile from kind to kind, He wooed the several trees to give him one. First, he besought the ash ; the voice she lent Fitfully, with a free and lashing change, Flung here and there its sad uncertainties : The aspen next ; a flutter' d frivolous twitter Was her sole tribute : from the willow came, So long as dainty summer dressed her out, A whispering sweetness ; but her winter note Was hissing, dry, and reedy : lastly, the pine PT. ii. o 2 150 THE POOR BLIND MAN. Did he solicit, and from her he drew A voice so constant soft, and lowly deep, That there he rested, welcoming in her A mild memorial of the ocean-cave "Where he was born. H. TAYLOR. THE POOR BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL. There is a poor blind man, who, every day, In frost or snow, in sunshine or in rain, Duly as tolls the bell to the high fane, Explores with faltering footsteps his dark way, To kneel before his Maker, and to hear The chanted service pealing full and clear. Ask why, alone, in the same spot he kneels Through the long year ? Oh, the wide world is cold As dark to him : here he no longer feels His sad bereavement — faith and hope uphold His heart ; he feels not he is poor and blind, Amid th' unpitying tumult of mankind : His soul is in the choir above the skies, And songs far off of angel companies. Oh happy, if the rich, the vain, the proud, The pageant actors of the motley crowd, — Since life is "a poor play'r," our days a span, Would learn one lesson from this poor blind man. BOWLES. 151 RURAL SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. Youth repairs His wasted spirits quickly, by long toil Incurring short fatigue ; and though our years, As life declines, speed rapidly away, And not a year but pilfers as he goes Some youthful grace that age would gladly keep, A tooth or auburn lock, and by degrees Their length and colour from the locks they spare, The elastic spring of an unwearied foot That mounts the stile with ease, or leaps the fence, That play of lungs inhaling and again Respiring freely the fresh air, that makes Swift pace or steep ascent no toil to me ; Mine have not pilfer' d yet ; nor yet impair' d My relish of fair prospect ; scenes that sooth' d Or charm' d me young, no longer young I find Still soothing, and of power to charm me still. And witness, dear companion of my walks, Whose arm this twentieth winter I perceive Fast lock'd in mine, with pleasure such as love, Confirm' d by long experience of thy worth And well-tried virtues, could alone inspire, Witness a joy that thou hast doubled long. Thou know'st my praise of nature most sincere, And that my raptures are not conjured up To serve occasions of poetic pomp, But genuine, and art partner of them all. How oft upon yon eminence our pace 152 RURAL SIGHTS AND SOUNDS. Has slacken' d to a pause, and we have borne The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it b]ew ; While admiration, feeding at the eye And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene ! Thence with what pleasure have we just discern' d The distant plough slow-moving, and beside His labouring team that swerved not from the track, The sturdy swain diminish' d to a boy ! Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er, Conducts the eye along his sinuous course Delighted. There, fast rooted in his bank, Stand, never overlook' d, our favourite elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ; While far beyond and overthwart the stream, That as with molten glass inlays the vale, The sloping land recedes into the clouds, Displaying on its varied side the grace Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower, Tall spire from which the sound of cheerful bells Just undulates upon the listening ear ; Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote. Scenes must be beautiful which, daily view'd, Please daily, and whose novelty survives Long knowledge and the scrutiny of years : Praise justly due to those which I describe. Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exhilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds, That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood RURAL SIGHTS AXD SOUNDS. 153 Of ancient growth, make music not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods, or on the softer voice Of neighbouring fountain, or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that with a livelier green Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, But animated nature sweeter still, To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The livelong night : nor these alone whose n*otes Nice-finger' d art must emulate in vain, But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime In still repeated circles, screaming loud, The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me : Sounds inharmonious in themselves and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there please highly for their sake. PEACE. I have found peace in the bright earth, And in the sunny sky ; PT. II. 154 children's glee. By the low voice of summer seas, And where streams murmur by. I find it in the quiet tone Of voices that I love ; By the nickering of a twilight fire, And in a leafless grove : I find it in the silent flow Of solitary thought, In calm half-meditated dreams, And reasonings self-taught. But seldom have I found such peace As in the soul's deep joy, Of passing onward free from harm Through every day's employ. If gems we seek, we only tire, And lift our hopes too high : The constant flowers that line our way Alone can satisfy. ALFORD. CHILDREN'S GLEE. It was a gladsome sight to see The Indian children, with what glee They breathed their native air of liberty. Food, to the weary man with toil forespent, Not more refreshment brings, Than did the forest breeze upon its wings - NATIONAL STRENGTH. 155 To these true younglings of the wilderness : A happy sight, a sight of heart's content ! For blithe were they As swallows, wheeling in the summer sky At close of day ; As insects, when on high Their mazy dance they thread, In myriads overhead, Where sunbeams through the thinner foliage gleam, Or spin in rapid circles as they play, Where winds are still, Upon the surface of the unrippled stream : Yea, gamesome in their innocence were they As lambs in fragrant pasture, at their will The udder when to press, They run for hunger less Than joy, and very love, and wantonness. SOUTHEY. NATIONAL STRENGTH. What is it makes a nation truly great ? Her sons ; her sons alone ; not their.s, but they ! Glory and gold are vile as wind and clay, Unless the hands that grasp them consecrate. And what is that in man, by which a state Is clad in splendour like the noontide day ? Virtue : Dominion ebbs, and Arts betray ; Virtue alone abides. But what is that PT. II. 156 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. Which Virtue's self doth rest on ; that which yields her Light for her feet, and daily heavenly bread ; Which from demoniac pride and madness shields her, And storms that most assail the loftiest head? The Christian's humble faith — that faith which cheers The orphan's quivering heart, and stays the wi- dow's tears. AUBREY DE VERE. 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 ! The sea, that bares her bosom to the moon ; The winds, that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd 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 out-worn ; So might 1, 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. WORDSWORTH. 157 WRITTEN AT SUNRISE ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Earth has not any thing to shew more fair : Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning : silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill ; Ne'er saw I, never felt a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Ah me, the very houses seem asleep, And all that mighty heart is lying still ! WORDSWORTH. WORK WITHOUT HOPE. &ty $oet in Bespotxtetug. All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — And Winter slumbering in the open air Wears on his face a dream of spring ! And I the while the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. PT. II. p 158 MTJSIC. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, ye amaranths, bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul 1 Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live. S. T. COLERLDGE. MUSIC. LORENZO. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank ! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica : look, how the floor of heaven Is thick inlay' d with patines of bright gold ; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims. Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. — Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn, With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear, And draw her home with music. TIME. 159 JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. LORENZO. The reason is, your spirits are attentive : For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing loud, Which is the high condition of their blood ; If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music : therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But Music for the time doth change his nature : The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections dark as Erebus ; Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. SHAKSPERE. TIME. " Why sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle, so stern and grey ? Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it pass'd away?" PT. II. 160 A LILY BY MOONLIGHT. " Know'st thou not me?" the deep voice cried, " So long enjoy'd, so oft misused; Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desir'd, neglected, and accused ? Before my breath, like blazing flax, Man and his marvels pass away ; And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay. Redeem mine hours ; — the space is brief, While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief When time and thou shall part for ever !" TO A LILY FLOWERING BY MOONLIGHT. Oh, why, thou lily pale, Lov'st thou to blossom in the wan moonlight, And shed thy rich perfume upon the night? When all thy sisterhood, In silken cowl and hood, Screen their soft faces from the sickly gale, Fair-horned Cynthia wooes thy modest flower, And with her beaming lips Thy kisses cold she sips, For thou art aye her only paramour ; What time she nightly quits her starry bower, Trick'd in celestial light, And silver crescent bright. GOOD MORROW, 161 Oh, ask thy vestal queen, If she will thee advise, Where in the blessed skies That maiden may be seen, [day, "Who hung, like thee, her pale head through the Love-sick and pining for the evening ray ; And lived a maiden chaste amid the folly Of this bad world, and died of melancholy ? Oh, tell me where she dwells ! So on thy mournful bells Shall Dian nightly fling Her tender sighs to give thee fresh perfume, Her pale night-lustre to enhance thy bloom, And find thee tears to feed thy sorrowing. ROSCOE. GOOD MORROW. You that have spent the silent night In sleep and quiet rest, And joy to see the cheerful light That riseth in the east ; Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, Come help me now to sing ; Each willing wight come bear a part To praise the heav'nly King. And you whom care in prison keeps, Or sickness doth suppress, Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, Or dolours do distress ; PT. II. p 2 [62 GOOD MORROW. Yet bear a part in dolefulwise, Yea, think it good accord, And acceptable sacrifice, Each sprite to praise the Lord. The dreadful night with darksomeness Had overspread our light, And sluggish sleep with drowsiness Had overprest our might : A glass wherein you may behold Each storm that stops our breath ; Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death. Yet as this dreadful night did last But for a little space, And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth shew his pleasant face ; So must we hope to see God's face At least in heaven on high, When we have chang'd this mortal place For immortality. And of such haps and heav'nly joys As then we hope to hold, All earthly sight and worldly toys Are tokens to behold, The day is like the day of doom, The sun the Son of man, The skies the heaven, the earth the tomb Wherein we rest till then. GOOD MORROW. 163 The rainbow bending in the sky, Bedeck' d with sundry hues, Is like the seat of God on high, And seems to tell these news : That as thereby He promised To drown the world no more, So by the blood which Christ hath shed He will our health restore. The misty clouds that fall sometime, And overcast the skies, Are like to troubles of our time Which do but dim our eyes : But as such dews are dried up quite When Phoebus shews his face, So are such fancies put to flight When God doth guide by grace. The little birds which sing so sweet Are like the angels' voice, Which render God His praises meet, And teach us to rejoice : And as they more esteem that mirth Than dread the night's annoy, So must we deem our days on earth But hell to heavenly joy. Unto which joys for to attain God grant us all His grace, And send us, after worldly pain, In heaven to have a place ; FT. II. 164 PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. Where we may still enjoy that light Which never shall decay : Lord, for Thy mercy, lend us might To see that joyful day. GASCOIGNE. PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. We are kindly things, And like her offspring nestle with the dove, — Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings To shew our constant patronage of love : We sit at even in sweet bow'rs above Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air To mingle with their sighs, and still remove The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear Their privacy, and haunt some other where. And we are near the mother when she sits Beside her infant in its wicker bed ; And we are in the fairy scene that flits Across its tender brain ; sweet dreams we shed, And whilst the tender little soul is fled Away, to sport with our young elves, the while We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red, And tickle the soft lips until they smile, So that their careful parents they beguile. $Mttl MORNING HYMN. WAKE, my soul, and with the sun Thy daily course of duty run ; Shake off dull sloth, and joyful rise To pay thy morning sacrifice. Thy precious time misspent redeem ; Each precious day thy last esteem ; Improve thy talent with due care, For the great day thyself prepare. In conversation be sincere, Keep conscience as the noontide clear, Think how all-seeing God thy ways And all thy secret thoughts surveys. By influence of the light divine, Let thy own light to others shine ; Reflect all heaven's propitious rays In ardent love and cheerful praise. 168 MORNING HT2MN. Wake, and lift thyself, my heart, And with the angels bear thy part, Who all night long unwearied sing High praises to th' eternal King. I wake, I wake ! — ye heavenly choir, May your devotion me inspire ; That I like you my age may spend, Like you may on my God attend. May I like you in God delight, Have all day long my God in sight, Perform, like you, my Maker's will — Oh, may I never more do ill ! Had I your wings, to heaven I'd fly ; But God shall that defect supply, And my soul, wing'd with warm desire, Shall all day long to heaven aspire. All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, And hast refresh' d me whilst I slept. Grant, Lord, when I from death shall wake, I may of endless light partake. I would not wake, nor rise again, Even heaven itself I would disdain, Wert not Thou there to be enjoy'd, And I in hymns to be employ'd. Heaven is, dear Lord, where'er Thou art ; Oh, never, then, from me depart ; For to my soul 'tis hell to be But for one moment void of Thee. EVENING HYMN. 169 Lord, I my vows to Thee renew ; Disperse my sins as morning dew ; Guard my first springs of thought and will, And with Thyself my spirit fill. Direct, control, suggest, this day, All I design, or do, or say ; That all my powers, with all their might, In Thy sole glory may unite. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow j Praise Him, all creatures here below ; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. EVENING HYMN. All praise to Thee, my God, this night, For all the blessings of the light ; Keep me, oh, keep me, King of kings, Beneath Thy own almighty wings ! Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son, The ill that I this day have done ; That with the world, myself, and Thee, I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed ; To die, that this vile body may Rise glorious at the awful day. Q 170 EVENING HYMN. Oh, may my soul on Thee repose, And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close — Sleep, that may me more vig'rous make To serve my God when I awake. "When in the night I sleepless lie, My soul with heavenly thoughts supply ; Let no ill dreams disturb my rest, No powers of darkness me molest. Dull sleep ! — of sense me to deprive ; I am but half my time alive ; Thy faithful lovers, Lord, are griev'd, To He so long of Thee bereav'd. But though sleep o'er my frailty reigns, Let it not hold me long in chains ; And now and then let loose my heart, Till it an hallelujah dart. The faster sleep the senses binds, The more unfetter' d are our minds : Oh, may my soul, from matter free, Thy loveliness unclouded see ! Oh, when shall I, in endless day, For ever chase dark sleep away : And hymns with the supernal choir Incessant sing, and never tire ? Oh, may my guardian, while I sleep, Close to my bed his vigils keep ; His love angelical instil, Stop all the avenues of ill. MIDNIGHT HYMN. 171 May he celestial joy rehearse, And thought to thought with me converse ; Or in my stead, all the night long, Sing to my God a grateful song. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; Praise Him, all creatures here below ; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. MIDNIGHT HYMN. My God, now I from sleep awake, The sole possession of me take ; From midnight terrors me secure, And guard my heart from thoughts impure. Blest angels ! while we silent lie, You hallelujahs sing on high ; You joyful hymn the Ever-blest Before the throne, and never rest. I with your choir celestial join, In offering up a hymn divine : With you in heaven I hope to dwell, And bid the night and world farewell. My soul, when I shake off this dust, Lord, in Thy arms I will intrust : Oh, make me Thy peculiar care, Some mansion for my soul prepare. 172 MIDNIGHT HYMN. Give me a place at Thy saints' feet, Or some fall'n angel's vacant seat : I'll strive to sing as loud as they Who sit above in brighter day. Oh, may I always ready stand, With my lamp burning in my hand ; May I in sight of heaven rejoice, Whene'er I hear the Bridegroom's voice. All praise to Thee, in light array' d, Who light Thy dwelling-place hast made ; A boundless ocean of bright beams From Thy ail-glorious Godhead streams. The sun, in its meridian height, Is very darkness in Thy sight : My soul, oh, lighten and inflame With thought and love of Thy great name ! Blest Jesu ! Thou, on heaven intent, Whole nights hast in devotion spent ; But I, frail creature, soon am tired, And all my zeal is soon expired. My soul ! how canst thou weary grow Of antedating bliss below, In sacred hymns and heavenly love, Which will eternal be above ? Shine on me, Lord ; new life impart ; Fresh ardours kindle in my heart : One ray of Thy all-quick' ning light Dispels the sloth and clouds of night ! CHRISTMAS MORNING. 173 Lord, lest the tempter me surprise, Watch over Thine own sacrifice ; All loose, all idle thoughts cast out, And make my very dreams devout. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; Praise Him, all creatures here below ; Praise Him above, ye heavenly host ; Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. CHRISTMAS MORNING, &fje &tiiintt of ©fm'st our ILorfc. He might have come in regal pomp, With pealing of archangel' s trump, — And angel-blast as loud and dread As that which shall awake the dead : His lightning might have scar'd the night, Streaming insufferable light ; His thunder deep'ning peal on peal, Have made earth to her centre reel, Deep voices, such as shook with fear, At Sinai's base, the favour'd seer; The wing of whirlwind might have borne Him ; The trampling earthquake gone before Him : — He might have come, — that Holy One, With millions round His awful throne, Countless as are the sands that lie On burning plains of Araby ; q2 1 74 SUNDAY. And arm'd for vengeance, — who might stand Before each conquering red right hand ? He came not thus ; no earthquake shock Shivered the everlasting rock ; No trumpet blast, nor thunder peal, Made earth through all her regions reel ; And but for the mysterious voicing Of that unearthly quire rejoicing ; And but for that strange herald-gem, The star which burn'd o'er Bethlehem, The shepherds, on His natal morn, Had known not that their God was born. There were no terrors, for the song Of peace rose from the seraph throng ; On wings of love He came, to save, To pluck pale terror from the grave ; And on the bloodstain' d Calvary He won for man the victory. H. CARRINGTON. SUNDAY. day most calm, most bright, The indorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ; The couch of time ; care's balm and bay ; The week were dark but for thy light : Thy torch doth shew the way. SUNDAY. 175 The other days and thou Make up one man, whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow ; The working days are the back part ; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow, Till thy release appear. The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King. On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope ; Blessings are plentiful and rife, More plentiful than hope. The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake which, at His passion, Did the earth and all things with it move. As Samson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, And did unhinge that day. The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence : Wherefore that robe we cast away, Having a new at His expense, Whose drops of blood paid the full price, That was required to make us gay, And fit for paradise. 176 ANGELS. Thou art a day of mirth ; And where the week-days trail on ground, Thy flight is higher, as thy birth ; Oh, let me take thee at the bound, Leaping with thee from, seven to seven, Till that we both, being toss'd from earth, Fly hand in hand to heaven ! ANGELS. And is there care in heaven ? and is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move ? There is : — else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts: but, oh, the 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 the wicked man, to serve his wicked foe! How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succour us that succour want ! How oft do they with 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 men have such regard ! 177 THE LARK AND THE DOVE. They that are merry, let them sing, And let the sad hearts pray : Let those still ply their cheerful wing, And these their sober lay. So mounts the early warbling lark Still upward to the skies ; So sits the turtle in the dark, Amidst her plaintive cries. And yet the lark, and yet the dove, Both sing, though different parts ; And so should we, howe'er we move, With light or heavy hearts. Or rather, we should each essay, And our cross notes unite ; Both grief and joy should sing and pray, Since both such hopes invite, — Hopes that all present sorrow heal, All present joy transcend ; Hopes to possess, and taste, and feel Delights that never end. PART OF PSALM CXXXVII. By the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, There we sate, and there we wept ; 178 PSALM CXLVIII. Our harps, that now no music understood, Nodding on the willows, slept ; While unhappy, captiv'd we, Lovely Sion, thought on thee. They, they that snatch' d us from our country's breast, Would^have a song carv'd to their ears, In Hebrew numbers, then, (O cruel jest !) When harps and hearts were drown' d in tears : " Come," they cried, " come, sing and play One of Sion's songs to-day!" Sing ! — Play ! — to whom, ah ! shall we sing and play, If not, Jerusalem, to thee ? Ah, thee, Jerusalem ! Ah, sooner may This hand forget the mastery Of music's dainty touch, than I The music of thy memory. CRASHAW. PSALM CXLVIII. Ye who dwell above the skies Free from human miseries, You whom highest heaven embowers, Praise the Lord with all your powers. Angels, your clear voices raise, Him your heavenly armies praise ; PSALM CXLVIII. 179 Sun, and moon with borrow' d light, All you sparkling eyes of night, Waters hanging in the air, Heaven of heavens His praise declare. • His deserved praise record, His who made you by His Word, Made you evermore to last, Set you bounds not to be past. Let the earth His praise resound, Monstrous whales and seas profound ; Vapours, Kghtnings, hail and snow, Storms which when He bids them blow ; Flowery hills and mountains high ; Cedars, neighbours to the sky ; Trees that fruit in season yield ; All the cattle of the field, Savage beasts, all creeping things, All that cut the air with wings ; You who awful sceptres sway, You inured to obey, Princes, judges of the earth, All of high and humble birth ; Youths and virgins flourishing In the beauty of your spring, You who bow with age's weight, You who were but born of late ; Praise His Name with one consent. Oh, how great ! how excellent ! Than the earth prof o under far, Higher than the highest star, 180 CATECHISM. He will us to honour raise : You, His saints, resound His praise ; You who are of Jacob's race, * And united to His grace. SANDYS. CATECHISM. Oh, say not, dream not, heavenly notes To childish ears are vain ; That the young mind at random floats, And cannot reach the strain. Dim or unheard the words may fall, And yet the heaven-taught mind May learn the sacred air, and all The harmony unwind. Was not our Lord a little child, Taught by degrees to pray ; By father dear, and mother mild, Instructed day by day ? And lov'd He not of heaven to talk, With children in His sight ; To meet them in His daily walk, And to His arms invite ? What though around His throne of fire The everlasting chant Be wafted from the seraph-choir In glory jubilant ! CATECHISM. 181 Yet stoops He, ever pleas' d to mark Our rude essays of love, Faint as the pipe of wakening lark, Heard by some twilight grove. Yet is He near us, to survey These bright and order' d files, Like spring- flow' rs in their best array, All silence and all smiles. Save that each little voice in turn Some glorious truth proclaims, What sages would have died to learn, Now taught by cottage dames. And if some tones be false or low, What are all pray'rs beneath But cries of babes, that cannot know Half the deep thoughts they breathe ? In His own words we Christ adore ; But angels, as we speak, Higher above our meaning soar Than we o'er children weak. And yet His words mean more than they, And yet He owns their praise : Why should we think He turns away From infants' simple lays ? 182 VENI CREATOR. Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev'ry pious mind ; Come, pour Thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make Thy temples worthy Thee. Source of uncreated light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete! Thrice-holy fount, thrice-holy fire, Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire ; Come, and Thy sacred unction bring, To sanctify us while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in Thy sevenfold energy ! Thou strength of His almighty hand, Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, "Who dost the gift of tongues dispense, And crown' st Thy gift with eloquence ; Refine and purge our earthly parts ; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul ; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay Thine hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; DEPARTED SAINTS, 183 And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way. Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe ; Give us Thyself, that we may see The Father and the Son by Thee. Immortal honour, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's Name ; The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man's redemption died; And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to Thee ! DRYDEN. FROM THE FUNERAL SERVICE. Man that is born of woman, short his time, And full of woe ! he springeth like a flower, Or like the grass, that, green at morning prime, Is cut and withereth ere the evening hour ; Never doth he continue in one stay, But like a shadow doth he pass away. Yet not for ever, Lord God most high ! Saviour ! yet not for ever shall we die ! CONTEMPLATION OF DEPARTED SAINTS. They are all gone into a world of light, And I alone sit lingering here ; 184 THE DEAD. 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 with which yon hill is drest After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days ; My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmerings and decays. Dear beauteous death, the jewel of the just, Shining no where but in the dark ; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark ! H. VAUGHAN. THE DEAD. Name them not dead — the faithful whom Green earth closed lately o'er ; Nor search within the silent tomb For those who " die no more." The cold earth hides them from our love, But not from His who pleads above. They passed, as all must pass, the deep Dread portals of the grave ; But not in dull decay they sleep Whom Jesus died to save. THE DEAD. 185 To mortal eye their path is dim ; But 'tis enough — they rest in Him. We saw the momentary cloud, The pale eclipse of mind, From earthly sight that came to shroud The deathless ray behind : A moment more, the shade is gone, The sun, the spirit, burneth on. To die ! 'tis but to pass, all free, From Death's dominion here, — To burst the bonds of earth, and flee From every mortal fear, — To plunge within that gulf untried, And stand beyond it glorified. Thou weep' st— perchance they weep for thee, If heavenly tear can flow, To think of all the ills that be In this sad world below. Oh ! not for all its climes contain Would they return to earth again. Yet weep, for earth's a vale of care, And they who mourn are blest, If He who hears the mourner's prayer Send comfort to the breast : If hallowed hope break through the gloom, Earth hath no teacher like the tomb. IRISH PAPER. 186 SONNET. Rise, said the Master ; come unto the feast : — She heard the call, and rose with willing feet ; But thinking it not otherwise than meet For such a bidding to put on her best, She is gone from us for a few short hours Into her bridal-closet, there to wait For the unfolding of the palace-gate, That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. We have not seen her yet, though we have been Full often to her chamber-door, and oft Have listened underneath the postern green, And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft; But she hath made no answer, and the day From the clear west is fading fast away. , LUMLETS WORKS FOR THE YOUNG. Hauff, Popular Tales. — The Caravan, Sheik of Alex- andria, Emperor's Portrait, Cold Heart, and Twelve other Tales, translated, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. History, Fragments of. — Narratives of the most re- markable events in Ancient and Modern Times. By the Eev. H. P. Du:\- ster, cloth, 3s. Household Tales ; or Traditions of England, France, Germany, etc. 21 engravings, Is. 6d. Johnson (Dr.) Life by Boswell. — Adapted, by the Eev. J. F. Russell, cloth, frontispiece, 3s. Lays and Ballads. — Chiefly from English History. By S. M. (Miss Smedley), cloth gilt, 2s. 6d. Legends and Traditions. — Elegantly bound in cloth ornamented, gilt leaves, 21 fine woodcuts, 3s. Contents: Wild Huntsman, Chase, Crooked Back, Lucky Hans, Frog Prince, Northumberland Dwarfs, Snow Flake, Lord of the Bloody Hand, Thorn Rose, &c. Lieslie. — A Swiss Tale, from the German of Clauren. This popular story has been translated into almost every European language. Also Heinrich and. Blanca, or the Three Brothers, engravings, 6d. Louis, or Little Emigrant, and other Stories: King and Woodman, May Day, Lost Child. Square, cloth elegant,giit leaves, cuts,2s. Lucy and Arthur. — Domestic Tale. Cloth, gt. leaves, 2s. Manzoni, I Promessi Sposi. — The only complete translation of this remarkable work. In Two volumes, small 8vo., fancy covers, with 60 beautiful vignettes, 7s. The Martyr of Carthage. — A Tale exemplifying Life and Times of St. Cyprian. By Rev. E. Wilson. Cloth, 2s. Musaeus, Popular Tales. — A selection of the most popular and pleasing Tales, from the German. Cloth, 6 fine engravings, 2s. Natural History of Quadrupeds and Birds, interspersed withe Anecdotes. Cloth, fine illustrations, 3s., pub. at 4s. Gd. Newman, John Henry. — History of the Arians of tho Fourth Century; their Doctrine, Temper, Conduct. An exact reprint, Svo., cloth, 10s. 6d. Northern Minstrelsy. — This volume containSjJjjK) of the Choicest Poems and Songs of Scotland, AncientoanA Modern. Beau- tiful Book, exquisitely illustrated. Cloth, 2s. P7 f\ \ Nursery Rhymes, Tales, Jingles. — An excellent se- lection of English Nursery Traditional Literature. Exquisitely printed, in unique style, with elegant borders, ornamental designs, also Wood Eh vings on every page. Small quarto, red cloth, handsomely gilt, witli bossed gilt leaves, 70 exquisite Woodcuts of the highest order of excel]' by Cope, Ilorsloy, Dyce, &c, Gs. Peter Schlemihl ; or, History of the Shadowless Man. New Edition. 6 engraving.-., Cd. Pichler (Caroline), Tales. — Swedes in Prague and f'ninim Matsvs. From the German, Cloth gilt, 2s. ♦ o5 "^ ^ .** an ^ y ^ * **' x * ' * , ^ t N G ■ -^ x ^ **\ "> » ' ,-A* *^ **"* ' " ..7."- V A^ c ' ' *> ©cr ' '* ^ ^ V> ^v \ • ^ o& C*V t* 's LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 013 978 786 9 * 1 m I BHHMMlM was H Hi Hi H i III i IH m I 1111 bhrh Hi H ll