Abbildungen der Seite

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 northwind's breath, And stars to set,— but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death.


Hush! 'tis a holy hour,— the quiet room

Seems like a temple, while yon soft lamp sheds

A faint and starry radiance, through the gloom And the sweet stillness, down on bright young heads,

With all their clustering locks, untouched by care,

And bowed, as flowers are bowed with night,— in prayer.

Gaze on,— 'tis lovely! — childhood's lip and cheek, Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought,

Gaze,— yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek, And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?

Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,

What death must fashion for eternity!

Oh! joyous creatures, that will sink to rest,

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done, As birds with slumber's honey-dew oppressed, 'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun,—

Lift up your hearts! — though yet no

sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those

clear eyes;

Though fresh within your breasts the untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread;

And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;

Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,

Is woman's tenderness,— how soon her woe.

Her lot is on you,— silent tears to weep,

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds,—a wasted shower! [clay. And to make idols, and to find them And to bewail that worship,— therefore pray!

Her lot is on you,— to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,

With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain. [decay, Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer And on! to love through all things,— therefore pray!

And take the thought of this calm

vesper time. With its low murmuring sounds

and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from

their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls

from blight. Earth will forsake,—oh! happy to

have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance

unto Heaven!


The breaking waves dashed high. On a stern and rock-bound coast,

And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark

On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums,

And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,

In silence and in fear; — They shook the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea;

And the sounding aisles of the dim
woods rang
To the anthem of the free!

The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam;

And the rocking pines of the forest roared — This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair
Amidst that pilgrim band:

Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?

Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ?—

They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod.

They have left unstained what there
they found —
Freedom to worship God.


Calm on the bosom of our God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!

E'en while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow.

Dust to its narrow house beneath!

Soul to its place on high! They that have seen thy look in death

No more may fear to die.

George Herbert.


When God at first made man, Having a glass of blessing standing by:

Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:

Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,

Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way; Then beauty flow'd, then wisdom,

honor, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made

a stay,

Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, Rest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he) Bestow this jewel also on my creature,

He would adore my gifts instead of


And rest in Nature, not the God of
So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness:

Let him be rich and weary, that at least,

If goodness lead him not, yet wearsness

May toss him to my breast.

[From the Church Porch ] ADVICE ON CHURCH BEHAVIOR.

When once thy foot enters the

church, be bare. God is more there than thou: for thou

art there

Only by his permission. Then beware,

And make thyself all reverence and fear.

Kneeling ne'er spoil'd silk stockings: quit thy state.

All equal are within the church's gate.

Resort to sermons, but to prayers most:

Praying's the end of preaching. O be drest;

Stay not for the other pin: why thou hast lost

A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell

doth jest Away thy blessings, and extremely

flout thee, Thy clothes being fast, but thy soul

loose about thee.

In time of service seal up both thine eyes,

And send them to thine heart; that spying sin,

They may weep out the stains by

them did rise: Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in. Who marks in church-time other

symmetry, Makes all their beauty his deformity.

Let vain or busy thoughts have there no part:

Bring not thy plough, thy plots, thy pleasure thither

Christ purged the temple; so must thou thy heart.

All worldly thoughts are but these met together To cozen thee. Look to thy actions well: For churches either are our heaven or hell.

Judge not the preacher; for he is thy judge:

If thou mislike him, thou conceivest him not.

God calleth preaching folly. Do not grudge

To pick out treasures from an earthen pot.

The worst speak something good: if all want sense,

God takes a text and preaches patience.

[From the Church Porch.]

Sum up at night, what thou hast

done by day; And in the morning, what thou hast

to do.

Dress and undress thy soul: mark

the decay And growth of it: if with thy watch

that too

Be down, then wind up both, since we shall be

Most surely judged, make thy accounts agree.

In brief, acquit thee bravely; play the

Look not on pleasures as they come, but go.

Defer not the least virtue; life's poor span

Make not an ell, by trifling in thy wo. If thou do ill, the joy fades, not the pains:

If well; the pain doth fade, the joy remains.


Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round! Parents first season us: then schoolmasters

Deliver us to laws: they send us bound

To rules of reason, holy messengers,

Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin,

Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes,

Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in,

Bibles laid open, millions of surprises,

Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness,

The sound of glory ringing in our ears;

Without, our shame; within, our consciences; Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.

Yet all these fences and their whole array

One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.


Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky;
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses.

A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;
But though the whole world turn to

Then chiefly lives.

Robert Herrick.


Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to


Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?

Age calls me hence, and my gray

hairs bid come, And haste away to mine eternal


'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this That I must give thee the supremest kiss.

Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring [spring, Part of the cream from that religious With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;

That done, then wind me in that very sheet


Which wrapt thy smooth limbs when

thou didst implore The gods' protection, but the night


Follow me weeping to my turf, and there

Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear.

Then lastly, let some weekly strew

ings be

Devoted to the memory of me; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep

Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep.


Ask me why I send you here
This sweet infanta of the year?
Ask me why I send to you
This primrose, thus bepearled with


I will whisper to your ears, The sweets of love are mixed with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow green and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer, these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.


Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who so soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir,
The earth that lightly covers her!


Virgins promised when I died,
That they would, each primrose-tide,
Duly morn and evening come,
And with flowers dress my tomb:
Having promised, pay your debts,
Maids, and here strew violets


Here she lies, in beds of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise;
For her beauty it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins, come, and in a ring
Her supremest requiem sing;
Then depart, but see ye tread
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead.


Frolic virgins once these were,
Over-loving, living here;
Being here their ends denied,
Ran for sweethearts mad and died.
Love, in pity of their tears,
And their loss of blooming years,
For their restless here-spent hours,
Gave them heart' s-ease turned to


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 in 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!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When his potion and his pill,
His or none or little skill,
Meet for nothing, but to kill —
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

« ZurückWeiter »