« ZurückWeiter »
HYMN FOR ANNIVERSARY MARRIAGE DAYS.
Lord, living here are we —
As fast united yet As when our hands and hearts by
Together first were knit. And in a thankful song
Now sing we will Thy praise, For that Thou dost as well prolong
Our loving, as our days.
Together we have now
Begun another year; But how much time Thou wilt allow
Thou makest it not appear. We. therefore, do implore
That live and love we may. Still so as if but one day more
Together we should stay.
Let each of other's wealth
Preserve a faithful care,
As if one soul we were.
Each other not to grieve, As if we daily were to take
Our everlasting leave.
The frowardness that springs
From our corrupted kind, Or from those troublous outward things
Which may distract the mind, Permit Thou not, O Lord,
Our constant love to shake — Or to disturb our true accord,
Or make our hearts to ache.
But let these frailties prove
Which wins the noblest prize.
And ruins all things else.
In whom perfection dwells.
The works my calling doth propose,
Let me not idly shun;
Is more than twice undone:
Enlarge my love for Thee; And though I more and more decay,
Yet let me thankful be.
For be we poor or be we rich,
If well employed we are,
Things needful to prepare;
As manna heretofore.
The strongest got no more.
Nor poverty nor wealth is that
Whereby we may acquire
Whereto we should aspire;
And strive to do my best,
A means of being blessed.
The rich in love obtain from Thee
Thy special gifts of grace; The poor in spirit those men be
Who shall behold Thy face: Lord! grant I may be one of these,
Thus poor, or else thus rich; E'en whether of the two Thou please,
I care not greatly which.
FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW.
How near me came the hand of death,
When at my side he struck my dear,
And now my life's delight is gone,
The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day — Those now by me, as they have been!
Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them shall seem hereafter as a dream.
All earthly comforts vanish thus —
I therefore do not so bemoan,
Lord, keep me faithful to the trust
Those helps which I through him enjoyed,
Let Thy continual aid supply — That, though some hopes in him are void,
I always may on Thee rely;
Unto Thine honor let it be, And for a blessing unto me.
FOR A SERVANT.
Discourage not thyself, my soul,
Our mean and much despised lot,
To be a servant is not base,
If baseness be not in the mind,
For servants make but good the place,
Whereto their Maker them assigned:
The greatest princes do no more,
And if sincerely I obey,
Though I am now despised and poor,
I shall become as great as they.
The Lord of heaven and earth was pleased
A servant's form to undertake;
He was reviled, yet naught replied,
In part I always faulty am:
John Wolcot (peter Pindar).
TO MY CANDLE.
Thou lone companion of the spec
tred night I I wake amid thy friendly watchful
To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep. Hark, the wild uproar of the winds!
and hark! [the dark,
Hell's genius roams the regions of And swells the thundering horrors of the deep!
From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies,
Now blackened, and now flashing through the skies; [beam. But all is silence here, beneath thy
I own 1 labor for the voice of praise — For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream?
Who would not live in songs of distant days?
• • * . •
How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire!
Ah! falling — falling — ready to expire!
In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er.
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap;
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,
Faint, lessening, quivering, glimmering, now no more! Thus shall the suns of science sink away,
And thus of beauty fade the fairest flower —
For where's the giant who to Time shall say, "Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power!"
If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed
The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last.
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And still the thought I will not brook,
But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene —
And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own; But there I lay thee in thy grave — And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
As fancy never could have drawn,
BUlllAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light.
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, I him;
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him!
But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory! We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.
GO, FORGET ME.
Go. forget me — why should sorrow
Go, forget me — and to-morrow
Smile — though I shall not be near thee,
Sing, though I shall never hear thee; May thy soul with pleasure shine Lasting as the gloom of mine.
Like the sun, thy presence glowing, Clothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him, art going, Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee;
By that pure and lucid mind
Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beaming — Hope and Beauty! fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted — Glory's burning, generous swell, Fancy, and the poet's shelL
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to this heart are the scenes
of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them
to view! — The orchard, the meadow, the deep
tangled wildwood. And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the
mill that stood by it; The bridge, and the rock where the
cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — [bucket, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as
a treasure; For often at noon, when returned
from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite
pleasure — The purest and sweetest that nature
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.
How sweet from the green, mossy
brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to
Not a full, blushing goblet could
tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry
And now, far removed from the loved
habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs
in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
[From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey.]
THE SOLACE OF NATURE.
Though absent long, These forms of beauty have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration: feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,
As may have had no trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life.