Specimens of English poetry. For the use of Charterhouse school

The heathen in his blindness,

Bows down to wood and stone!

Can we, whose souls are lighted

With Wisdom from on high,

Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! O, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd Messiah's name!

Waft, waft, ye winds, his story;
And you, ye waters, roll,
Till, like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole;
Till o'er our ransom'd nature,

The Lamb for sinners slain,
Redeemer, King, Creator,
In bliss returns to reign!

ON SOLITUDE.

It is not that my lot is low,
That bids the silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan;

It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,

When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,

250 OF THE BRIGHT THINGS IN EARTH AND AIR

My spirit takes another tone,

And sighs that it is all alone.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead—

It floats upon the water's bed;

I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!

The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;

I've none to smile when I am free;
And when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me and loves me too;
I start; and when the vision's flown,
weep that I am all alone.

K. WHITE.

THE BRIGHT THINGS IN EARTH AND

AIR.

Of the bright things in earth and air

How little can the heart embrace!

Soft shades and gleaming lights are there—
I know it well, but cannot trace.

Mine

eye unworthy seems to read
One page of Nature's beauteous book:
It lies before me, fair outspread—

I only cast a wishful look.

I cannot paint to Memory's eye

The scene, the glance, I dearest love—
Unchanged themselves, in me they die,
Or faint, or false, their shadows prove.

OF THE BRIGHT THINGS IN EARTH AND AIR. 251

In vain with dull and tuneless ear,
I linger by soft Music's cell,
And in my heart of hearts would hear

What to her own she deigns to tell.

'T is misty all, both sight and sound-
I only know 't is fair and sweet-
"T is wandering on enchanted ground
With dizzy brow and tottering feet.
But patience! there may come a time

When these dull ears shall scan aright
Strains, that outring Earth's drowsy chime,
As heaven outshines the taper's light.
These eyes, that dazzled now and weak,
At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King's* full glory break,

Nor from the blissful vision shrink:

In fearless love and hope uncloy'd
For ever on that ocean bright
Empower'd to gaze; and undestroy'd,
Deeper and deeper plunge in light.

Though scarcely now their laggard glance
Reach to an arrow's flight, that day

The region "very far away."

They shall behold, and not in trance,

If Memory sometimes at our spell
Refuse to speak, or speak amiss,

We shall not need her where we dwell

Ever in sight of all our bliss.

"Thine eyes shall see the King in his beauty: they shall behold

the land that is very far off."-ISAIAH, xxxiii. 17.

252 DEAR IS THE MORNING GALE OF SPRING.

Meanwhile, if over sea or sky

Some tender lights unnoticed fleet,
Or on loved features dawn and die,
Unread, to us, their lessons sweet;
Yet are there saddening sights around,
Which Heaven, in mercy, spares us too,
And we see far in holy ground,

If duly purged our mental view.

The distant landscape draws not nigh
For all our gazing; but the soul,
That upward looks, may still descry
Nearer each day, the brightening goal.
And thou, too curious ear, that fain
Wouldst thread the maze of Harmony,
Content thee with one simple strain,

The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee;
Till thou art duly train'd, and taught
The concord sweet of love divine:
Then, with that inward Music fraught,
For ever rise, and sing, and shine.

KEBLE.

DEAR IS THE MORNING GALE OF SPRING.

DEAR is the morning gale of Spring,

And dear the autumnal eve;

But few delights can Summer bring

A Poet's crown to weave.

Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,

And ever Fancy's wing

Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky,
To Autumn or to Spring.

Sweet is the infant's waking smile,

And sweet the old man's rest

But middle age by no fond wile,
No soothing calm, is blest.