Heed not flowers that round thee bloom, Hafte not let no thoughtless deed Reft not! life is sweeping by, Hafte not! reft not! calmly wait; Do the right, whate'er betide! From the German of Goethe. 1768. PRAYER. EXHORTATION TO PRAYER. N Compose thy weary limbs to reft; For they alone are bleft Whom angels keep; Nor, though by care oppreffed, Or anxious sorrow, Or thought in many a coil perplexed For coming morrow, Lay not thy head On prayerless bed. For who can tell, when fleep thine eye fhall close, That earthly cares and woes To thee may e'er return? Arouse, my soul! Slumber control, And let thy lamp burn brightly; So fhall thine eyes discern Things pure and fightly; To lay thine unblest head. Haft thou no pining want, or wish, or care, Has thy day been so bright There is no trace of sorrow? Will be like this, and more Abundant? Doft thou yet lay up thy ftore, Thy soul may wing its flight. Haft thou no being than thyself more dear, The wintry, lowering sky, For whom thou wak'ft and weepest? O, then, on prayerless bed Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to flumber! Till in communion bleft With the elect ye reft, Those souls of countless number; And with them raise The note of praise, So lay thy happy head, Margaret Mercer. PRAYER. "I will, therefore, that men pray everywhere, lifting up holy hands, without wrath and doubting." I TIM. ii. 8. E not afraid to pray, to pray is right. BE Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever pray, Though hope be weak, or sick with long delay; Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. Far is the time, remote from human fight, When war and discord on the earth fhall cease; Yet every prayer for universal peace Avails the bleffed time to expedite. Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of Heaven, Though it be what thou canst not hope to see; Pray to be perfect, though material leaven But if for any wish thou darest not pray, Hartley Coleridge. 1840. THE PRAYERS I MAKE. THE HE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, If Thou the spirit give by which I pray; My unaffifted heart is barren clay, That of its native self can nothing feed; Of good and pious works Thou art the seed That quickens only where Thou sayft it may. Unless Thou fhow to us Thy own true way, No man can find it: Father! Thou must lead; Do Thou then breathe those thoughts into my mind By which such virtue may in me be bred That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread; The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, That I may have the power to fing to Thee, And sound Thy praises everlastingly! Michel Angelo. Transl. by Wordsworth. 1474-1564. 6 |