GEORGE WITHER. HYMN FOR ANNIVERSARY MAR RIAGE DAYS. LORD, living here are we― As fast united yet As when our hands and hearts by Thee Together first were knit. And in a thankful song Now sing we will Thy praise, For that Thou dost as well prolong Together we have now Begun another year; But how much time Thou wilt allow That live and love we may. Let each of other's wealth Preserve a faithful care, The frowardness that springs Or from those troublous outward things Which may distract the mind, Permit Thou not, O Lord, Our constant love to shakeOr to disturb our true accord, Or make our hearts to ache. But let these frailties prove FROM "POVERTY." THE works my calling doth propose, Let me not idly shun; For he whom idleness undoes, Is more than twice undone: If my estate enlarge I may, Enlarge my love for Thee; For be we poor or be we rich, Nor poverty nor wealth is that The rich in love obtain from Thee The poor in spirit those men be The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the dayThose 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 Yet we are neither just nor wise I therefore do not so bemoan, Lord, keep me faithful to the trust Yet neither life nor death should end 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, The Lord of heaven and earth was pleased A servant's form to undertake; | And serve with gladness for His sake: were. He was reviled, yet naught replied, In part I always faulty am: And act an humble servant's part, TO MARY. CHARLES WOLFE. 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 And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain! 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, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; I do not think, where'er thou art, In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 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; NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral And we heard the distant and ran GO, FORGET ME. Go, forget me- why should sorrow O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me- and to-morrow Brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile though I shall not be near thee, Sing, though I shall never hear thee; Like the sun, thy presence glowing, That they nothing seem without thee; By that pure and lucid mind Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, Glory's burning, generous swell, SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell! Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose The orchard, the meadow, the deep-The tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my in- The wide-spreading pond, and the The cot of my father, the dairy-house That moss-covered vessel I hailed as For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure The purest and sweetest that nature can yield How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, from the well old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy As, Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 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 bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. [From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above | In hours of weariness, sensations 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, 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, |