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George

HYMN FOR ANNIVERSARY MARRIAGE 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

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,
And of each other's joy and health

As if one soul we were.
Such conscience let us make,

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

Affection's exercise;
And let discretion teach our love

Which wins the noblest prize.
So time, which wears away.

And ruins all things else.
Shall fix our love on Thee for aye,

In whom perfection dwells.

Wither.

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; 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,
It neither helps nor hinders much,

Things needful to prepare;
Since God disposeth riches now,

As manna heretofore.
The feeblest gatherer got enow,

The strongest got no more.

Nor poverty nor wealth is that

Whereby we may acquire
That blessed and most happy state,

Whereto we should aspire;
But if Thy Spirit make me wise,

And strive to do my best,
There may be in the worst of these

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.

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FOR A WIDOWER OR WIDOW.

How near me came the hand of death,

When at my side he struck my dear,
And took away the precious breath
which quickened my beloved peer!
How helpless am I thereby made —
By day how grieved, by night how
sad

And now my life's delight is gone,
Alas! how am I left alone!

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 —
So little hold of them have we
That we from them or they from us
May in a moment ravished be;
Yet we are neither just nor wise
If present mercies we despise.
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.

I therefore do not so bemoan,
Though these beseeming tears I drop,
The loss of my beloved one
As they that are deprived of hope;
But in expressing of my grief
My heart receiveth some relief,
And joyeth in the good I had,
Although my sweets are bitter made.

Lord, keep me faithful to the trust
which my dear spouse reposed in me!
To him now dead preserve me just
In all that should performed be;
For though our being man and wife
Extendeth only to this life,
Yet neither life nor death should end
The being of a faithful friend.

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;
And whether I shall wed again,
Or in a single state remain,

Unto Thine honor let it be, And for a blessing unto me.

FOR A SERVANT.

Discourage not thyself, my soul,
Nor murmur, though compelled we be
To live subjected to control!
When many others may be free;
For though the pride of some dis-
dains

Our mean and much despised lot,
We shall not lose our honest pains,
Nor shall our sufferance be forgot.

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;
By His endurance I am eased.
And serve with gladness for His sake:
Though checked unjustly I should be,
With silence I reproofs will bear,
For much more injured was He
Whose deeds most worthy praises
were.

He was reviled, yet naught replied,
And I will imitate the same;
For though some faults may be de-
nied,

In part I always faulty am:
Content with meek and humble heart,
I will abide in my degree,
And act an humble servant's part,
Till God shall call me to be free.

John Wolcot (peter Pindar).

TO MY CANDLE.

Thou lone companion of the spec

tred night I I wake amid thy friendly watchful

light.

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!"

Charles Wolfe.

TO MARY.

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 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,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene —
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; 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
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!

BUlllAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral

note,

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
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; 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
Earthly things were too, refined.

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

Samuel Woodworth.

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

nigh it;

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

can yield

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

my lips!

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 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.

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