THUS, then, I steer my bark, and sail On even keel with gentle gale; If dark and blustering prove some nights, I make (may Heaven propitious send MATTHEW GREEN. THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS. SOME reckon their age by years, But some tell their days by the flow of their tears, The dials of earth may show The length, not the depth of years, FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE."* UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! O, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day, Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within! Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er, -the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill ! Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile, THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. Thy favors cannot gain a friend, This poem was written when the author was but twenty-one years of age. Thy morning pleasures make an end Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endless treasure; Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, There's none can want where thou supply'st; What well-advised ear regards What earth can say ? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Thy cunning can but pack the cards, Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint Of new-coined treasure; A paradise, that has no stint, No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in 't, Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st What mean dull souls, in this high measure, In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure The height of whose enchanting pleasure Are these the goods that thou supply'st My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : I sought my death, and found it in my womb; CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN. LINES FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT E'EN such is time; that takes in trust SIR WALTER RALEIGH. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. Go, soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless arrant! Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant : Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Go, tell the court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the church it shows What's good, and doth no good. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates they live Tell men of high condition That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honor how it alters; Tell wit how much it wrangles Herself in over-wiseness: Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell law it is contention : Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell justice of delay : And if they will reply, Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming ; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply, Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; So when thou hast, as I Deserves no less than stabbing, — SIR WALTER RALEIGH. LETTERS. EVERY day brings a ship, RALPH WALDO EMERSON. BRAHMA. IF the red slayer think he slays, Shadow and sunlight are the same; And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode, RALPH WALDO EMERSON. BRAHMA'S ANSWER. ONCE, when the days were ages, Her open secrets wrung. Each questioned each to know Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the Earth below. Indra, the endless giver Of every gracious thing The gods to him deliver, Whose bounty is the river Of which they are the spring - Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is a part. "Brahma! Supremest Being! By whom the worlds are made, Of Life and Death afraid, Hearing as though he heard not So perfect was his rest, So vast the soul that erred not, So wise the lips that stirred not His hand upon his breast He laid, whereat his face - Was mirrored in the river that girt that holy place. |