Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Mitford's Text. 30. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY. To R. T. H. B. OUT of the night that covers me, I thank whatever gods may be In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, And from the west, Where the sun, his day's work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, grey city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace. The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shadows rise. The lark sings on. Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air The sun, Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night Night with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep. So be my passing! My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered to the quiet west, Death. 1898 Edition. 32. GEORGE HERBERT. Virtue. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, My music shows ye have your closes, Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. 1633 Edition. |