Who so holy as our Lord!
Who but He to be adored!
Who such wonders can effect!
Who so strongly can protect!
Be no longer arrogant,
Nor in folly proudly vaunt :
God our secret thoughts displays;
All our works his balance weighs.
Giants' bows his forces break;
He with strength invests the weak.
Who were full, now serve for bread;
Those who served, enfranchised.
Barren wombs with children flow;
Fruitful mothers childless grow.
God frail man of life deprives ;
Those who sleep in death, revives :
Leads us to our silent tombs,
Brings us from those horrid rooms:
Riches sends; sends poverty:
Casteth down and lifts on high.
He, from the despised dust,
From the dunghill, takes the just;
To the height of honor brings;
Plants them on the throne of kings.—
God earth's mighty pillars made;
He the world upon them laid.
He his servants' feet will guide:
Wicked souls, who swell with pride,
Will in endless darkness chain,
Since all human strength is vain.
He shall grind his enemies;
Blast with lightning from the skies :
Judge the habitable earth,
All of high and humble birth:
Shall with strength his King renown,
And his Christ with glory crown.
THE LAMENTATION OF DAVID OVER SAUL
THY beauty, Israel, is fled,
Sunk to the dead;
How are the valiant fallen! the slain
Thy mountains stain.
Oh! let it not in Gath be known,
Nor in the streets of Ashkelon!
Lest that sad story should excite
Their dire delight!
Lest in the torrent of our wo,
Their pleasure flow:
Lest their triumphant daughters ring
Their cymbals, and their Pæans sing.
Yon hills of Gilboa, never may
You offerings pay;
No morning dew, nor fruitful showers,
Clothe you with flowers:
Saul and his arms there made a spoil,
As if untouched with sacred oil.
The bow of noble Jonathan
Great battles wan;
His arrows on the mighty fed,
With slaughter red.
Saul never raised his arm in vain,
His sword still glutted with the slain.
How lovely! O how pleasant! when
They lived with men !
Than eagles swifter; stronger far
Than lions are:
Whom love in life so strongly tied,
The stroke of death could not divide.
Sad Israel's daughters, weep for Saul;
Lament his fall,
you with the earth's increase,
And crowned with peace;
With robes of Tyrian purple decked,
And gems which sparkling light reflect.
How are thy worthies by the sword
Of war devoured!
O Jonathan! the better part
Of my torn heart!
The savage rocks have drunk thy blood:
My brother! O how kind! how good!
Thy love was great; O never more
To man, man bore!
No woman when most passionate,
Loved at that rate!
How are the mighty fallen in fight!
They, and their glory, set in night!
SIR JOHN BEAUMONT, elder brother of Francis Beaumont, the dramatist, was the son of Francis Beaumont, one of the judges of the Court of Common Pleas in the time of Queen Elizabeth; he was born in 1584, and was educated at Oxford. Besides an historical poem styled "Bosworth Field," he was the author of "The Crown of Thorns," and other poems on sacred subjects, which, though little known, possess great merit. He was created a baronet in 1626, and died in 1628.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE WORLD, A PILGRIM, AND VIRTUE.
WHAT darkness clouds my senses? Hath the day
Forgot his season, and the sun his way?
Doth God withdraw his all-sustaining might,
And works no more with his fair creature-light,
While heaven and earth for such, alas! complain,
And turn to rude unformed heaps again?
My paces with entangling briers are bound,
And all this forest in deep silence drowned;
Here must my labor and my journey cease,
By which, in vain, I sought for rest and peace;
But now perceive that man's unquiet mind
In all his ways can only darkness find.
Here must I starve and die, unless some light
Point out the passage from this dismal night.
Distressed Pilgrim, let not causeless fear
Depress thy hopes, for thou hast comfort near,
Which thy dull heart with splendor shall inspire,
And guide thee to thy period of desire.
Clear up thy brows, and raise thy fainting eyes;
See how my glittering palace open lies
For weary passengers, whose desperate case
I pity, and provide a resting-place.
Oh thou! whose speeches sound, whose beauties shine,
Not like a creature, but some power divine,
Teach me thy style, thy worth and state declare,
Whose glories in this desert hidden are.
I am thine end; Felicity my name;
The best of wishes, pleasures, riches, fame,
Are humble vassals, which my throne attend,
And make you mortals happy when I send :
In
my
left hand delicious fruits I hold,
To feed them who with mirth and ease grow old;
Afraid to lose the fleeting days and nights,
They seize on time, and spend it in delights.
My right hand with triumphant crowns is stored,
Which all the kings of former times adored:
These gifts are thine: then enter where no strife,
No grief, no pain, shall interrupt thy life.
Stay, hasty wretch, here deadly serpents swell,
And thy next step is on the brink of hell:
Wouldst thou, poor weary man, thy limbs repose?
Behold my house, where true contentment grows;
Not like the baits which this seducer gives,
Whose bliss a day, whose torment ever lives.
Regard not these vain speeches, let them go:
This is a poor worm, my contemned foe,
Bold, threadbare Virtue, who dare promise more
From empty bags, than I from all my store;
Whose counsels make men draw unquiet breath,
Expecting to be happy after death.
Canst thou now make, or hast thou ever made,
Thy servants happy in those things that fade?
Hear this my challenge: One example bring
Of such perfection; let him be the king
Of all the world, fearing no outward check,
And finding others by his voice or beck;
Yet shall this man at every moment find
More gall than honey in his restless mind.
No, monster, since my words have struck thee dumb,
Behold this garland, whence such virtues come,
Such glories shine, such piercing beams are thrown
As make thee blind, and turn thee to a stone.
And thou, whose wandering feet were running down
The infernal steepness, look upon this crown:
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