His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first

Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights

On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,

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And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is;
Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants.
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset

The hare,

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By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs,
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind
Eye the black heaven, and next the glistening earth,
With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed,
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow.
Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind;
Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens
With food at will; lodge them below the storm,

And watch them strict: for, from the bellowing east,
In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing
Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains
In one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks,
Hid in the hollow of two neighboring hills,
The billowy tempest whelms; till, upward urged,
The valley to a shining mountain swells,
Tipped with a wreath high-curling in the sky.

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45

50

RULE, BRITANNIA

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,

Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sang the strain.

The nations, not so blest as thee,

Must in their turns, to tyrants fall;
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
'Rule,' etc.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies

Serves but to root thy native oak. 'Rule,' etc.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe, and thy renown.
'Rule,' etc.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main ;
And every shore it circles, thine!

'Rule,' etc.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:

Blest isle with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:
'Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.'

CHARLES WESLEY

1707-1788

JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL

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JESUS, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is nigh!

5

Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide;
O receive my soul at last!

Other refuge have I none;

Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me!
All my trust on Thee is stay'd,
All my help from Thee I bring:
Cover my defenceless head
With the shadow of Thy wing!

Wilt Thou not regard my call?

Wilt Thou not accept my prayer?
Lo! I sink, I faint, I fall!

ΙΟ

15

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

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40

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Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

5

IO

15

20

25

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

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The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,