Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

And such is man! a soil which breeds,
Or sweetest flowers, or vilest weeds:
Flowers lovely as the morning's light-
Weeds deadly as the aconite;
Just as his heart is train'd to bear
The poisonous weed, or flow'ret fair.

Flow, then, pure knowledge! ever flow!
Change nature's face in man below;
A paradise once more disclose-
Make deserts bloom with Sharon's rose;
And, through a Saviour's blood once shed,
Raise his forlorn and drooping head.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.

THE CHARITIES OF THE POOR.

"BEG FROM A BEGGAR."-Irish Proverb.

THERE is a thought so purely blest,
That to its use I oft repair,
When evil breaks my spirit's rest,
And pleasure is but varied care;
A thought to gild the stormiest skies,
To deck with flowers the bleakest moor,
A thought whose home is paradise,-
The charities of poor to poor.

It were not for the rich to blame,

If they, whom fortune seems to scorn,
Should vent their ill-content and shame
On others less or more forlorn :
But, that the veriest needs of life
Should be dispens'd with freer hand,
Than all their stores and treasures rife-
Is not for them to understand,

THE WORTH OF HOURS.

To give the stranger's children bread,
Of your precarious board the spoil,-
To watch your helpless neighbour's bed,
And sleepless meet the morrow's toil;
The gifts, not proffer'd once alone,
The daily sacrifice of years,——
And when all else to give is gone,

The precious gifts of love and tears!

Therefore, lament not, honest soul!

That Providence holds back from thee The means thou might'st so well controlThose luxuries of charity.

Manhood is nobler, as thou art;

And, should some chance thy coffers fill,
How art thou sure to keep thine heart,
To hold unchang'd thy loving will?

Wealth, like all other power, is blind,
And bears a poison in its core,
To taint the best, if feeble, mind,
And madden that debas'd before.
It is the battle, not the prize,

That fills the hero's breast with joy;
And industry the bliss supplies,

Which mere possession might destroy.

THE WORTH OF HOURS.

BELIEVE not that your inner eye
Can ever in just measure try
The worth of hours as they go by;

For every man's weak self, alas!
Makes him to see them while they pass
As through a dim or tinted glass:

But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after mood.

299

Those surely are not fairly spent,

That leave your spirit howed and bent
In sad unrest, and ill content.

And more, though free from seeming harm,
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from pleasure's charm-
If then a painful sense comes on,
Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done,-

Of something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be link'd again
By all mere Memory can retain,—

Upon your heart this truth may rise,—
Nothing that altogether dies
Suffices man's just destinies:

So should we live, that every hour
May die, as dies the natural flower,-
A self-reviving thing of power;

That every thought and every deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good, and future meed;

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ
Is to develop, not destroy,
Far better than a barren joy.

D. M. MOIR.

MORALIZING.

How soft is the sound of the river,

Stealing down through the green piny dale, Where the sunbeams of eventide quiver Through the scarce-stirring foliage, and ever The cooing dove plains out its tale; And the blackbird melodiously sings An anthem, reminding of innocent things.

MORALIZING.

Blue evening comes onward, and scatters
The fires in the western serene;
And the shadows of Lebanon's daughters,
Darkly imaged, outspread on the waters,
Festoon'd with their branches of green;
The clouds journey past, and below

Are reflected, in brightness, their margins of snow.

Oh, sweet is the vision that loses

Present cares in the glow of the past!

As the light of reflection reposes
On youth, with its blossoming roses,
And sunshine too lovely to last.

Sweet dreams! that have sparkled and gone,
Like torrents of blue over ledges of stone.

But why should break forth our repining,
Over what we have loved or have lost?
Whether fortune be shaded or shining,
Our destiny bright or declining,

Our visions accomplished or cross'd

'Tis ours to be calm and resigned,

301

Faith's star beaming clear on the night of the mind.

When morning awoke on the ocean,
Dim tempests were louring around;
Yet see, with how steadfast a motion,
As the clouds bend and glow with devotion,
The sun his asylum hath found!

Twilight weeps in deep pleasure, and red
Are the low-lying vale, and the tall mountain head

Lo! thus, when the clouds of life's sorrow

Have past and have perished, the sky

An added effulgence shall borrow

From the storms that have flown, and the morrow Gleam bright in eternity's eye;

And the Angel of righteousness send

His balm to that heart which is true to the end!

EDWARD JOHNSON.

THE WATER-DRINKER.

OH! water for me! Bright water for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!

It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;

It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness, like infant purity.

Oh! water, bright water for me, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee!

Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim!
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim !
For my hand is steady, my eye is true,
For I, like the flowers, drink nought but dew.
Oh! water, bright water's a mine of wealth,
And the ores it yieldeth are vigour and health.
So water, pure water for me, for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!

Fill again to the brim! again to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb!
To the days of the aged it addeth length,
To the might of the strong it addeth strength
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light.
So, water! I will drink nought but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When o'er the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers;
Oh! cheerily then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,

As he freshens his wing in the cold gray cloud.

« ПредишнаНапред »