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I Do not believe the sad story
Of ages of sleep in the tomb,
And grandeur of "Kingdom Come:"
May rest on my brow for awhile,
The splendour of hope's happy smile:
Yet the gloom of the grave will be transient,
And light as the slumbers of earth—
And beautiful forms of the earth:
Of bliss, evermore I shall roam,
That glitter in " Kingdom Come."
The friends who have parted before me,
From life's gloomy sorrow and pain,
Shall smile on me sweetly again;
Retreats of their azure home—
Effulgence of "Kingdom Come!"
The happy arrangement of words makes one of the greatest beauties of discourse.
Correct me: but not with anger, lest thou bring me to nothing."— x. 24.
We need not ask for suffering: when its test
Comes, we may prove too faithless to endure—
We need not ask for suffering :—it were hest
Our highest good. But we may ask from Him
This feeble being, in its faith so dim,
This fainting frame, or this o'erburthened heart:
And strength, to suffer still as the beloved
Most sad,—is an affliction unimproved.
A. W. Maun.
Some favourite studies—some delightful care,
Alas! a deeper test of Faith,
Than prison cell or martyr's stake,
The self-abasing watchfulness
J. G. W.
BY THOMAS HOPE.
Distant plans of daring pride,
Adieu To Youth.
Desert Memphis's gorgeous graves, Phile's Isle, whose ruins smile, In the mirror of the Nile; Peaceful Cashmere's flowery vale, Hallowed scene of Eastern tale; Georgia, where God's noblest creature, Shows his noblest form and feature; Mecca's house, Medina's shrine, Shiraz, flushed with rosy wine. Bold achievements, noble feats, Whose emprise man's wonder greets; Whose success e'en glads his ghost, You I ne'er must hope to boast. By the foolish vulgar throng, Both detained, and dragged along, After things just born to die, Made to join the vulgar cry. In the toil of each dull day, My best years have passed away; Till, approaching fast my wane, Winter claims my worn out brain Tales that used my soul t' inspire, Now I hear with calmness told; Sights that set my blood on fire, Now that torpid blood leave cold; Slow and tedious is my pace, And no longer dare I hope, Vigour, while I run the race, Pleasure, when I reach the scope. Then adieu, once dazzling dreams, Leave oh! leave my haunted mind, Weary of its brilliant schemes, To an humbler fate resigned; Simpler tasks my toil demand,
Adieu To Youth.
Nearer objects claim my care,
"Man shall not live by bread aioftfl."
Yet evermore, through years renewed
In undisturbed vicissitude,
Of seasons balancing their flight
On the swift wings of day and night,
Kind nature keeps a heavenly door,
Wide open for the scattered poor,
Where flower-breathed incense, to the skies
Is wafted in mute harmonies:
And ground fresh cloven by the plough,
Is fragrant with a humbler vow:
Where birds and brooks from leafy dells
Chime forth unwearied canticles;
And vapours magnify and spread
The glory of the sun's bright head:
Still constant in her worship, still
Conforming to the Almighty's will,
Whether men sow or reap the fields,
Her admonitions nature yields:
That not by bread alone wo live,
Or what a hand of flesh can give:
That every day should leave some part
Free, for a Sabbath of the heart:
So shall the Seventh be truly blest,
From morn to eve with hallowed rest!