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THERE is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out.
"Tts Nature's law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good-a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably link'd. Then be assured
That least of all can aught that ever own'd
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to-sink, howe'er depress'd,
So low as to be scorn'd without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower,
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless.
O what a Glory doth this world put on. O WHAT a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well perform'd and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings, He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear.
Couplets. In vain our labours are whatsoe'er they be, Unless God gives the Benedicite. Mercy the wise Athenians held to be Not an affection, but a Deitie. Whatever comes, let's be content withall ; Among God's blessings, there is no one small. Three fatal sisters wait upon each sin; First, Fear and Shame without, then Guilt within. That man must govern with a gentle hand, Who will have love comply with his command. This is my comfort; when Fortune's most unkind, She can but spoil me of my means, not mind. Conquer we shall, but we must first contend; 'Tis not the fight that crowns us, but the end. Man must do well out of a good intent, Not for the servile fear of punishment. In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Suffering is a Holy Thing.
O LIFE, O Death, 0 World, 0 Time,
O Grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime,
With your great weight of woe !
Though sharpest anguish hearts may wring,
Though bosoms torn may be,
Yet suffering is a holy thing;
Without it what were we?
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 tainted glass :
But if in earnest care you would
Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.
Those surely are not fairly spent,
That leave your spirit bow'd 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 enjoy'd 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 need;
Esteeming sorrow, whose employ
Is to develop, not destroy,
Far better than a barren joy.
Is aught so fair
In all the dewy landscapes of the spring,
In the bright eye of Hesper, or the morn,
In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair
ds virtuous friendship ? as the candid blush
Of him who strives with fortune to be just ?
The graceful tear that streams for others' woes,
Or the mild majesty of private life,
Where Peace, with ever-blooming olive, crowns
The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse
Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings
Of Innocence and Love protect the scene?
WITH joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet,
And each for other's welfare kindly speerg:
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ;
The parents partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.