And how she veis her flowers when he is gone, As if she scornèd to be looked on
By an inferior eye, or did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him : When I thus meditate, methinks the flowers Have spirits far more generous than ours, And give us fair examples, to despise The servile fawnings and idolatries Wherewith we court these earthly things below Which merit not the service we bestow.
But, O my God! though grovelling I appear Upon the ground, and have a rooting here, Which hauls me downward, yet in my desire To that which is above me I aspire,
And all my best affections I profess To Him that is the Sun of Righteousness. O, keep the morning of his incarnation, The burning noontide of his bitter passion, The night of his descending, and the height Of his ascension, ever in my sight; That, imitating him in what I may, I never follow an inferior way!
HEARTS of eternity, hearts of the deep! Proclaim from land to sea your mighty fate; How that for you no living comes too late; How ye cannot in Theban labyrinth creep; How ye great harvests from small surface reap; Shout, excellent band, in grand, primeval strain, Like midnight winds that foam along the main, And do all things rather than pause and weep.
A human heart knows naught of littleness, Suspects no man, compares with no one's ways, Hath in one hour most glorious length of days, A recompense, a joy, a loveliness;
Like eaglet keen, shoots into azure far, And, always dwelling nigh, is the remotest star.
LIKE to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood, Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out; the bubble dies; The spring entombed in autumn lies; The dew dries up; the star is shot; The flight is past; and man forgot.
LORD, with what care hast thou begirt us round! Parents first season us; then schoolmasters Deliver us to laws; they send us bound To rules of reason, holy messengers
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin; Afflictions sorted; anguish of all sizes; Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in ; Bibles laid open; millions of surprises ;
Blessings beforehand; ties of gratefulness; The sound of glory ringing in our ears; Without, our shame; within, our consciences; Angels and grace; eternal hopes and fears; -
Yet all these fences, and their whole array, One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
Out, palsied soul, that dost but tremble ever In sight of the bright sunshine;-mine be joy, And the full heart, and the eye that faileth never In the glad morning!-I am yet a boy ;- I have not wandered from the crystal river That flowed by me in childhood: my employ Hath been to take the gift, and praise the Giver; To love the flowers thy heedless steps destroy. I wonder if the bliss that flows to me
In youth shall be exhaled and scorched up dry By the noonday glare of life: I must not lie For ever in the shade of childhood's tree: But I must venture forth, and make advance Along the toilèd path of human circumstance.
HEART of the people! working men! Marrow and nerve of human powers; Who on your sturdy backs sustain, Through streaming time, this world of ours:
Hold by that title, which proclaims That ye are undismayed and strong, Accomplishing whatever aims
May to the sons of earth belong.
Yet not on you alone depend These offices, or burdens fall; Labor, for some or other end, Is lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed Must meet the morn with horse and hound, While Industry for daily bread
Pursues afresh his wonted round.
With all his pomp of pleasure, he Is but your working comrade now, And shouts and winds his horn as ye Might whistle by the loom or plough; In vain for him has wealth the use Of warm repose and careless joy, When, as ye labor to produce, He strives, as active to destroy.
But who is this with wasted frame, Sad sign of vigor overwrought? What toil can this new victim claim? Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought. How men would mock her flaunting shows, Her golden promise, if they knew What weary work she is to those Who have no better work to do!
And he who still and silent sits In closed room or shady nook, And seems to nurse his idle wits With folded arms or open book :
To things now working in that mind Your children's children well may owe Blessings that hope has ne'er defined, Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
Thus all must work, with head or hand, For self or others, good or ill; Life is ordained to bear, like land, Some fruit, be fallow as it will; Evil has force itself to sow,
Where we deny the healthy seed; And all our choice is this,—to grow Pasture and grain, or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts, Unenvious of each other's lot, For those which seem the easiest parts Have travail which ye reckon not: And he is bravest, happiest, best, Who, from the task within his span, Earns for himself his evening rest, And an increase of good for man.
ALMS-GIVING.-R. M. Milnes.
WHEN Poverty, with mien of shame, The sense of pity seeks to touch, Or, bolder, makes the simple claim, That I have nothing, you have much,- Believe not either man or book That bids you close the opening hand, And with reproving speech and look Your first and free intent withstand.
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