A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which Man hath abandon'd through famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
And the bat flitting forth from his cleft in the stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,
Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;
And the bitter melon, for food and drink,
Is the Pilgrim's fare by the Salt Lake's brink:
A region of drought, where no river glides,
Nor rippling brook with ozier'd sides,
Nor reedy pool, nor mossy fountain,
Nor rock, nor tree, nor misty mountain,
Is found to refresh the wearied eye:
But the barren earth, and the burning sky,
And the blank horizon round and round,
Without a living sight or sound,
Tell to the heart, in its pensive mood,
That this at length is-Solitude!
And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert-stone,
Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone,
And feel as a moth in the Mighty Hand
That spread the heavens and heaved the land,—
A "still small voice" comes through the wild,
(Like a Father consoling his fretful child,)
Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear—
Saying, "Man is distant, but God is near!"
JOHN KEBLE.
Born, 1789; Died, 1866.
EVENING HYMN.
'Tis gone, that bright and orbéd blaze,
Fast fading from our wistful gaze;
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight
The last faint pulse of quivering light.
In darkness and in weariness,
The traveller on his way must press;
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesome hour.
Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near :
O, may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes!
When round Thy wondrous works below
My searching rapturous glance I throw,
Tracing out wisdom, power, and love,
In earth or sky, in stream or grove ;—
Or, by the light Thy words disclose,
Watch Time's full river as it flows,
Scanning Thy gracious providence,
Where not too deep for mortal sense;—
When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,
And all the flowers of life unfold ;—
Let not my heart within me burn,
Except in all I Thee discern.
When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
my last thought, How sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour's breast!
Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live:
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.
If some poor wandering child of Thine
Have spurn'd, to-day, the voice Divine ;
Now, Lord, the gracious work begin,
Let him no more lie down in sin.
Watch by the sick; enrich the poor
With blessings from Thy boundless store :
Be every mourner's sleep to-night,
Like infant's slumbers, pure and light.
Come near, and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take
Till in the ocean of Thy love
We lose ourselves in heaven above.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE
AT CORUNNA.
NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Born, 1792; Died, 1822.
TO A SKYLARK.
HAIL to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an embodied Joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over
|