"I'vo piangendo i miei passati tempi,"
I MOURN the wreck of years untimely spent
In the concerns of base mortality,
Without a wish to rise, though Heaven had lent
The wings, and given a soul, and strength to fly.
Thou, who inhabitest Eternity,
Immortal, and invisible, present
Aid to my weakness, to my wants supply, And guide my spirit wand'ring and o'erspent. If I have lived in tempests, let me die
In peace, and in the harbour;-if my stay Were vain, more noble let my parting be. And let Thy gracious hand be ever nigh
Through the short remnant of my sinking day: My hope, Thou know'st, is fixed alone on Thee!
"Padre del Ciel dopo i perduti giorni,"
FATHER of Heaven!-full many a wasted day,
And weary, wakeful night, this heart hath worn
In one bright vision, wasting now away
And leaving it all desolate, forlorn :—
O! with Thy gracious light direct my feet
To a more peaceful way, a nobler love.
Guide Thou a wanderer to that blest retreat,
The clouds and cares of this dark world above. For Thou, my Lord, hast seen year after year Roll on in sadness, since this heart of mine Bowed to that yoke alike on all severe;
Now weak and faint I ask Thy hand divine To fix each rebel thought, and vagrant tear, Saviour of all! upon that Cross of Thine.
UNTO my spirit lend an angel's wing,
By which it might mount to that place of rest,
Where Paradise may me relieve, opprest!
Lend to my tongue an angel's voice to sing!
Thy praise my comfort; and for ever bring
My notes thereof from the bright east to west!
Thy mercy lend unto my soul distrest!
Thy grace unto my wits!—then shall the sling
Of righteousness that monster Satan kill,
Who with despair my dear salvation dared,
And like the Philistine, stood breathing still
Proud threats against my soul, for heaven prepared ;
At length, I like an angel shall appear,
In spotless white, an angel's crown to wear!
THE Sun of our soul's light Thee would I call!
But for our light Thou didst the bright sun make;
Nor reason that thy majesty should take
Thy chiefest subjects' epithets at all.
Our chief direction's Star celestial,
(But that the stars for our direction's sake,
Thou fixed, and canst at thy pleasure shake,)
I would Thee name! The Rock substantial
Of our assurance I would term thy name!
But that all rocks by thy command were made.
If Kings of kings thy majesty became,
Monarch of monarchs I Thee would have said!
But Thou givest kingdoms, and makest crowns unstable : By these I know thy name ineffable !
PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY.
How beautiful your presence, how benign,
Servants of God! who not a thought will share
With the vain world; who, outwardly as bare
As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign
That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine!
Such Priest, when service worthy of his care
Has called him forth to breathe the common air,
Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine
Descended:-happy are the eyes that meet
The apparition; evil thoughts are stayed
At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat
A benediction from his voice or hand;
Whence grace, through which the heart can understand;
And vows, that bind the will, in silence made.
LANCE, shield, and sword relinquished-at his side
A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book,
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook,
The war-worn Chieftain quits the world—to hide
His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide
In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell
In soft repose he comes. Within his cell,
Round the decaying trunk of human pride,
At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour,
Do penitential cogitations cling:
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine
In grisly folds and strictures serpentine ;
Yet, while they strangle without mercy, bring
For recompense their own perennial bower.
METHINKS that to some vacant Hermitage
My feet would rather turn-to some dry nook
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook
Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage,
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool;
Thence creeping under forest arches cool,
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage
Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl,
A maple dish, my furniture should be;
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting Owl
My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl
From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,
Tired of the world and all its industry.
BUT what if One, through grove or flowery mead,
Indulging thus at will the creeping feet
Of a voluptuous indolence, should meet
Thy hovering Shade, O venerable Bede!
The saint, the scholar, from a circle freed
Of toil stupendous, in a hallowed seat
Of learning, where thou heard'st the billows beat
On a wild coast, rough monitors to feed
Perpetual industry. Sublime Recluse!
The recreant soul, that dares to shun the debt
Imposed on human kind, must first forget
Thy diligence, thy unrelaxing use
Of a long life; and, in the hour of death,
The last dear service of thy passing breath!
|