THE BETTER PART

Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man,
How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare!
"Christ," some one says, "was human as we are;
No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan;

"We live no more, when we have done our span." "Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, "who can care?

From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes our life without a plan!

So answerest thou; but why not rather say: "Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high! Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see?

"More strictly, then, the inward judge obey! Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he !"

Matthew Arnold

IMMORTALITY

Foil'd by our fellow men, depress'd, outworn,
We leave the brutal world to take its way,
And, Patience! in another life, we say,
The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.

And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn
The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they,
Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day,
Support the fervours of the heavenly morn?

No, no! the energy of life may be
Kept on after the grave, but not begun;
And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,
From strength to strength advancing — only he,
His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,
Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.

Matthew Arnold

ROCK OF AGES

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy riven side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure

Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

Not the labours of my hands
Can fulfil Thy law's demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,
All for sin could not atone
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring-
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked come to Thee for dress
Helpless look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the Fountain fly-
Wash me, Saviour, or I die!

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eye-strings break in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!

Augustus Montague Toplady

ON HIS DECEASED WIFE

Methought I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,

Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the Old Law did save,

And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind.

Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined So clear as in no face with more delight.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. John Milton

MORNING

The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings,
He takes your window for the east,

And to implore your light, he sings;
Awake, awake, the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;

But still the lover wonders what they are,

Who look for day before his mistress wakes; Awake, awake, break through your veils of lawn! Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn.

Sir William Davenant

THE SIRENS' SONG

Steer hither, steer your winged pines,
All beaten mariners:

Here lie love's undiscovered mines,
A prey to passengers;

Perfumes far sweeter than the best
That make the phoenix' urn and nest:
Fear not your ships,

Nor any to oppose you save our lips;

But come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
For stars, gaze on our eyes.

The compass Love shall hourly sing;
And, as he goes about the ring,

We will not miss

To tell each point he nameth with a kiss:

Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

William Browne

A SERENADE

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,

The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky,

And high and low the influence know

But where is County Guy?

Sir Walter Scott

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE

Underneath this sable hearse
Lies the subject of all verse,

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death! ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd and fair and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Ben Jonson