The march begins, in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realms of Frost;
He comes! nor want nor cold his course delay.—
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day!
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate . .
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;

He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

Enlarge my life with multitude of days:

In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays. . . .

Still raise for good the supplicating voice,

But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice.
Safe in His power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer;
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest
Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best.

Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthy mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind Nature's signal of retreat.

These goods for man, the laws of Heaven ordain;
These goods He grants, who grants the power to gain;
With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

Quoted.

In the Preface to the Dictionary.

Words are the daughters of Earth;
Things are the sons of Heaven.

ON SHAKESPEARE.

In the Prologue on the Opening of Drury Lane. And panting Time toiled after him in vain.

JOHN WESLEY. [1703-1791

TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.

Translated from Gerhardt.

Commit thou all thy griefs

And ways into his hands;

To His sure truth and tender care
Who earth and heaven commands;
Who points the clouds their course,
Whom winds and seas obey ;
He shall direct thy wandering feet,
He shall prepare thy way.

Thou on the Lord rely,

So safe shalt thou go on;
Fix on his work thy steadfast eye,
So shall thy work be done.

No profit canst thou gain
By self-consuming care;

To Him commend thy cause; his ear
Attends the softest prayer.

Thine everlasting truth,

Father, thy ceaseless love

Sees all thy children's wants, and knows
What best for each will prove.
Thou everywhere hast way,

And all things serve thy might;
Thy every act pure blessing is,
Thy path unsullied light.

...

Part II.

Give to the winds thy fears,
Hope, and be undismayed,

God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears,
God shall lift up thy head;
Through waves, and clouds, and storms,
He gently clears thy way;
Wait thou his time, so shall this night
Soon end in joyous day.

Thou see'st our weakness, Lord;
Our hearts are known to Thee;
O lift thou up the sinking hand,
Confirm the feeble knee !
Let us, in life and death,

Thy steadfast truth declare,

And publish with our latest breath
Thy love and guardian care.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain ;

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease;
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ;
How often have I loitered o'er thy green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!
How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church, that topped the neighbouring hill;

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whispering lovers made!
How often have I blessed the coming day,
When toil remitting, lent its turn to play;
And all the village train from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the speading tree!
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old surveyed;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art, and feats of strength went
round ;

And still as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down;
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,
While secret laughter tittered round the place;

The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like

these

With sweet succession taught ev'n toil to please.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that asked but little room!

In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share-
I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes-for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;

And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

Sweet was the sound when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive, as the milkmaid sung;
The sober herd, that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice, that bayed the whispering
wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind :—