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And love, that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories!
All echoings from out the hills,
All droppings from the skies,
All flowings from the wave and wind,
Remembered in their chant I find.
So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move
Along the city ways, with heart
Assured by holy love,
And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.
To me fair memories belong
Of scenes that erst did bless;
For no regret, but present song,
And lasting thankfulness,-
And very soon to break away,
Like types, in purer things than they
I will have hopes that cannot fade,
For flowers the valley yields,
I will have humble thoughts, instead
Of silent, dewy fields!
My spirit and my God shall be
My seaward hill,
my boundless sea.
TROUBADOUR SONG. - Mrs. Hemans.
THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam
For the stormy fields of war,
The maid was left in a smiling home,
And a sunny land, afar.
His voice was heard where javelin-showers
Poured on the steel-clad line;
Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.
His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stained his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.
Yet a thousand arrows passed him by,
And again he crossed the seas;
But she had died, as roses die,
That perish with a breeze.
As roses die, when the blast is come
For all things bright and fair,—
There was death within the smiling home,
How had death found her there?
WEAK and irresolute is man,
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part;
Virtue engages his assent,
But pleasure wins his heart.
'Tis here the folly of the wise,
Through all his art, we view;
And while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;
The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. — Pope.
FATHER of all! in every age,
In every clime, adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!"
Thou great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined
To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind;
Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will.
What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
This teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven pursue.
What blessings thy free bounty gives,
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives, –
To enjoy is to obey.
Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound;
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round.
Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.
If I am right, thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, Ö, teach my
To find that better way.
Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent
At aught thy wisdom has denied,
Or aught thy goodness lent.
Teach me to feel another's woe;
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath;
0, lead wheresoe'er Ï
Through this day's life or death.
This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.
To Thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!
One chorus let all being raise'
All nature's incense rise!
SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
THE king sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
"O, where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?"
O, up and spake an eldern knight,—
Sat at the king's right knee,
"Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor
That sails upon the sea."
The king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand;
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,
Was walking on the strand.
"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame."