The Repentant Sinner. Fever thou hast felt another's pain, IF If ever, when he sighed, hast sighed again, If ever on thy eyelid stood the tear That pity had engendered, drop one here. Friendship and love seemed tenderly at strife, all a grace, He laughed and trifled, made him welcome there; Alas, how changed! expressive of his mind, That conscience there performs her proper part, Sweet music is no longer music here, And laughter sounds like madness in his ear; The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear, 'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings Of the glad regions of the King of kings; 'Tis more :-'tis God diffused through every part, "Tis God Himself triumphant in his heart; Oh! welcome now, the sun's once hated light, His noon-day beams were never half so bright! Not kindred minds alone are called to employ Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy; Unconscious nature! all that he surveys, Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise. WILLIAM COWPER. The Hollow World. SHE is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing there But noise to fill thy ear; A blast of murmuring wind: It is a cask that seems as full as fair, Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better grounds; Her joys upon this world, but feeds on empty sounds. She is empty: hark! she sounds: there's nothing in't; The spark-engendering flint Shall sooner melt, and hardest raunce shall first Dissolve and quench the thirst, Ere this false world shall still thy stormy breast As in this empty world to find a full delight. She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis void and vast; What if some flattering blast Of flatuous honour should perchance be there, It is but wind, and blows but where it list, Poor honour earth can give! What generous mind Her heaven-bred soul, a slave to serve a blast of wind? She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis but a ball The painted film but of a stronger bubble, It is a world whose work and recreation A hag, repaired with vice-complexioned paint, It is a saint, a fiend; worse fiend when most a saint. She is empty: hark! she sounds: 'tis vain and void. What's here to be enjoyed, But grief and sickness, and large bills of sorrow, Drawn now and crossed to-morrow? Or, what are men but puffs of dying breath, Fond youth, O build thy hopes on surer grounds Trust not this hollow world: she is empty: hark! FRANCIS QUARLES. she sounds. Centre of Light and Energy. ENTRE of light and energy! thy way CENTR Is through the unknown void; thou hast Morning, and evening, and at noon of day, Ere the first waken'd airs of earth had blown, On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light; Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown, Wide through the never-ending worlds of night, And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen. and bright. We call thee Lord of Day, and thou dost give To earth the fire that animates her crust, And wakens all the forms that move and live, From the fine, viewless mould which lurks in dust, To him who looks to heaven, and on his bust Bears stamp'd the seal of GOD, who gathers there Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust In his own center'd powers, who aims to share In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair. |