In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, And praise thee for thy mercies past, My life-if Thou preserve my life- And death-if death must be my doom ADDISON. 62. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills with thunder riven! Far flash'd the red artillery! But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens-On, ye brave, Few, few shall part where many meet! Shall be a soldier's cemetery ! CAMPBELL 63. THOSE EVENING BELLS. HOSE evening bells, those evening bells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time Those joyous hours have pass'd away, And so 't will be when I am gone; MOORE. 64. BLIND BARTIMEUS. BLIND Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd; -he hears a breath The thronging multitude increase; Then saith the Christ, as silent stands The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?" And he replies, "O give me light! Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!" Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε ! Ye that have eyes, and cannot see, In darkness and in misery, Recall these mighty voices three; Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με ! Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε ! Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε ! LONGFELLOW. 65. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world-to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead-but to the grave. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: H |