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The Poetical Reader.

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.

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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, oh, teach my heart

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 quicken'd by thy breath : Oh, lead me wheresoe'er I go,

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 bestow'd or not,

And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space;

Whose altar, earth, sea, skies; One chorus let all beings raise !

All nature's incense rise !

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.—E. Cook.

I LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ļ
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ?-a mother sat there ;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give ;
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide ;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ;
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on ; but the last one sped-
My idol was shattered ; my earth-star fled ;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow ;-
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died ;
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek ;.
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair,

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