HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF

CHAMOUNY.

COLERIDGE.

Died July 25th, 1834, alike great as a poet, an essayist, and a philosopher.

HAST thou a charm to stay the Morning-star

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, oh sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth the silent Sea of Pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

Oh dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer,
I worshipped the invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy:
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused
Into the mighty vision passing-then,

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
Oh struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink:
Companion of the Morning-star at dawn.
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, oh wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?

:

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ?

And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain-

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! Silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall, shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds;
Ye signs and wonders of the element !

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-
Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

To rise before me.-Rise, oh ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth!

Thou kingly Spirit, throned among the hills,
Thou dread Ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

ON THE VICE OF LYING.

REV. W. GILPIN.

To warn us from lying, we should do well to consider the folly, the meanness, and the wickedness of it.

The folly of lying consists in its defeating its own purpose. A habit of lying is generally detected in the end; and after detection, the liar, instead of deceiving, will not even be believed when he happens to speak the truth. Nay, every single lie is attended with such a variety of circumstances which lead to a detection, that it is often discovered. The use generally made of a lie is to cover a fault; but as this end is seldom answered, we only aggravate what we wish to conceal. In point even of prudence, an honest confession would serve us better.

The meanness of lying arises from the cowardice which it implies. We dare not boldly and nobly speak the truth, but have recourse to low subterfuges; which always show a sordid and disingenuous mind. Hence it is, that in the fashionable world the word liar is always considered as a term of peculiar reproach.

The wickedness of lying consists in its perverting one of the greatest blessings of God, the use of speech, in making that a mischief to mankind which was intended for a benefit. Truth is the greatest bond of society. If one man lies, why may not another? And if there is no mutual trust, there is an end of all intercourse.

An equivocation is nearly related to a lie. It is an intention to deceive under words of a double meaning, or words which, literally speaking, are true; and is equally criminal with the most downright breach of truth. A nod, or sign, may convey a lie as effectually as the most deceitful language.

Under the head of lying may be mentioned a breach of promise. Every engagement, though only of the lightest kind, should be punctually observed: and he who does not think himself bound by such an obligation, has little pretension to the character of an honest

man.

MY OWN FIRE-SIDE.

ALARIC A. WATTS.

A living poet, whose fame needs no panegyric.

LET others seek for empty joys,

At ball or concert, rout or play;

Whilst far from Fashion's idle noise,
Her gilded domes and trappings gay,
I wile the wintry eve away,

"Twixt book and lute the hours divide,
And marvel how I e'er could stray
From thee-my own fire-side!

My own fire-side! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide;
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own-my own fire-side!

A gentle form is near me now;

A small white hand is clasped in mine I gaze upon her placid brow,

And ask, what joys can equal thine: A babe, whose beauty's half divine,

In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; Where may love seek a fitter shrine Than thou-my own fire-side!

What care I for the sullen war

Of winds without, that ravage earth;
It doth but bid me prize the more
The shelter of thy hallowed hearth;
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth;
Then let the churlish tempest chide,
It cannot check the blameless mirth
That glads my own fire-side!