Though for stern foes we till the burning sand;
And reap, for others' joy, the summer plains; We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still, Even though this last black drop o'erflow our cup of ill!
We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child; The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep; The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled,
And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep! She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark; The only star that made the strangers' sky less dark! Our dove is fallen into the spoiler's net;
Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white; To the bereaved their one soft star is set,
And all above is sullen, cheerless night! But still we thank thee for our transient blissYet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain'd no way but this!
As when our Father to Mount Moriah led
The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy, Pleased, as he roam'd along with dancing tread, Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy, And laugh'd in sport to see the yellow fire Climb up the turf-built shrine, his destined funeral pyre
Even thus our joyous child went lightly on;
Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,
Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone
Like some light bird from off the quivering spray; And back she glanced, and smiled in blamless glee, The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance
By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent
That bade the sire his murderous task forego: When to his home the child of Abraham went, His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow. Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade, The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid? Lord, even through thee to hope were now too bold; Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair. 'Tis anguish, yet 'tis comfort, faint and cold, To think how sad we are, how blest we were! To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet It were a grief more deep and bitterer to forget! O Lord our God! why was she e'er our own? Why is she not our own-our treasure still? We could have pass'd our heavy years alone. Alas! is this to bow us to thy will? Ah! even our humblest prayers we make repine, Nor prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee resign.
Forgive, forgive-even should our full hearts break, The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise: Ah! thou art still too gracious to forsake,
Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise. Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord; And, though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored.
GoD of the thunder! from whose cloudy seat The fiery winds of Desolation flow: Father of vengeance! that with purple feet, Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below. The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey, Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, Till thou the guilty land hast seal'd for wo. God of the rainbow! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage suppress: Father of mercies! at one word of thine
An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness! And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, And marble cities crown the laughing lands, And pillar'd temples rise thy name to bless. O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke-O Lord! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword,
Even her foes wept to see her fallen state; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame,
For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad city lift her crownless head; And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam, Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers. On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers, To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers, And angel feet the glittering Sion tread.
Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves; With fetter'd steps we left our pleasant land,
Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep, And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy; Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home; He that went forth a tender yearling boy,
Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome.
Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise Into thy native skies,
Thy human form dissolved on high In its own radiancy.
THE MERRY HEART.
I WOULD not from the wise require The lumber of their learned lore; Nor would I from the rich desire
A single counter of their store. For I have ease, and I have wealth,
And I have spirits light as air;
And more than wisdom, more than wealth,- A merry heart that laughs at care. At once, 'tis true, two witching eyes Surprised me in a luckless season, Turn'd all my mirth to lonely sighs,
And quite subdued my better reason. Yet 'twas but love could make me grieve, And love you know's a reason fair, And much improved, as I believe,
The merry heart, that laugh'd at care. So now, from idle wishes clear, I make the good I may not find; Adown the stream I gently steer,
And shift my sail with every wind. And half by nature, half by reason,
Can still with pliant heart prepare, The mind, attuned to every season, The merry heart, that laughs at care. Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream, Ye social feelings of the mind, Give, sometimes give your sunny gleam, And let the rest good-humour find. Yes, let me hail and welcome give
To every joy my lot may share, And pleased and pleasing let me live With merry heart, that laughs at care.
MARRIAGE HYMN.
To the sound of timbrels sweet Moving slow our solemn feet, We have borne thee on the road To the virgin's blest abode; With thy yellow torches gleaming, And thy scarlet mantle streaming, And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast,
And the mirth and wine have ceased;
And now we set thee down before
The jealously-unclosing door, That the favour'd youth admits Where the veiled virgin sits
In the bliss of maiden fear, Waiting our soft tread to hear; And the music's brisker din At the bridegroom's entering in,- Entering in a welcome guest To the chamber of his rest.
COME away, with willing feet Quit the close and breathless street: Sultry court and chamber leave, Come and taste the balmy eve, Where the grass is cool and green, And the verdant laurels screen All whose timid footsteps move With the quickening stealth of love; Where Orontes' waters hold Mirrors to your locks of gold, And the sacred Daphne weaves Canopies of trembling leaves.
Come away, the heavens above Just have light enough for love; And the crystal Hesperus Lights his dew-fed lamp for us. Come, the wider shades are falling, And the amorous birds are calling Each his wandering mate to rest In the close and downy nest; And the snowy orange flowers, And the creeping jasmine bowers, From their swinging censers cast Their richest odours, and their last.
Come, the busy day is o'er, Flying spindle gleams no more; Wait not till the twilight gloom Darken o'er the embroider'd loom. Leave the toilsome task undone, Leave the golden web unspun. Hark, along the humming air Home the laden bees repair; And the bright and dashing rill From the side of every hill, With a clearer, deeper sound, Cools the freshening air around.
Come, for though our God the Sun Now his fiery course hath run; There the western waves among Lingers not his glory long; There the couch awaits him still, Wrought by Jove-born Vulcan's skill Of the thrice-refinéd gold, With its wings that wide unfold, O'er the surface of the deep To waft the bright-hair'd god asleep From the Hesperian islands blest, From the rich and purple West, To where the swarthy Indians lave In the farthest Eastern wave.
There the Morn on tiptoe stands, Holding in her rosy hands All the amber-studded reins Of the steeds with fiery manes, For the sky-borne charioteer To start upon his new career. Come, for when his glories break Every sleeping maid must wake. Brief be then our stolen hour In the fragrant Daphne's bower;
Brief our twilight dance must be Underneath the cypress tree. Come away, and make no stay, Youth and maiden, come away.
KING of kings! and Lord of lords! Thus we move, our sad steps timing To our cymbals' feeblest chiming, Where thy house its rest accords. Chased and wounded birds are we, Through the dark air fled to thee; To the shadow of thy wings, Lord of lords! and King of kings! Behold, O Lord! the heathen tread The branches of thy fruitful vine, That its luxurious tendrils spread
O'er all the hills of Palestine. And now the wild boar comes to waste Even us, the greenest boughs and last, That, drinking of thy choicest dew, On Zion's hill, in beauty grew.
No! by the marvels of thine hand, Thou still wilt save thy chosen land! By all thine ancient mercies shown, By all our fathers' foes o'erthrown; By the Egyptian's car-borne host, Scatter'd on the Red Sea coast; By that wide and bloodless slaughter Underneath the drowning water. Like us in utter helplessness, In their last and worst distress- On the sand and sea-weed lying, Israel pour'd her doleful sighing; While before the deep sea flow'd, And behind fierce Egypt rode- To their fathers' God they pray'd, To the Lord of hosts for aid.
On the margin of the flood With lifted rod the prophet stood; And the summon'd east wind blew, And aside it sternly threw
The gather'd waves, that took their stand, Like crystal rocks, on either hand, Or walls of sea-green marble piled Round some irregular city wild. Then the light of morning lay On the wonder-paved way, Where the treasures of the deep In their caves of coral sleep. The profound abysses, where Was never sound from upper air, Rang with Israel's chanted words, King of kings! and Lord of lords! Then with bow and banner glancing, On exulting Egypt came, With her chosen horseman prancing, And her cars on wheels of flame,
In a rich and boastful ring,
All around her furious king.
But the Lord from out his cloud, The Lord look'd down upon the proud; And the host drave heavily Down the deep bosom of the sea.
With a quick and sudden swell
Prone the liquid ramparts fell; Over horse, and over car, Over every man of war, Over Pharaoh's crown of gold The loud thundering billows roll'd. As the level waters spread
Down they sank, they sank like lead, Down without a cry or groan. And the morning sun, that shone On myriads of bright-armed men, Its meridian radiance then
Cast on a wide sea, heaving as of yore, Against a silent, solitary shore.
BROTHER, thou hast gone before us, And thy saintly soul is flown Where tears are wiped from every eye, And sorrow is unknown;
From the burden of the flesh,
And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er, And borne the heavy load, But Christ hath taught thy languid feet To reach his blest abode. Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus Upon his Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
Sin can never taint thee now, Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ And the Holy Spirit fail. And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest. "Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," The solemn priest hath said, So we lay the turf above thee now, And we seal thy narrow bed: But thy spirit, brother, soars away Among the faithful blest, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
And when the Lord shall summon us, Whom thou hast left behind, May we, untainted by the world, As sure a welcome find;
May each, like thee, depart in peace, To be a glorious guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stain'd With watching his own gold; every one knows him, Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he, Nor kindred, nor familiar; not a slave, Not a lean serving wench; nothing e'er enter'd But his spare self within his jealous doors, Except a wandering rat; and that, they say, Was famine-struck, and died there. What of him? Fazio. Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones. There's not a galliot on the sea but bears A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre, Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes, But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he, He only stocks our prisons with his debtors.
I saw him creeping home last night; he shudder'd As he unlock'd his door, and look'd around, As if he thought that very breath of wind Were some keen thief; and when he lock'd him in, I heard the grating key turn twenty times, To try if all were safe. I look'd again From our high window by mere chance, and saw The motion of his scanty, moping lantern, And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuff'd With tatter'd remnants of a money-bag, Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his face, Like some dry, wither-boned anatomy, Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels, Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold, Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily, As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard, And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel. His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them As a gross satyr on a sleeping nymph; And then, as he heard something like a sound, He clapp'd the lid to, and blew out the lantern; But I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms, And thank'd my God that I had braver riches.
I HAVE been able to learn scarcely any thing of the history of Mr. KEBLE. He was educated at Oxford, entered holy orders, and was for some time pastor of a rural congregation, to whose spiritual interests he devoted himself with untiring ardour and affection. He was subsequently elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and he has been distinguished as one of those eminent scholars and divines, among whom are NEWMAN, HOOK and PUSEY, who have since shaken the religious world with some of the most ingenious and able theological discussions of modern times, in the Oxford Tracts.
AWAKE-again the Gospel-trump is blown- From year to year it swells with louder tone; From year to year the signs of wrath Are gathering round the Judge's path: Strange words fulfill'd, and mighty works achieved, And truth in all the world both hated and believed.
Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town, Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown? Up, from your beds of sloth, for shame, Speed to the eastern mount like flame, Nor wonder, should ye find your king in tears, E'en with the loud Hosanna ringing in his ears. Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago They are gone forth to swell Messiah's show; With glittering robes and garlands sweet They strew the ground beneath his feet: All but your hearts are there-O doom'd to prove The arrows wing'd in heaven for faith that will not love!
Meanwhile He paces through the adoring crowd, Calm as the march of some majestic cloud, That o'er wild scenes of ocean-war Holds its course in heaven afar :
Even so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on, Thou keepest silent watch from thy triumphal throne;
Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze On the dread vision of the latter days,
Constrain'd to own Thee, but in heart Prepared to take Barabbas' part: "Hosanna" now, to-morrow" Crucify,"
The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.
Yet, in that throng of selfish hearts untrue, Thy sad eye rests upon thy faithful few;
Mr. KEBLE is known as a poet chiefly through The Christian Year, which was first published in 1827. It has passed through more than thirty editions in England, and has been several times reprinted in this country. The American impressions contain a preface and other valuable additions by the author's friend, the Rt. Rev. Dr. DOANE, Bishop of the Episcopal church in New Jersey. Beside this, he has written The Child's Christian Year; some of the finest pieces in the Lyra Apostolica, and a new translation of the Psalms of David. I believe Mr. KEBLE is now about fifty years of age.
Children and childlike souls are there, Blind Bartimeus' humble prayer, And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep, Enduring life again, that Passover to keep. And fast beside the olive-border'd way Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign'd to And peaceful home, to Zeal sincere The heavenly Contemplation dear, Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet, And wiser Mary linger'd at thy sacred feet. Still, through decaying ages as they glide, Thou lovest thy chosen remnant to divide ;
Sprinkled along the waste of years,
Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred, safe abode. When withering blasts of error swept the sky,* And Love's last flower seem'd fain to droop and die, How sweet, how lone, the ray benign, On shelter'd nooks of Palestine ! Then to his early home did Love repair, And cheer'd his sickening heart with his own native Years roll away: again the tide of crime Has swept thy footsteps from the favour'd clime. Where shall the holy Cross find rest?
On a crown'd monarch's mailed breast: Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene, Through court and camp he holds his heavenward
A fouler vision yet; an age of light, Light without love, glares on the aching sight: O who can tell how calm and sweet, Meek Walton! shows thy green retreat, When wearied with the tale thy times disclose, The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose? Arianism in the fourth century.
+ St. Louis in the thirteenth century.
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