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THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS.

BYRON.

There be none of beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sounds were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull’d winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

A. POPE.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame,
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame,
Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying,
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life.

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
"Sister spirit, come away!”
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses,

shuts

my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath,
Tell me, my soul, can this be death ?
The world recedes: it disappears:
Heaven opens on my eyes: my ears

With sounds seraphic ring.
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave, where is thy victory?

O Death, where is thy sting!

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Thomas Ken was born in England, in 1637, and died there in 1710. His morning hymn, which ends with this doxology, was written in 1697, at Oxford, for the students in Winchester College. Mr. H. Butterworth, in his “Story of the Hymns,” says * this unparalleled doxology “is suited to all religious occasions, to all Christian denominations, to all times, places, and conditions of men, and has been translated into all civilized tongues, and adopted by the church universal. Written more than two hundred years ago, it has become the grandest tone in the anthem of earth’s voices continually rising to heaven. As England's drum-call follows the sun, so the tongues that take up this grateful ascription of praise are never silent, but incessantly encircle the earth with their melody.” The stanza has been somewhat changed by the hymn-tinkers, as the original reads:

“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow:
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye angelic host,
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost."

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Utterer of many thoughts which else were still,

How oft have I

Evoked thy harmony,
The voiceless void in my poor heart to fill.

Sweet solace of my loneliness or grief,

It is to thee

And thy grand minstrelsy That I resort for pleasure or relief.

Thy diapason tones' deep, distant swell,

Like ocean's roar,
Or
songs

from sea-shell's core,
Waken fine chords deep hid in fancy's cell.

Oft-times at

even,
when

my

mind is fraught With visions high,

Or some strange fantasy, Thy glowing tones give utterance to my thought.

Devotion gains from thee a warmer tone,

Thine undersong

Carries the soul along,
Until it seems to reach the Eternal Throne.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

BYRON.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace, Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

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