Triumph and Toil are twins: and aye
Joy's sun's i' the cloud of Sorrow;
And 'tis the Martyrdom To-day
Brings Victory To-morrow.
I MADE a posie, while the day ran by:
Here will I swell my remnant out, and tie
My life within this band.
But time did beckon to the flowers, and they
By noon most cunningly did steal away,
And wither'd in my hand.
My hand was next to them, and then my heart;
I took, without more thinking, in good part
Time's gentle admonition;
Who did so sweetly death's sad taste convey,
Making my mind to smell my fatal day,
Yet sugaring the suspicion.
Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.
I follow straight without complaints or grief,
Since if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.
GEORGE HERBERT, 1593-1633.
O THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
Oh, seldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth the unalter'd brow.
Oh, come, in simple vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
Oh, gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.
There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even-tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to wait :
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submissive head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, O nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
Oh, say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway ?
When autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day:
When eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering through the shade.
MRS BARBAULD, 1743-1825.
WHERE silent woods their dreary shade extend,
And give new horrors to the gloom of night,
If chance the swain his faltering footsteps bend,
In terror pausing for some friendly light,
How gladsome beats his heart when through the glade,
Piercing the clouds, he sees the moon's mild ray,
Onward he springs, with light and vigorous tread,
And hails the empress of the fainter day.
Thus, while through life's uncertain paths I rove,
Should dark despondence spread the gathering gloom,
May Hope's soft lustre, streaming from above,
Dispel the bodings of a mournful doom;
And when sad friendship marks my parting breath,
May Hope's benignant beam illume the vale of death.
W. SHEPHERD.
-Poetical Register, 1810-1811.
Do not crouch to-day, and worship
The old Past, whose life is fled,
Hush your voice to tender reverence;
Crown'd he lies, but cold and dead:
For the Present reigns our monarch,
With an added weight of hours;
Honour her, for she is mighty!
Honour her, for she is ours!
See the shadows of his heroes
Girt around her cloudy throne;
Every day the ranks are strengthen'd
By great hearts to him unknown ;
Noble things the great Past promised,
Holy dreams, both strange and new,
But the Present shall fulfil them,
What he promised, she shall do.
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