Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

She knew and felt her sins forgiven,
And found the earnest of her heaven.

Meet for the fellowship above,

She heard the call," Arise, my love!"
"I come," her dying looks replied,
And lamb-like, as her Lord, she died.

LINES DICTATED A SHORT TIME
BEFORE DEATH.

IN

age and feebleness extreme,

Who shall a sinful worm redeem?

JESUS, my only hope Thou art,

Strength of my failing flesh and heart :

O could I catch a smile from Thee,

And drop into eternity!

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Born, 1709; Died, 1784.

FROM "THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES."

ON what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide:

A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ;
Behold surrounding kings their power combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign ;

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain,
"Think nothing gain'd," he cries, “till nought remain,
On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the Polar sky.”

The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realm of Frost.
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ;-
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day :
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Condemn'd a needy suppliant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not Chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
Did hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

JOHN GAMBOLD.

Born, 1711; Died, 1771.

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.

So many years I've seen the sun,

And call'd these eyes and hands my own, A thousand little acts I've done,

And childhood have, and manhood known :

O what is life! and this dull round
To tread, why was a spirit bound?

So many airy draughts and lines,

And warm excursions of the mind,
Have fill'd my soul with great designs,
While practice grovell'd far behind:
O what is thought! and where withdraw
The glories that my fancy saw?

So many tender joys and woes

Have on my quivering soul had power; Plain life with height'ning passions rose, The boast or burden of the hour:

O what is all we feel! why fled

Those pains and pleasures o'er my head?

So many human souls divine,

So at one interview display'd;

Some oft and freely mix'd with mine

In lasting bonds my heart have laid :

O what is friendship! why imprest
On my weak, wretched, dying breast?
So many wondrous gleams of light,
And gentle ardours from above,
Have made me sit, like seraph bright,
Some moments on a throne of love :
O what is virtue! why had I,
Who am so low, a taste so high?

Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills,
My soul an unknown path shall tread,
And strangely leave, who strangely fills

This frame, and waft me to the dead :
O what is death! 'tis life's last shore,
Where vanities are vain no more;
Where all pursuits their goal obtain,
And life is all retouch'd again;
Where in their bright result shall rise
Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and joys.

EPITAPH ON HIMSELF.

Ask not, who ended here his span ?
His name, reproach, and praise, was man.
Did no great deeds adorn his course ?
No deed of his but show'd him worse:
One thing was great, which God supplied,
He suffer'd human life-and died.
What points of knowledge did he gain?
That life was sacred all-and vain :
Sacred how high, and vain how low?
He knew not here, but died to know.

THOMAS GRAY.

Born, 1716; Died, 1771.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea ;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

« ÎnapoiContinuă »