And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear :
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.
So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age.
ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1776-1843.
MINE be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall, shall linger near.
The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given;
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.
SAMUEL ROGERS, 1762-1855.
WOULDST thou from sorrow find a sweet relief,
And is thy heart oppress'd with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold?
'Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold
Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there
Its life and beauty: not when all unroll'd,
Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair
Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the ambient air.
Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted bowers,
Lest the lost years should haunt thee on the night,
When death is waiting for thy number'd hours
To take their swift and everlasting flight:
Wake, ere the earthly charm unnerve thee quite,
And be thy thoughts to work divine addrest:
Do something: do it soon-with all thy might!
An angel's wing would droop, if long at rest,
And God himself inactive were no longer blest.
Some high or humble enterprise of good
Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind,
Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,
And kindle in thy heart a flame refined.
Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,
With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind; Strength to complete and with delight review, And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.
No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air.
The lamp of Genius, though by Nature lit,
If not protected, trimm'd, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare ;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe proudly rare,
That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.
Has immortality of name been given
To them that idly worship hills and groves, And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven? Did Newton learn from fancy as it roves
To measure worlds and follow where each moves? Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease
By wanderings wild that Nature's pilgrim loves? Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece?
Beware lest thou from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim
Thy want of worth—a charge thou couldst not hear
From other lips without a blush of shame,
Or pride indignant: then be thine to blame,
And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist
The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame: 'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd,
And let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.
Rise to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know;
Shalt bless the earth, while in the world above
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow:
The seed, that in these few and fleeting hours
Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruit divine in heaven's immortal bowers.
CARLOS WILCOX.
Like to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies;
The dew dries up, the star is shot:
The flight is past—and man forgot.
DR HENRY KING, 1591-1669.
LET me move slowly through the street,
Fill'd with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
The murmuring walks like autumn rain.
How fast the flitting figures come!
The mild, the fierce, the stony face; Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.
They pass-to toil, to strive, to rest;
To halls in which the feast is spread;
To chambers where the funeral guest
In silence sits beside the dead.
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