The hist❜ry of the Sphinx, and who began it, Our mystic marks, and monsters made of granite. Well, then, in grievous times, when king Cephrenes— But, ha! what's this?-the shades of bards and kings Press on my lips their fingers! What they mean is, I am not to reveal these hidden things.
Mortal, farewell! Till Science' self unbind them, Men must e'en take these secrets as they find them.
THE BIBLE; STAR OF ETERNITY.
Most wondrous book! bright candle of the Lord! Star of eternity! the only star
By which the bark of man could navigate The sea of life, and gain the coast of bliss Securely! Only star which rose on time, And, on its dark and troubled billows, still, As generation, drifting swiftly by, Succeeded generation, threw a ray
Of heaven's own light, and to the hills of God, The eternal hills, pointed the sinner's eye.
By prophets, seers, and priests, and sacred bards, Evangelists, apostles, men inspired,
And by the Holy Ghost anointed, set
Apart and consecrated to declare
To earth, the counsels of the Eternal One,
This book, this holiest, this sublimest book,
Was sent. Heaven's will, heaven's code of laws entire, To man, this book contained; defined the bounds
Of vice and virtue, and of life and death;
And what was shadow, what was substance, taught. Much it revealed; important all; the least Worth more than what else seemed of highest worth, But this of plainest, most essential truth: That God is one, eternal, holy, just,
Omnipotent, omniscient, infinite;
Most wise, most good, most merciful and true; In all perfection most unchangeable: That man, that every man of every clime And hue, of every age and of every rank, Was bad, by nature and by practice bad: In understanding blind, in will perverse, In heart corrupt; in every thought, and word, Imagination, passion and desire,
Most utterly depraved throughout, and ill, In sight of heaven, though less in sight of man ; At enmity with God his Maker born,
And by his very life an heir of death:
That man, that every man was, farther, most Unable to redeem himself, or pay
One mite of his vast debt to God; nay, more, Was most reluctant and averse to be Redeemed, and sin's most voluntary slave: That Jesus, Son of God, of Mary born In Bethlehem, and by Pilate crucified On Calvary, for man thus fallen and lost, Died; and, by death, life and salvation bought, And perfect righteousness, for all who should In his great name believe.
AN ALPINE STORM.
It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near,
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar,
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more;
He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
The sky is changed!—and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night :-Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,- A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,—and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene,
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted; Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed:Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years all winters,-war within themselves to wage.
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand: For here, not one, but many, make their play, And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to hand, Flashing and cast around: of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forked His lightnings, as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation worked,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurked.
Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings! ye! With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul To make these felt and feeling, well may be Things that have made me watchful; the far roll Of your departing voices, is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless,-if I rest.
But where of ye, oh tempests! is the goal? Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest?
CARDINAL WOLSEY ON HIS FALL.
I have touched the highest point of all my greatness; And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more.
So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.-
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me Out of thy honest truth to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be ; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me must more be heard-say, I taught thee,- Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me: Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition; By that sin fell the angels: how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not : Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
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