'Thy Maker's will has plac'd thee here,
'A Maker wise and good!
'He too thy ev'ry trial knows
'Its just restraint to give;
'Attentive to behold thy woes,
'And faithful to relieve.
'Then why thus heavy, O my soul!
'Say why, distrustful still,
'Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll
'O'er scenes of future ill?
'Tho' griefs unnumber'd throng thee round
'Still in thy God confide,
'Whose finger marks the seas their bound,
'And curbs the headlong tide.'
"Thou wert too like a dream of heaven
For earthly love to merit thee."
WE parted, and we knew it was for ever-
We knew it, but we parted: then each thought
And inmost feeling of our souls, which never
Had else been breath'd in words, rush'd forth
and sought
Their sweet home in each other's hearts, and there
They lived and grew 'mid sadness and despair.
It was not with the bonds of common love
Our hearts were knit together; they had been
lent companions in those griefs which move
And purify the soul, and we had seen
Sach other's strength and truth of mind, and hence
We loved with passion's holiest confidence.
We parted (as our hearts had loved) in duty
To Heaven and virtue, and we both resign'd Our cherish'd trust-I all her worth and beauty, And she th' untold devotion of my mind;
We parted in mute anguish, but we bent
Lowly to Him whose love is chastisement.
She rests in Heaven, and I-I could not follow :
My soul was crush'd, not broken: and I live
To think of all her love; and feel how hollow
Are the sick gladnesses the world can give.
I live in faith and holy calm, to prove
My heart was not unworthy of such love.
METHINKS it were no pain to die
On suchan eve, when such a sky
O'ercanopies the West;
To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,
And, like an infant, fall asleep
On earth, my mother's breast.
There's peace and welcome in yon sea
Of endless blue tranquillity:
These clouds are living things:
I trace their veins of liquid gold,
I see them solemnly unfold
Their soft and fleecy wings.
These be the angels that convey
Us weary children of a day,
Life's tedious nothing o'er,-
Where neither passions come, nor woes.
To vex the genius of repose
On DEATH's majestic shore.
No darkness there divides the sway
With startling dawn and dazzling day;
But gloriously serene
Are the interminable plains ;-
One fix'd, eternal sunset reigns
O'er the wide, silent scene.
I cannot doff all human fear;
I know thy greeting is severe
To this poor shell of clay;
Yet come, O DEATH! thy freezing kiss
Emancipates! thy rest is bliss !
I would I were away.
From the German of GLUCK.
Γ FROM "THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE."
THE air of death breathes through our souls,
The dead all round us lie;
By day and night the death-bell tolls,
And says, "Prepare to die."
The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wond'rous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.
I see the old man in his grave
With thin locks silv'ry-grey;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of the clay.
The loving ones we lov'd the best,
Like music all are gone!
And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.
But not when the death-prayer is said
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.
At holy midnight voices sweet
Like fragrance fill the room,
And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.
We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came!
-We veil our eyes before thy light,
We bless our Saviour's name!
This frame of dust, this feeble breath
The plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death
A deep and awful joy.
Dim is the light of vanish'd years
In the glory yet to come;
O idle grief! O foolish tears!
When Jesus calls us home.
Like children for some bauble fair
That weep themselves to rest;
We part with life-awake! and there
The jewel in our breast!
THE VILLAGE CLERGYMAN.
NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still where many a garden flow'r grows wild ; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year!
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wish'd to change his place.
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise;
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claim allow'd;
The broken soldier kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away!
Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were
Pleas'd with his guests, the good man learned to
And quite forgot their vices in their woe; [glow,
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave, e'er charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And ev'n his failings lean'd on virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at ev'ry call,
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all.
And, as a bird, each fond endearment tries,
To tempt his new fledg'd offspring to the skies;
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd;
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the trembling soul;
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