« AnteriorContinuar »
Think not the good,
The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done,
Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the prisoner,
The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow,
Who daily own the bounty of thy hand,
Shall cry to heaven and pull a blessing on thee.
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear,
More sweet than all the landscapes shining near?
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue!
Thus with delight we linger to survey
The promis'd joys of life's unmeasurd way;
Thus from afar, each dim discover'd scene,
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been
And every form that fancy can repair,
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
Night. Night, sable goddess ! from her ebon throne, In rayless majesty now stretches forth Her leaden scepter o'er a slumb’ring world: Silence, how dead! and darkness, how profound Nor eye nor list’ning ear an object finds; Creation sleeps. 'Tis as the general pulse Of life stood still, and nature made a pause, An awful pause, prophetic of her end.
Sleep. Tir'd Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! He, like the world, his ready visits pays Where Fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes: Swift on his downy pinions, flies from grief.
Battle. Now, shield with shield, with helmet helmet clos'd To armor armor, lance to lance oppos’d; Host against host the shadowy squadrons drew; The sounding darts in iron tempest flew. Victors and vanquish'd join promiscuous cries, And shrilling shouts and dying groans arise: With streaming blood the slipp'ry fields are dy'd, And slaughter'd heroes swell the dreadful tide.
Courage. He's truly valiant, that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe; and make his wrong His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.
Mercy. Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act; By which heaven moves in pardoning guilty man. And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, Shall seek it, and not find it in his turn.
I would not enter on my list of friends,
(Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility,) the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertant step may crush the snail,
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarn'd
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows, and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.
Confidence in Divine Protection.
Man may trouble and distress me,
"Twill but drive me to thy breast;
Life with trials hard may press me,
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh! 'tis not in grief to harm me,
While thy love is left to me;
Oh! 'twere not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy unmix'd with Thee.
As turns the pausing trav'ler back,
At close of evening, to survey
The windings of the weary track,
Through which the day's long journey lay,
And sees by that departing light
Which filed so fast on field and meadow,
How distant objects still are bright,
When nearer things are sunk in shadow,-
Ev'n so the mind's inquiring eye.
Looks backward through the mist of years,
When in its vast variety,
The chequer'd map of life appears;
And ev'n when life's declining years
Have ceas'd to paint the path before him,
The sunshine of her youthful days
Still casts a cheerful influence o'er him.
Deep as the murmurs of the falling floods;
Sweet as the warbles of the vocal woods:
The list’ning passions hear, and sink and rise,
As the rich harmony or swells or dies !
The pulse of avarice forgets to move;
A purer rapture fills the breast of love;
Devotion lifts to heav'n a holier eye,
And bleeding.pity heaves a softer sigh.
The closing strain composed, and calm she play'do
And sang no words to give its pathos aid;
But grief seem'd ling’ring in its lengthen'd swell,
And like so many tears, the trickling touches fell.
From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill,
Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,
And swells and deepens to the cherish'd eye.
The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves
Put forth their buds, unfoldi by degrees,
Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd
In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales.
The bright-effulgent sun,
Rising direct, swift chases from the sky
The short-liv'd twilight, and with ardent blaze
Looks gaily fierce through all the dazzling air:
He mounts his throne; but kind before him sends
Issuing from out the portals of the morn
The general breeze, to mitigate his fire,
And breathe refreshment on a fainting world.
Now the leaf
Incessant rustles from the mournful grove,
Oft startling such as, studious, walk below,
And slowly circles through the waving air.
Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields,
And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race
Their sunny robes resign. E’en what remain'd
Of stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree;
And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around,
The desolated prospect thrills the soul.
The horizontal sun,
Broad o'er the south, hangs at his utmost noon,
And, ineffectual, strikes the gelid cliff:
His azure gloss the mountain still maintains,
Nor feels the feeble touch. Perhaps the vale
Relents a while to the reflected ray;
Or from the forest falls the cluster'd snow,
Myriads of gems, that in the waving gleam,
Gay twinkle as they scatter. Thick around
Thunders the sport of those, who, with the gun
And dog impatient, bounding at the shot,
Worse than the Season desolate the fields.
Good name in man and woman,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse, steals trash; 'tis something, no
thing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name, Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath
Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie
All corners of the world: kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons-nay, the secrets of the grave
This viperous slander enters.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose
There as 1 pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften’d from below;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind,
These all in soft confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voic'd, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush,
Bending with dewy moisture o'er the heads
Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,
Are prodigal of
harmony. The thrush
And woodlark, o'er the kind contending throng,
Superior heard, run through the sweetest length
Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns
To let them joy, and purposes in thought
Elate, to make her night excel their day.
The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;
The mellow bulfinch answers from the grove;
Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze
Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these,
Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade
Of 'new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix
Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,
And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,
Aid the full concert; while the stock-dove breathes
A melancholy murmur through the whole.
The Hare and many Friends.
1. FRIENDSHIP in truth is but a name,
Unless to few we stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.