A STORM. Now bursts the wave that from the clouds impends, And swelled with tempests on the ship descends, White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud Howl o'er the masts, and sing thro' every shroud; Pale, trembling, tired, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on every wave appears. DRYDEN'S VIRGIL. JOHN STERLING TO HIS SISTER. WRITTEN A FEW HOURS BEFORE HE DIED. Could we but hear all Nature's voice, From glowworm up to sun, 'Twould speak with one concordant sound, Thy will, O God, be done!' 6 But hark, a sadder, mightier prayer From all men's hearts that live, Thy will be done in earth and heaven, And thou my sins forgive!' Come, said Jesus' sacred voice, Weary pilgrim, hither come. Thou who houseless, sole, forlorn, Long hast borne the proud world's scorn, Ye who tossed on beds of pain, M Ye by fiercer anguish torn, PSALM XXXVII. Commit thou all thy griefs And ways into His hands, To His sure truth and tender care, Put thou thy trust in God, In duty's path go on; Fix on His word thy steadfast eye, Give to the winds thy fears; Hope and be undismay'd; God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears; Through waves and clouds and storms Wait thou His time,-thy darkest night LUTHER. All places that the eye of heaven visits Are, to a wise man, ports and happy havens. SHAKESPEARE. Friend after friend departs; Who hath not lost a friend? Beyond this vale of death, There is a world above, Where parting is unknown; A whole eternity of love, Formed for the good alone; Thus star by star declines, Nor sink those stars in empty night, They hide themselves in heaven's own light. MONTGOMERY. Yes, it was the mountain echo, Unsolicited reply To a babbling wanderer sent; Like her ordinary cry, Like-but oh, how different! Hears not also mortal life? Hear not we, unthinking creatures! Have not we too—yes, we have— Such rebounds our inward ear WORDSWORTH. Child of sin and sorrow, Heaven bids thee come, ! While yet there's room Child of sin and sorrow. Why wilt thou die ? Come while thou canst borrow Help from on high : Grieve not that love, Which from above, Tell me not in mournful numbers And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest ! Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! |