And e'en the story ran that he could In For, arguing, too, the parson owned e'en though vanquished, he While words of learned length and Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. to trace The day's disasters in his morning At all his jokes, for many a joke had Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind- or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew; 'T was certain he could write, and Lands he could measure, terms and - for pride attends I still had hopes- Around my fire an evening group to And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return-and die at home at last. O blest retirement! friend to life's decline! Retreat from care, that never must be mine! Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. So blest a life these thoughtless realms display, Thus idly busy rolls their world away: Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honor forms the social temper here: Honor, that praise which real merit gains Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land: From courts, to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise; They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem. Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. But while this softer art their bliss And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws Alike all ages: dames of ancient days Nor weighs the solid worth of selfapplause. GOODALE. [From The Oratorio of the Captivity.] HOPE. THE wretch condemned with life to part, Still, still on hope relies; And every pang that rends the heart, Bids expectation rise. Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, Adorns and cheers the way; And still, as darker grows the night, Emits a brighter day. [From the Oratorio of the Captivity.] THE PROPHETS SONG. OUR God is all we boast below, To Him we turn our eyes; And every added weight of woe, Shall make our homage rise. DORA READ GOODALE. RIPE GRAIN. O STILL, white face of perfect peace, Untouched by passion, freed from pain, He who ordained that work should cease, O noble face! your beauty bears of finished work, of ripened grain. Of human care you left no trace, Took to Himself the ripened grain. On earth an empty form and face In Heaven stands the ripened grain. HANNAH FLAGG GOULD. THE SOUL'S FAREWELL. IT must be so, poor, fading, mortal thing! And now we part, thou pallid form of clay! Thy hold is broken-I unfurl my wing; And from the dust the spirit must away! I go to stand unshrouded and alone, Full in the light of God's ail-searching eye. There must the deeds which we together wrought, Be all remembered - each a wit ness made; The outward action and the secret thought Before the silent soul must there be weighed. Lo! I behold the seraph throng descend To waft me up where love and mercy dwell; Away, vain fears! the Judge will be my friend; It is my Father calls- pale clay farewell! A NAME IN THE SAND. ALONE I walked the ocean strand; And washed my lines away. With every mark on earth from me: And so, methought, 'twill shortly be A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place And holds the waters in his hands, Inscribed against my name, For glory or for shame. |