Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away, And softly go to slumber with the dead. And if 't is true, what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretell the day
Of death to those good men who fall thy prey,
O let the aërial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,
Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear!
That I may bid my weeping friends good bye
Ere I depart upon my journey drear:
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.
Yes, thou didst wrong me, *; I fondly thought
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;
I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes, and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.
Thine,
Half-past Eleven o'clock at Night.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREAUX.
THY judgments, Lord, are just thou lovest to wear
The face of pity and of love divine;
But mine is guilt-thou must not, canst not, spare,
While heaven is true and equity is thine.
Yes, oh my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done since 't is thy glory's due,
Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,
That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,
Who, when the Author reasoned with him calmly, asked
"if he did not feel for him?”
"Do I not feel?" The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;
My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep-buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act, whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved solitary thing;
Even then I learnt to bury deep from day,
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:
Even then I learnt for others' cares to feel:
Even then I wept I had not power to heal:
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the
wretched's doom.
CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1804.
YET once more, and once more, awake, my Harp!
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain,
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,
I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high.
Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch of ivy sear,
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day
Of the Redeemer.-Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the day-spring first
Beam'd from on high!-Now to the mighty mas
Of that increasing aggregate, we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery!
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppressed too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears
So has the year been character'd with woe
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes:
Yet 't was not thus He taught not thus He lived,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving.-He, a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed,-path, though rude,
Yet borne with patience still-He came to cheer
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick.
And on the wandering and benighted mind
To pour the light of truth.-O task divine!
O more than angel teacher! He had words
fire-To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,
Wrapt in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile
At the surrounding wreck-
Who were my friends in youth ?-The midnight
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;
To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mixt with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek.
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,
His persecutors-"Father, pardon them,
They know not what they do."
Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,
And did him homage, say, may mortal join
The hallelujahs of the risen God!
Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard
Amid the seraphim in light divine?
Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,
Low though it be and humble.-Lord of life!
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising soul. I mount, I fly
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow, are no more.
YET once again, my Harp! yet once again,
One ditty more, and on the mountain-ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,
I woke to thee the melancholy song.
Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;
Not unrepining, for my froward heart
Sull turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow
Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts
Of my not songless boyhood.-Yet once more,
Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,
My long-neglected Harp.-He must not sink;
The good, the brave-he must not, shall not sink
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour
No precious dews of Aganippe's well,
Or Castaly, though from the morning cloud
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse :
Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent
Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe
Thy honor'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd
Fast from thy honest heart.-Thou, Pity, too,
If ever I have loved, with faltering step,
To follow thee in the cold and starless night,
To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft
Amid the carnage of the field I've sate
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,
With mercy and forgiveness-visitant
Of heaven-sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold
For argument so great, for theme so high.
How dimly on that morn the sun arose,
'Kerchieft in mists, and tearful, when-
My God, my God, oh, why dost thou forsake me?
Why art thou distant in the hour of fear?
To thee, my wonted help, I still betake me,
To thee I clamor, but thou dost not hear.
The beam of morning witnesses my sighing,
Yet thou art holy, and, on thee relying,
The lonely night-hour views me weep in vain,
Our fathers were released from grief and pain.
To thee they cried, and thou didst hear their wailing,
On thee they trusted, and their trust was sure;
But I, poor, lost, and wretched son of failing,
I, without hope, must scorn and hate endure.
Me they revile; with many ills molested,
They bid me seek of thee, O Lord, redress: On God, they say, his hope and trust he rested, Let God relieve him in his deep distress.
To me, Almighty! in thy mercy shining,
Life's dark and dangerous portals thou didst ope;
And softly on my mother's lap reclining,
Breathed through my breast the lively soul of hope.
Even from the womb, thou art my God, my Father!
Aid me, now trouble weighs me to the ground:
Me heavy ills have worn, and, faint and feeble,
The bulls of Bashan have beset me round.
My heart is melted and my soul is weary,
The wicked ones have pierced my hands and feet! Lord, let thy influence cheer my bosom dreary:
My help! my strength! let me thy presence greet.
Save me! oh, save me! from the sword dividing,
Give me my darling from the jaws of death!
Thee will I praise, and, in thy name confiding,
Proclaim thy mercies with my latest breath.
THE Lord our God is full of might,
The winds obey his will:
He speaks, and in his heavenly height
The rolling sun stands still.
Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land
With threatening aspect roar!
The Lord uplifts his awful hand,
And chains you to the shore.
Howl, winds of night, your force combine!
Without his high behest,
Ye shall not in the mountain pine
Disturb the sparrow's nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar,
In the distant peal it dies;
He yokes the whirlwind to his car,
And sweeps the howling skies.
Ye nations, bend,-in reverence bend;
Ye monarchs, wait his nod;
And bid the choral song ascend,
To celebrate your God.
THE Lord our God is Lord of all,
His station who can find? 1 hear him in the waterfall!
I hear him in the wind!
If in the gloom of night I shroud,
His face I cannot fly;
I see him in the evening cloud,
And in the morning sky.
He lives, he reigns in every land,
From winter's polar snows
To where, across the burning sand,
The blasting meteor glows!
He smiles, we live; he frowns, we die;
We hang upon his word :-
He rears his red right arm on high,
And ruin bares the sword.
He bids his blasts the fields deform-
Then when his thunders cease,
Sits like an angel 'mid the storm,
And smiles the winds to peace!
Onward, Christians, onward go,
Join the war, and face the foe;
Faint not! much doth yet remain,
Dreary is the long campaign.
Shrink not, Christians; will ye yield?
Will ye quit the painful field?
CHRISTIANS! brethren! ere we part,
Join every voice and every heart;
One solemn hymn to God we raise,
One final song of grateful praise.
Christians! we here may meet no more,
But there is yet a happier shore;
And there, released from toil and pain,
Brethren, we shall meet again.
Now to God, the Three in One,
Be eternal glory done;
Raise, ye saints, the sound again :
Ye nations, join the loud Amen.
THROUGH Sorrow's night, and danger's path,
Amid the deepening gloom,
We, soldiers of an injured King,
Are marching to the tomb.
There, when the turmoil is no more,
And all our powers decay,
Our cold remains in solitude
Shall sleep the years away.
Our labors done, securely laid
In this our last retreat,
Unheeded, o'er our silent dust
The storms of life shall beat.
Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane,
The vital spark shall lie,
For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise
To see its kindred sky.
These ashes too, this little dust,
Our Father's care shall keep,
Till the last angel rise, and break
The long and dreary sleep.
Then love's soft dew o'er every eye
Shall shed its mildest rays,
And the long-silent dust shall burst
With shouts of endless praise.
MUCH in sorrow, oft in woe,
Onward, Christians, onward go,
Fight the fight, and worn with strife,
Steep with tears the bread of life.
In Heaven we shall be purified, so as to be able to endure the splendors of the Deity.
AWAKE, Sweet harp of Judah! wake,
Retune thy strings for Jesus' sake;
We sing the Savior of our race,
The Lamb, our shield, and hiding-place.
When God's right arm is bared for war,
And thunders clothe his cloudy car,
Where, where, oh where, shall man retire,
To escape the horrors of his ire?
"Tis he, the Lamb, to him we fly,
While the dread tempest passes by;
God sees his Well-beloved's face,
And spares us in our hiding-place.
Thus while we dwell in this low scene,
The Lamb is our unfailing screen;
To him, though guilty, still we run,
And God still spares us for his Son.
While yet we sojourn here below,
Pollutions still our hearts o'erflow;
Fallen, abject, mean a sentenced race,
We deeply need a hiding-place.
Yet courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And wash'd in Jesus' cleansing blood.
Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,
And need no more a hiding-place.
The last stanza of this hymn was added extemporaneously. one summer evening, when the author was with a few franda, on the Trent, and singing it as he was used to do on such ve casions.
Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.
Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare May read in thee;
How small a part in time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair.
[Yet, though thou fade,
From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the Maid
That Goodness Time's rude hand defies, That Virtue lives when Beauty dies.]
"I AM PLEASED, AND YET I'M SAD."
WHEN twilight steals along the ground,
And all the bells are ringing round,
One, two, three, four, and five,
I at my study-window sit,
And, rapt in many a musing fit,
To bliss am all alive.
But though impressions calm and sweet
Thrill round my heart a holy heat,
And I am inly glad,
The tear-drop stands in either eye,
And yet I cannot tell thee why,
I am pleased, and yet I'm sad.
The silvery rack that flies away
Like mortal life or pleasure's ray,
Does that disturb my breast?
Nay, what have I, a studious man,
To do with life's unstable plan,
Or pleasure's fading vest?
Is it that here I must not stop,
But o'er yon blue hill's woody top,
Must bend my lonely way?
No, surely no! for give but me
My own fire-side, and I shall be
At home where'er I stray.
Then is it that yon steeple there,
With music sweet shall fill the air,
When thou no more canst hear?
Oh, no! oh, no! for then forgiven
I shall be with my God in Heaven,
Released from every fear.
Then whence it is I cannot tell,
But there is some mysterious spell
That holds me when I'm glad; And so the tear-drop fills my eye, When yet in truth I know not why, Or wherefore, I am sad.
It is not that my lot is low,
That bids the silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that bids me moan,
It is that I am all alone.
In woods and glens I love to roam,
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland's pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs
With hallow'd airs and symphonies,
My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sear and dead,
It floats upon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die
Without recording sorrow's sigh!
The woods and winds, with sudden wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free,
And when I sigh to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view,
That thinks on me, and loves me too;
I start, and when the vision's flown,
I weep that I am all alone.
Ir far from me the Fates remove
Domestic peace, connubial love,
The prattling ring, the social cheer,
Affection's voice, affection's tear,
Ye sterner powers, that bind the heart,
To me your iron aid impart!
O teach me, when the nights are chill,
And my fire-side is lone and still;
When to the blaze that crackles near,
I turn a tired and pensive ear,
And Nature conquering bids me sigh
For Love's soft accents whispering nigh,
O teach me, on that heavenly road
That leads to Truth's occult abode,
To wrap my soul in dreams divine,
Till earth and care no more be mine.
Let blest Philosophy impart
Her soothing measures to my heart;
And while with Plato's ravish'd ears
I list the music of the spheres,
Or on the mystic symbols pore,
That hide the Chald's sublimer lore,
I shall not brood on summers gone,
Nor think that I am all alone.
FANNY! upon thy breast I may not lie!
Fanny, thou dost not hear me when I speak!
Where art thou, love ?-Around I turn my eye,
And as I turn, the tear is on my cheek.
Was it a dream? or did my love behold
Indeed my lonely couch-Methought the breath
Fann'd not her bloodless lip; her eye was cold
And hollow, and the livery of death
Invested her pale forehead-Sainted maid!
My thoughts oft rest with thee in thy cold grave
Through the long wintry night, when wind and
Rock the dark house where thy poor head is laid.
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