The Household Book of Poetry

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Each field is then a hallowed spot-
An altar is in each man's cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to heaven! the industrious sun
Already half his race hath run;
He cannot halt nor go astray-
But our immortal spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the east
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from Thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course.

Is fasting then the thing that God requires?
Can fasting expiate, or slake those fires
That sin hath blown to such a migh
flame?

Help with Thy grace, through life's short Can sackcloth clothe a fault, or hide a shamef

day,

Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

TO KEEP A TRUE LENT.

Is this a fast-to keep

The larder lean,

And clean

From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish

Of flesh, yet still
To fill

The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour

Or ragged to go—
Or show

A downcast look, and sour?

Can ashes cleanse thy blot, or purge thy of

fence?

Or do thy hands make heaven a recompense,
By strewing dust upon thy briny face?
Are these the tricks to purchase heavenly
grace?-

No! though thou pine thyself with willing

want,

Or face look thin, or carcass ne'er so gaunt;
Although thou worser weeds than sackcloth

wear,

Or naked go, or sleep in shirts of hair;
Or though thou choose an ash-tub for thy bed,
Or make a daily dunghill on thy head;-
Thy labor is not poised with equal gains,
For thou hast naught but labor for thy
pains.

Such holy madness God rejects and loathes,
That sinks no deeper than the skin or clothes.
'Tis not thine eyes, which, taught to weep

by art,

Look red with tears (not guilty of thy heart); "T is not the holding of thy hands so high, Nor yet the purer squinting of thine eye:

FAR have I clambered in my mind,

Whose gashful balls do seem to pelt the But naught so great as love I find;

skies;

"T is not the strict reforming of your hair, So close that all the neighbor skull

bare;

'T is not the drooping of thy head so low,
Nor yet the lowering of thy sullen brow;
Nor wolvish howling that disturbs the air,
Nor repetitions, or your tedious prayer:
No, no! 'tis none of this, that God regards-
Such sort of fools their own applause re-
wards;

Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might,
Are naught compared to that good spright
Life of delight, and soul of bliss!

Sure source of lasting happiness!

Higher than heaven, lower than hell!
What is thy tent? where mayst thou dwell
My mansion hight humility,
Heaven's vastest capability—
The further it doth downward tend
The higher up it doth ascend;
If it go down to utmost naught

Such puppet-plays to heaven are strange and It shall return with that it sought.

quaint;

Their service is unsweet, and foully taint;
Their words fall fruitless from their idle

brain

But true repentance runs in other strain:
Where sad contrition harbors, there the
heart

Is truly acquainted with the secret smart
Of past offences-hates the bosom sin
The most, which the soul took pleasure in.
No crime unsifted, no sin unpresented,

Lord, stretch Thy tent in my strai

breast

Enlarge it downward, that sure rest
May there be pight; for that pure fire
Wherewith thou wontest to inspire
All self-dead souls. My life is gone
Sad solitude's my irksome wonne.
Cut off from men and all this world,
In Lethe's lonesome ditch I'm hurled.
Nor might nor sight doth aught me move,
Nor do I care to be above.

Can lurk unseen; and seen, none unlament-O feeble rays of mental light,

ed.

The troubled soul's amazed with dire aspects
Of lesser sins committed, and detects
The wounded conscience; it cries amain
For mercy, mercy-cries, and cries again;
It sadly grieves, and soberly laments;

That best be seen in this dark night!
What are you? what is any strength
If it be not laid in one length

With pride or love? I naught desire
But a new life, or quite t' expire.
Could I demolish with mine eye

It yearns for grace, reforms, returns, re- Strong towers, stop the fleet stars in sky,

pents.

Aye, this is incense whose accepted favor
Mounts up the heavenly Throne, and findeth
favor;

Aye, this is it whose valor never fails-
With God it stoutly wrestles, and prevails;
Aye, this is it that pierces heaven above,
Never returning home, like Noah's dove,
But brings an olive leaf, or some increase
That works salvation, and eternal peace.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

Bring down to earth the pale-faced moon,
Or turn black midnight to bright noon-
Though all things were put in my hand—
As parched, as dry, as the Libyan sand
Would be my life, if charity
Were wanting. But humility
Is more than my poor soul durst crave,
That lies intombed in lowly grave.
But if 't were lawful up to send
My voice to heaven, this should it rend:
Lord, thrust me deeper into dust
That Thou mayest raise me with the just!

HENRY MORT

HUMILITY.

THE bird that soars on highest wing
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing
Sings in the shade, where all things rest;
In lark and nightingale we see
What honor hath humility.

When Mary chose "the better part,"

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently opened heart

Was made for God's own temple meet: Fairest and best adorned is she

Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest

crown

In deepest adoration bends:

The weight of glory bows him down
Then most, when most his soul ascends:

Nearest the throne itself must be

The footstool of humility.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

"IS THIS A TIME TO PLANT AND BUILD?"

Is this a time to plant and build,
Add house to house, and field to field,
When round our walls the battle lowers-
When mines are hid beneath our towers,
And watchful foes are stealing round
To search and spoil the holy ground?

Is this a time for moonlight dreams
Of love and home, by mazy streams-
For fancy with her shadowy toys,
Aerial hopes and pensive joys,

While souls are wandering far and wide,
And curses swarm on every side?

No-rather steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part-
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,
Thy darling visions as they die,
Till all bright hopes, and hues of day,
Have faded into twilight gray.
Yes-let them pass without a sigh;
And if the world seem dul! and dry-

THE PRIEST.

771

Together we have now

Begun another year;

But how much time Thou wilt allow

Thou mak'st it not appear. We, therefore, do implore

That live and love we may, Still so as if but one day more Together we should stay.

Let each of other's wealth

Preserve a faithful care, And of each other's joy and health As if one soul we were. Such conscience let us make, Each other not to grieve, As if we daily were to take Our everlasting leave.

The frowardness that springs

From our corrupted kind,

Or from those troublous outward things

Which may distract the mind,

Permit Thou not, O Lord,

Our constant love to shake-

Or to disturb our true accord,

Or make our hearts to ache.

But let these frailties prove

Affection's exercise;

And that discretion teach our love Which wins the noblest prize.

So time, which wears away,

And ruins all things else, Shall fix our love on Thee for aye, In whom perfection dwells.

GEORGE WITHER

DEDICATION OF A CHURCH.

JERUSALEM, that place divine,
The vision of sweet peace is named;
n heaven her glorious turrets shine-
Her walls of living stones are framed ;
While angels guard her on each side-
Fit company for such a bride.

She, decked in new attire from heaven,
Her wedding chamber now descends,
Prepared in marriage to be given
To Christ, on whom her joy depends.

Her walls, wherewith she is inclosed,
And streets, are of pure gold composed.

The gates, adorned with pearls most bright,
The way to hidden glory show;
And thither, by the blessed might
Of faith in Jesus' merits, go

All those who are on earth distressed
Because they have Christ's name pro-

fessed.

These stones the workmen dress and beat
Before they throughly polished are;
Then each is in his proper seat
Established by the builder's care-
In this fair frame to stand for ever,
So joined that them no force can sever.

To God, who sits in highest seat,
Glory and power given be!

To Father, Son, and Paraclete,
Who reign in equal dignity-

Whose boundless power we still adore,
And sing Their praise for evermore!

WILLIAM DRUMMOND,

THE PRIEST.

I WOULD I were an excellent divine
That had the bible at my fingers' ends;
That men might hear out of this mouth of
mine,

How God doth make His enemies His
friends;

Rather than with a thundering and long prayer

Be led into presumption, or despair.

This would I be, and would none other be---
But a religious servant of my God;
And know there is none other God but He,
And willingly to suffer mercy's rod—
Joy in His grace, and live but in His love,
And seek my bliss but in the world above.

And I would frame a kind of faithful prayer,
For all estates within the state of grace,
That careful love might never know despair,

Nor servile fear might faithful love deface: And this would I both day and night devise To make my humble spirit's exercise.

And I would read the rules of sacred life;
Persuade the troubled soul to patience;
The husband care, and comfort to the wife,
To child and servant due obedience;
Faith to the friend, and to the neighbor
peace,

Hold but this book before your heartLet prayer alone to play his part.

But oh! the heart

That studies this high art Must be a sure house-keeper,

That love might live, and quarrels all might And yet no sleeper.

« Предыдущая Продолжить »

Книги