No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait The ministers of human fate, And black misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murtherous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And shame that skulks behind; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning infamy. The stings of falsehood those shall try, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen remorse with blood defiled, And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo! in the vale of years beneath More hideous than their queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That numbs the soul with icy hand, To each his sufferings: all are men, The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thomas Gray. Falmouth. FALMOUTH HAVEN. [ERE Vale a lively flood, her nobler name that gives HERE To Falmouth, and by whom it famous ever lives, Whose entrance is from sea so intricately wound, Her haven angled so about her barbarous sound, That in her quiet bay a hundred ships may ride, Yet not the tallest mast be of the tall'st descried. Michael Drayton. Farrington. A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY. "SOME cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people, who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxołogy over them."-Spectator of May 14, 1863. "PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow.” Praise him, who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, - He opens and he shuts his hand, We fathom not the mighty plan, And when, the tempest passing by, We look up, and through black clouds riven, Ours is no wisdom of the wise, For he who loveth knoweth God. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. Farringford. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. YOME, when no graver cares employ, COME Godfather, come and see your boy: For, being of that honest few, Should all our churchmen foam in spite Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, All round a careless-ordered garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while you dine, For groves of pine on either hand, And further on, the hoary Channel Where, if below the milky steep And on through zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep, We might discuss the Northern sin Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Or whether war's avenging rod Till you should turn to dearer matters, How best to help the slender store, |