FRAILTY. [HOOD.] AYE, let us think of Him awhile, That, with a coffin for a boat, Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat, And for our table choose a tomb : There's dark enough in any skull To charge with black a raven plume; And for the saddest funeral thoughts A winding-sheet hath ample room, Where Death, with his keen-pointed style, Hath writ the common doom. How wide the yew-tree spreads its gloom, And o'er the dead lets fall its dew, As if in tears it wept for them, The many human families That sleep around its stem! How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet! Lo! here the best, the worst, the world Are in one common ruin hurl'd, Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; Beforehand we must fret : The roses bud and bloom again; EVENING. [REV. W. WICKENDEN.] SWEET Eve! I love to wander 'mid thy shades, 'Tis at such hours the wearied spirit rests, Breathes gentleness, and peace, and thrilling joy; It flies to other brighter regions, Converses with its God, and breathes in heaven. How calm! how still! how peaceful! But there are men o'er whose seared breasts such scenes, So sweetly beauteous, can have no powerAmbitious breasts, stabbed by Ambition and, her horrid train. But let me stroll, 'mid nature's loveliest scenes, And view my God in his most wond'rous works, Despise all meaner things, and soar to Heaven. A CHURCH-YARD SCENE. [PROFESSOR WILSON.] How sweet and solemn, all alone, With dream-like motion, wavery, slow, What years of vanished joy are found In its white stillness! When the shade Its sylvan village sleeps below, And faintly, here, is heard the flow A place where all things mournful meet, With what a pensive beauty fall That rose-tree's clustering arches! See Bright through the blossoms leaves his nest! What lulling sound, and shadow cool, Thou gorgeous sycamore! Oft hath the lowly wine and bread, Now all beneath the turf are laid, On which they sat, and sang, and prayed. Ascends the tapering spire, that seems To heaven, with all its dreams! SPRING. [BISHOP HEBER.] WHEN spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil; When summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's toil; When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good. The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade, The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade, The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars their Master's name in silent pomp display. • Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky-Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No; let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be, Thee, Master, must we always love, and Saviour honour thee. The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer fade, The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake the shade, The winds be lull'd, the sun and moon forget their old decree, But we, in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to thee!' R |