Billeder på siden
[blocks in formation]

The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play,
Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise !
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ;
See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings,
And heaped with products of Sabæan springs !
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day !
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolved, in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze,
O’erflow thy courts : the Light himself shall shine
Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine !
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fixed his word, his saving power remains ;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns !




LADY Clara Vere de Ver,

Of me you shall not win renown;
You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired :
The daughter of a hundred earls, –

You are not one to be desired.


Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name;
Your pride is yet no mate to mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came.
Nor would I break, for your sweet sake,

A heart that doats on truer charms;
A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find ;
For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love,

disdain is my reply ;
The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head:
Not thrice your branching limes have b'own, .

Since I beheld young Lawrence deac



O, your sweet eyes, your low replies !

A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his moiher's view,
She had the passions of her kind,
She spake some certain truths of

you; Indeed, I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear. Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Verc de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door;

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

blue heavens above us bent, The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'T is only noble to be good ; Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,

You pine among your halls and towers ; The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the rolling hours.



In glowing health, with boundless wealth,

But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands,
Are there no beggars at your gate,
Nor any poor
about your

O, teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,
Pray Heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go.

[ocr errors]

TRIAL BEFORE REWARD. — Francis Quarles.

What joyful harvester did e'er obtain
The sweet fruition of his hopeful gain,
Till he in hardy labors first had passed
The summer's heat and stormy winter's blast ?
A sable night returns a shining morrow,
And days of joy ensue sad nights of sorrow;
The way to bliss lies not on beds of down,
And he that had no cross deserves no crown.
There 's but one heaven, one place of perfect ease
In man it lies to take it where he please,
Above, or here below : and few men do
Enjoy the one, and taste the other too:
Sweating and constant labor win the goal
Of rest; afflictions clarify the soul,
And, like hard masters, give more hard directions,
Tutoring the nonage of uncurbed affections.
Wisdom, the antidote of sad despair,
Makes sharp afflictions seem not as they are,

[blocks in formation]

Through patient sufferance; and doth apprehend,
Not as they seeming are, but as they end.
To bear affliction with a bended brow,
Or stubborn heart, is but to disallow
The speedy means to health ; salve heals no sore,
If misapplied, but makes the grief the more.
Who sends affliction sends an end, and he
Best knows what's best for him, what 's best for me:
"T is not for me to carve me where I like;
Him pleases when he list to stroke or strike.
[ 'll neither wish nor yet avoid temptation,
But still expect it, and make preparation:
If he thinks best my faith shall not be tried,
Lord, keep me spotless from presumptuous pride!
If otherwise, with his trial give me care
By thankful patience to prevent despair;
Fit me to bear whate'er thou shalt assign;
I kiss the rod, because the rod is thine!

Howe'er, let me not boast, nor yet repine ;
With trial, or without, Lord, make me thine !

THE BARD. — Gray.

The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward the First, when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait !
Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail

« ForrigeFortsæt »