NIGHT! how I love thy silent shades, My spirits they compose; The bliss of heaven my soul pervades, In spite of all my woes.
While sleep instils her poppy dews In every slumbering eye, I watch to meditate and muse, In blest tranquillity.
And when I feel a God immense Familiarly impart,
With every proof he can dispense His favor to my heart.
My native meanness I lament, Though most divinely fill'd With all the ineffable content That Deity can yield.
His purpose and his course he keeps; Treads all my reasonings down; Commands me out of nature's deeps, And hides me in his own.
When in the dust, its proper place,
Our pride of heart we lay: 'Tis then a deluge of his grace
Bears all our sins away.
Thou whom I serve, and whose I am, Whose influence from on high Refines and still refines my flame, And makes my fetters fly.
How wretched is the creature's state Who thwarts thy gracious power; Crush'd under sin's enormous weight, Increasing every hour!
The night, when pass'd entire with thee, How luminous and clear!
Then sleep has no delights for me, Lest thou shouldst disappear.
My Saviour! occupy me still
In this secure recess;
Let reason slumber if she will, My joy shall not be less.
Let reason slumber out the night; But if thou deign to make
My soul the abode of truth and light, Ah, keep my heart awake!
THE JOY OF THE CROSS.
LONG plunged in sorrow, I resign My soul to that dear hand of thine, Without reserve or fear;
That hand shall wipe my streaming eyes; Or into smiles of glad surprise Transform the falling tear.
My sole possession is thy love; In earth beneath, or heaven above, I have no other store;
And, though with fervent suit I pray, And importune thee night and day, I ask thee nothing more.
My rapid hours pursue the course Prescribed them by love's sweetest force, And I thy sovereign will,
Without a wish to escape my doom; Though still a sufferer from the womb, And doom'd to suffer still.
By thy command, where'er I stray, Sorrow attends me all my way,
A never-tailing friend;
And, if my sufferings may augment Thy praise, behold me well content- Let sorrow still attend!
It cost me no regret, that she, Who follow'd Christ, should follow me, And though, where'er she goes, Thorns spring spontaneous at her feet, I love her, and extract a sweet From all my bitter woes.
Adieu! ye vain delights of earth, Insipid sports, and childish mirth, I taste no sweets in you; Unknown delights are in the cross, All joy beside to me is dross; And Jesus thought so too.
The cross! Oh ravishment and bliss- How grateful e'en its anguish is;
Its bitterness how sweet! There every sense, and all the mind, In all her faculties refined,
Tastes happiness complete. Souls once enabled to disdain Base sublunary joys, maintain Their dignity secure; The fever of desire is pass'd, And love has all its genuine taste, Is delicate and pure.
Self-love no grace in sorrow sees, Consults her own peculiar ease; "Tis all the bliss she knows; But nobler aims true Love employ; In self-denial is her joy,
In suffering her repose.
Sorrow and love go side by side: Nor height nor depth can e'er divide Their heaven-appointed bands; Those dear associates still are one, Nor till the race of life is run
Disjoin their wedded hands. Jesus, avenger of our fall, Thou faithful lover, above all The cross has ever borne! Oh tell me.-life is in thy voice- How much afflictions were thy choice, And sloth and ease thy scorn!
Thy choice and mine shall be the same Inspirer of that holy flame.
Which must forever blaze!
To take the cross and follow thee, Where love and duty lead shall be My portion and my praise.
JOY IN MARTYRDOM. SWEET tenants of this grove! Who sing without design,
A song of artless love,
In unison with mine: These echoing shades return Full many a note of ours, That wise ones cannot learn,
With all their boasted powers.
O thou! whose sacred charms These hearts so seldom love, Although thy beauty warms And blesses all above; How slow are human things, To choose their happiest lot! All-glorious King of kings,
Say why we love thee not?
This heart. that cannot rest,
Shall thine forever prove; Though bleeding and distress'd, Yet joyful in thy love: 'Tis happy though it breaks
Beneath thy chastening hand; And speechless, yet it speaks, What thou canst understand.
SIMPLE TRUST.
STILL. Still, without ceasing, I feel it increasing, This fervor of holy desire; And often exclaim,
Let me die in the flame
Of a love that can never expire!
Had I words to explain What she must sustain
Who dies to the world and its ways; How joy and aflright, Distress and delight, Alternately chequer her days:
Thou, sweetly severe !
I would make thee appear,
In all thou art pleased to award,
Not more in the sweet Than the bitter I meet My tender and merciful Lord.
This faith in the dark, Pursuing its mark,
Through many sharp trials of love, Is the sorrowful waste
Thee to love, and none beside, Was my darling, sole employ; While alternately I died. Now of grief, and now of joy.
Through the dark and silent night On thy radiant smiles I dwelt; And to see the dawning light Was the keenest pain I felt.
Thou my gracious teacher wert; And thine eye, so close applied, While it watch'd thy pupil's heart, Seem'd to look at none beside. Conscious of no evil drift, This I cried, is love indeed- 'Tis the giver. not the gift, Whence the joys I feel proceed.
But soon humbled and laid low, Stript of all thou hadst conferr'd, Nothing left but sin and woe, I perceived how I had err'd. Oh, the vain conceit of man, Dreaming of a good his own, Arrogating all he can,
Though the Lord is good alone!
He the graces thou hast wrought Makes subservient to his pride; Ignorant that one such thought Passes all his sin beside.
Such his folly-proved, at last By the loss of that repose, Self-complacence cannot taste, Only love divine bestows.
"Tis by this reproof severe, And by this reproof alone, His defects at last appear,
Man is to himself made known.
Learn, all earth! that feeble man, Sprung from this terrestrial clod, Nothing is and nothing can; Life and power are all in God.
LOVE INCREASED BY SUFFERING,
"I LOVE the Lord," is still the strain
This heart delights to sing:
But I reply your thoughts are vain, Perhaps 'tis no such thing.
Before the power of love divine Creation fades away; Till only God is seen to shine In all that we survey.
In gulfs of awful night we find The God of our desires;
'Tis there he stamps the yielding mind, And doubles all its fires.
Flames of encircling love invest, And pierce it sweetly through; 'Tis filled with sacred joy, yet press'd With sacred sorrow too.
Ah love! my heart is in the right- Amidst a thousand woes,
Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot By the world and its turbulent throng. The birds and the streams lend me many a note That aids meditation and song.
Here, wandering in scenes that are sacred to night Love wears me and wastes me away
And often the sun has spent much of his light Ere yet I perceive it is day.
While a mantle of darkness envelops the sphere My sorrows are sadly rehearsed
To me the dark hours are all equally dear, And the last is as sweet as the first.
Here I and the beasts of the deserts agree, Mankind are the wolves that I fear. They grudge me my natural right to be free, But nobody questions it here.
Though little is found in this dreary abode That appetite wishes to find,
My spirit is soothed by the presence of God, And appetite wholly resign'd.
SCENES FAVORABLE TO MEDITATION. WILDS horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees, Rocks that ivy and briers infold, Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees, But I with a pleasure untold;
Though awfully silent, and shaggy, and rude, I am charm'd with the peace ye afford; Your shades are a temple where none will intrude, The abode of my lover and Lord.
I am sick of thy splendor, O fountain of day, And here I am hid from its beams, Here safely contemplate a brighter display Of the noblest and holicst of themes.
Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose, Where stillness and solitude reign,
To you I securely and boldly disclose The dear anguish of which I complain.
Love reigns in my bosom, I constantly burn. Yet hardly distinguish the spark.
I live, yet I seem to myself to be dead, Such a riddle is not to be found,
I am nourish'd without knowing how I am fed I have nothing, and yet I abound.
Oh love! who in darkness art pleased to abide, Though dimly, yet surely I see That these contrarieties only reside
In the soul that is chosen of thee.
Ah! send me not back to the race of mankind. Perversely by folly beguiled.
For where, in the crowds I have left shall I find The spirit and heart of a child ?
Here let me, though fix'd in a desert, be free; A little one whom they despise, Though lost to the world, if in union with thee, Shall be holy, and happy, and wise.
LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS OF MILTON.
AT length, my friend. the far-sent letters come, Charged with thy kindness, to their destined They come, at length, from Deva's Western side, Where prone she seeks the salt Vergivian tide. Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, And that my sprightly friend, now free to roam,
Must seek again so soon his wonted home, I well content, where Thames with influent tide My native city laves, meantime reside, Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. Nor aught of pleasure in those fields have I, That to the musing bard all shade deny. "Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain, And fly from wrongs my soul will ne'er sustain. If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent Beneath my father's roof be banishment, Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse A name expressive of the lot I choose. I would that. exiled to the Pontic shore, Rome's hapless bard had suffer'd nothing more. He then had equall'd even Homer's lays, And, Virgil! thou hadst won but second praise: For here I woo the muse, with no control, And here my books-my life-absorb me whole. Here too I visit, or to smile or weep, The winding theatre's majestic sweep; The grave or gay colloquial scene recruits My spirits. spent in learning's long pursuits; Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir, Suitor. or soldier, now unarm'd be there, Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause, Thunder the Norman gibberish of the laws. The lacquey, there, oft dupes the wary sire, And, artiul speeds the enamor'd son's desire. There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove, What love is know not yet, unknowing, love. Or, if impassion'd tragedy wield high The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly. Wild as the winds and roll her haggard eye, I gaze, and grieve. still cherishing my grief. At times, e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief. As, when from bliss untasted torn away Some youth dies hapless on his bridal day: Or when the ghost sent back from shades below. Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful woe;
When Troy, or Argos, the dire scene affords, Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. Nor always city-pent, or pent at home,
I dwell; but, when spring calls me forth to roam, Expatiate in our proud suburban shades Of branching elm that never sun pervades. Here many a virgin troop I may descry, Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. Oh forms divine' oh looks that might inspire E'en Jove himself. grown old, with young desire, Oft have I gazed on gem-surpassing eyes, Out-sparkling every star that gilds the skies; Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestow'd By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road! Bright locks, love's golden snare! these falling Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow! Cheeks, too, more winning sweet than after shower
Adonis turn'd to Flora's favorite flower! Yield, heroines, yield, and ye who shared the embrace
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place! Give place, ye turban'd fair of Persia's coast! And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast! Submit, ye nymphs of Greece! ye, once the
Of Ilion! and all ye, of haughty Rome, Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains Redundant, and still live in classic strains! To British damsels beauty's palm is due; Aliens! to follow them is fame for you. Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands, Whose towering front the circling realm com- mands,
Too blest abode! no loveliness we see In all the earth but it abounds in thee. The virgin multitude that daily meets, Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, Outnumbers all her train of starry fires With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. Fame says that wafted hither by her doves, With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, Venus preferring Paphian scenes no more, Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore. But, lest the sightless boy enforce my stay, I leave these happy walls while yet I may. Immortal Moly shall secure my heart From all the sorcery of Circaan art, And I will e'en repass Cam's reedy pools, To face once more the warfare of the schools. Meantime accept this trifle! rhymes though few Yet such as prove thy friend's remembrance true
ON THE DEATH OF THE UNIVERSITY BEADLE AT CAMBRIDGE.
THEE, whose refulgent staff and summons clear Minerva's flock long time was wont to obey, Although thyself a herald famous here, The last of heralds death has snatch'd away. He calls on all alike nor even deigns To spare the office that himself sustains.
Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd By Leda's paramour in ancient time; But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd, Or, Æson-like, to know a second prime, Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son. Commission'd to convene with hasty call [stand! The gowned tribes how graceful wouldst thou So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall,
Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command! And so Eurybates, when he address'd To Peleus' son Atrides' proud behest.
Dread queen of sepulchres! whose rigorous laws And watchful eyes run through the realms Oh. oft too adverse to Minerva's cause! [below, Too often to the muse not less a foe! Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim Pierce useless drones, earth's burden and its shame!
Flow, therefore, tears for him from every eye, All ye disciples of the muses, weep! Assembling all in robes of sable dye,
Around his bier lament his endless sleep! And let complaining Elegy rehearse In every school her sweetest, saddest verse.
And all the beasts that in dark forests stray. And all the herds of Proteus are thy pry Ah envious! arm'd with powers so unconfrmé Why stain thy hands with blood of hun !! Why take delight, with darts that never ras To chase a heaven-born spirit from her best While thus I mourn'd, the star of ever
Now newly risen above the western floox!, And Phoebus from his morning goal ag Had reach'd the gulis of the Iberian man. I wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclined, Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd. When-oh for words to paint what I betcld! I seem'd to wander in a spacious field Where all the champaign glow'd with perple light,
Like that of sunrise on the mountain height; Flowers over all the field of every hue That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. Nor Chloris, with whom amorous Zephyrs pity, E'er dress'd Alcinous' garden half so gay. A silver current, like the Tagus. roll'd O'er golden sands. but sands of purer goll; With dewy airs Favonius fann'd the flowers, With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers. Such, poet's feign, irradiated all o'er The sun's abode on India's utmost shore.
While I that splendor, and the mingled shade of fruitful vines, with wonder fix'd, survey d. At once, with looks that beam'd celestial grace, The seer of Winton stood before my face. His snowy vesture's hem descending low, His golden sandals swept, and, pure as snow New fallen, shone the mitre on his brow. Where'er he trod. a tremulous sweet sound Of gladness shook the flowery scene around. Attendant angels clap their starry wings. The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings; Each chants his welcome, folds him to his breast And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest: Ascend, my son! thy Father's kingdom share! My son henceforth be freed from every care!' So spake the voice, and at its tender close With psaltery's sound the angelic band arose; Then night retired, and, chased by dawning day,
The visionary bliss pass'd all away.
I mourn'd my banish'd sleep with fond concern; Frequent to me may dreams like this return!
TO HIS TUTOR, THOMAS YOUNG, CHAPLAIN ΤΟ THE ENGLISH FACTORY AT
HENCE, my epistle-skim the deep-fly o'er Yon smooth expanse to the Tuetonic shore! Haste-lest a friend should grieve for thy delay- And the gods grant that nothing thwart thy way!
I will myself invoke the king who binds In his Sicanian echoing vault the winds, With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng Of azure gods to speed thee safe along. But rather, to ensure thy happier haste, Ascend Medea's chariot if thou mayst; Or that whence young Triptolemus of yore Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore.
« PreviousContinue » |