I would not trust my heart-the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might— But no-what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weather'd, and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;- So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar; And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since, has anchor'd at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distress'd,- Me howling winds drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ript, seams opening wide, and compass lost; And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. But oh! the thought that thou art safe, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise- The son of parents pass'd into the skies. And now, farewell- time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done:
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renew'd the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine;
And while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
HE quality of mercy is not strain'd;
THE It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's, When mercy seasons justice.
That, in the course of justice,
Think of this, none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.
ELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'er head! Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, Some forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.
THERE was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way;
He sat him down beside the brook,
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
He leant his back against a post, His feet the brook ran by; And there were water-cresses growing, And pleasant was the water's flowing, For he was hot and dry.
A soldier with his knapsack on
Came travelling o'er the down; The sun was strong, and he was tired; And he of the old man inquired, "How far to Bristol town?"
"Half an hour's walk for a young man, By lanes and fields and stiles; But you the footpath do not know; And if along the road you go,
Why then 'tis three good miles."
The soldier took his knapsack off, For he was hot and dry;
And out his bread and cheese he took, And he sat down beside the brook, To dine in company.
"Old friend! in faith," the soldier says, แ I envy you almost;
My shoulders have been sorely prest; And I should like to sit and rest
My back against that post."
The old man laugh'd and moved: "I wish It were a great arm-chair!
Still, it may help a man at need; And yet it was a cursed deed
That ever brought it there!
"There's a poor girl lies buried here, Beneath this very place;
The earth upon her corpse is prest; This post was driven into her breast, And a stone is on her face."
The soldier had but just leant back, And now he half rose up; "There's sure no harm in dining here, My friend? and yet, to be sincere, I should not like to sup."
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