REGARD TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS. 53
REGARD TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS.
THERE is a plant that in its cell
All trembling seems to stand,
And bends its stalk, and folds its leaves
From the approaching hand:
And thus there is a conscious nerve
Within the human breast,
That from the rash and careless touch
Sinks and retires distress'd.
The conduct rude, the speech severe,
Will raise within the mind
A nameless thrill, a secret tear,
A torture undefined.
Oh! you who are by nature formed
Each thought refined to know,
Repress the word, the glance that wakes
That tender nerve to woe.
And be it still your joy to raise
The trembler from the shade,
To bind the broken, and to heal
The wound you never made.
Whene'er you see the feeling mind
Oh, let this care begin;
And though the cell be ne'er so low,
Respect the guest within.
THE END OF LIFE.
LIFE has no value as an end, but means:
An end deplorable! a means divine!
When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing-worse than nought,
A nest of pains: when held as nothing, much. Like some fair humourists, life is most enjoyed When courted least, most worth when disesteemed;
Then 'tis the seat of comfort, rich in
In prospect richer far: important! awful!
Not to be mentioned but with shouts of praise!
Not to be thought on but with tides of joy!
The mighty basis of eternal bliss.
AH! who can tell which hour may be his last?
Perhaps my summons now is on its way :
Then let me rather muse upon
the past,
Than count securely on the coming day.
Full many a ship that sailed at smiling morn,
Rich in her freight, and of her bravery vain,
'Midst changing skies, o'er raging billows borne,
Hath found, ere night, her grave beneath the
main.
Then let us seek a dwelling that will last,
Far, far above our mouldering house of clay,
That when this little life is gone and past,
Ours be the bliss that never shall decay.
Ere gentle sleep upon my eyelids fall,
To thee, O God, would I my soul resign:
For thy dear Son, forgive me when I call,
That if I live, or die, I may be thine.
TO A PROTESTANT LADY IN FRANCE.
Ан, be not sad, although thy lot be cast
Far from the flock, and in a boundless waste!
No shepherd's tents within thy view appear,
But the chief Shepherd is for ever near;
Thy tender sorrows and thy plaintive strain
Flow in a foreign land, but not in vain ;
Thy tears all issue from a source divine,
And every drop bespeaks a Saviour thine.
So once in Gideon's fleece the dews were found,
And drought on all the drooping herbs around.
UNIVERSAL PROVIDENCE.
THE insect that, with puny wing,
Just shoots along one summer ray;
The flow'ret which the breath of spring
Wakes into life for half a day;
The smallest mote, the tend'rest hair,
All feel our heavenly Father's care.
Ev'n from the glories of his throne
He stoops to view this earthly ball;
Sees all, as if that all were one,—
Loves one, as if that one were all :
Rolls the swift planets in their spheres,
And counts the sinner's lowly tears.
THE TRUTH OF THE BIBLE.
WHENCE, but of heaven, could men unskilled in arts,
In several ages born, in several parts,
Weave such agreeing truths? or how or why Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie? Unasked their pains, ungrateful their advice, Starving their gain, and martyrdom their choice.
THE VALUE OF THE BIBLE.
WHAT is the world?—a wildering maze,
Where sin hath tracked a thousand ways
Her victims to ensnare;
All broad, and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,
All ending in despair.
Millions of pilgrims throng these roads,
Bearing their baubles or their loads
Down to eternal night;
One only path that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends
From darkness into light.
Is there no guide to show that path?
THE BIBLE!-he alone who hath
The Bible need not stray;
But he who hath, and will not give
That light of life to all who live,
Himself shall lose the way.
SAD, but instructive emblem of decay!
To feverish hopes and slumbering fears ad-
dressed,
Thy pensive tale a moral has impressed,
That youth should read before the winter's day.
For come it must hereafter, and it may
Outstrip the mellowing year. Go to thy rest,
Pale beauty of the wood; no more caressed,
|