"O bairn, by night or day I hear nae sounds ava', And the voices of ghaists that say, The Lord that made the wind and Is hard on my bairn and me, And I melt in his breath like snaw." "O mither, dinna dee!" "O bairn, it is but closing up the een, And lying down never to rise again. Many a strong man's sleeping hae I My sunimer has gone by, While Circe-charmed ye turn to bird and beast. Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight On this bare rock amid this fitful sea, And in the wind and rain I try to light A little lamp that may a beacon be, Whereby poor ship-folk, driving through the night, May gain the ocean-course, and think of me! tears. If this be dying, fair it is to die: Even as a garment weariness lays by, And sweet were sleep, but for the Thou layest down life, to pass as time sake o' thee." "O mither, dinna dee!" hath passed, From wintry rigors to a springtime sky. EVENTIDE. COMES Something down with even- Beside the sunset's golden bars, Upon the river's rippling face, Flash after flash the white The rest was soft and bright. By chance my eye fell on the stream; This knew I in that hour. For then my heart, so full of strife, I and the river, we were one: A rushing thing in power serene Was it a moment or an hour? I knew not; but I mourned That call, though many-voiced, is one, With mighty meanings in each tone; prayer, Its summons meets thee everywhere. Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, Look up! the wide extended plain Thrust in thy sickle, nor delay The present hour allots thy task! And trust His love whose sure sup- Meet all thy needs as they arise. Lo! the broad fields with harvest Thy hands to strenuous toil invite: Up! for the time is short; and soon Outrunning thine, shall spoil the WILLIAM HENRY BURLEIGH. While the day lingers, do thy best! THE HARVEST-CALL. ABIDE not in the land of dreams, Nor linger in the misty past, Full soon the night will bring its rest; RAIN. DASHING in big drops on the narrow While plays his interlude the wizard wind, I hear the ringing of the frequent rain: How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull, Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain, While busy thought calls up the past again, And lingers mid the pure and beautiful Visions of early childhood! Sunny faces Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones, And tread again in old familiar places! Such is thy power, O rain! the heart to bless, Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness. Then why, my soul, dost thou complain? Why drooping, seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, But, ah! my breast is human still; But yet, with fortitude resigned, The gloomy mantle of the night Which on my sinking spirit steals Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals. THOMAS CHATTERTON. ON RESIGNATION. O GOD, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To Thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in Thy justice praise. The mystic mazes of Thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the powers of human skill, But what the Eternal acts, is right. Oh, teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy power, Thy goodness love, thy justice fear. If in this bosom aught but Thee, Encroaching, sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, GEOFFREY CHAUCER. THE PARSON. A GOOD man there was of religión, That was a poore parson of a town, But rich he was of holy thought and work; He was also a learnèd man, a clerk. That Christés gospel truly wouldé preach; His parishens devoutly would he teach; Benign he was, and wonder diligent, Full loth were him to cursen for his tithès; But rather would he given out of doubt Unto his poor parishens about Of his off ring, and eke of his substance; He could in little thing have suffi sance: Wide was his parish, and houses far asunder, That, if gold rusté, what should iron | FLY fro the press, and dwell with do? soothfastnesse. For, if a priest be foul on whom we | Suffice unto thy good though it be keep To see a "fouled" shepherd and clean sheep: Well ought a priest ensample for to give By his cleanness how his sheep should live. He setté not his benefice to hire, And let his sheep accumbred in the mire, And ran unto London unto Saint Poule's To seeken him a chantery for souls, Or with a brotherhood to be withold; But dwelt at home and keptè well his fold, So that the wolf ne made it not miscarry; He was a shepherd and no mercenary; As though he holy were and virtuous, He was to sinful men not dispitous, Ne of his speeché dangerous ne digne; But in his teaching discreet and benign. To drawen folk to heaven with fairé ness, By good ensample, was his business; But it were any person obstinate, What so he were of high or low estate, Him would he snibben sharply for the nonés: small, For hoard hath hate, and climbing tickleness, Press hath envy, and weal is blent over all. Savour no more than thee behové shall. Rede well thyself that other folke canst rede; And truth thee shall deliver, it is no drede. |