A GOOD that never satisfies the mind, A beauty fading like the April flowers, A sweet with floods of gall that runs combined, A treasury which bankrupt time devours, A knowledge than grave ignorance more blind, WILLIAM DRUMMOND. THE DIRGE. WHAT is the existence of man's life It is a storm where the hot blood And each loud passion of the mind Which bears his bark with many a wave, It is a flower which buds and grows It is a dream whose seeming truth It is a dial which points out It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; HENRY KING. THE END OF THE PLAY. THE play is done, - the curtain drops, And looks around, to say farewell. And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme ; Good night! I'd say the griefs, the joys, The angel wrote, and vanished. The west I came again, night and shewd the names whom love of god had beard, And Co: Ben Athem's name lid all the rest Here Leigh Bunt This blesse Thanksgiving Night, The raise to the am gratiful Civico; And this believing we rejoice. POEMS OF RELIGION. MY GOD, I LOVE THEE. My God, I love thee! not because I hope for heaven thereby ; Thou, O my Jesus, thou didst me For me didst bear the nails and spear, And griefs and torments numberless, And sweat of agony, Yea, death itself, — and all for one Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ, Should I not love thee well? Nor of escaping hell! Not with the hope of gaining aught, But as thyself hast loved me, E'en so I love thee, and will love, And in thy praise will sing, Solely because thou art my God, And my eternal King. ST. FRANCIS XAVIER (Latin). Translation of EDWARD CASWELL. EMPLOYMENT. IF as a flowre doth spread and die, Thou wouldst extend me to some good, Before I were by frost's extremitie Nipt in the bud, The sweetnesse and the praise were thine; But the extension and the room Which in thy garland I should fill were mine At thy great doom. For as thou dost impart thy grace, The measure of our joyes is in this place, Let me not languish, then, and spend As is the dust, to which that life doth tend, All things are busie; only I Nor flowres to make that, nor the husbandrie I am no link of thy great chain, But all my companie is a weed. Lord, place me in thy consort; give one strain To my poore reed. GEORGE HERBERT. THE NEW JERUSALEM. O MOTHER dear, Jerusalem, When shall I come to thee? O happy harbor of God's saints! Thy walls are made of precious stone, O my sweet home, Jerusalem! |