I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
And all that misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes,
Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail,
Born but to err, and erring to bewail,
Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore,
And give to life one human weakness more?
Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;
Still mark the strong temptation and the need:
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call,
At least more lenient let thy justice fall.
AN APPEAL FOR THE POOR.
IF then to thee resort the shivering train,
Of cruel days, and cruel man complain,
Say to thy heart (remembering him who said),
"These people come from far, and have no bread."
Nor leave thy venal clerk empower'd to hear;
The voice of want is sacred to thy ear.
HOPE BEYOND THE GRAVE.
'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore.
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save,
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
Or when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,
That leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind,
My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,
Destruction before me and sorrow behind.
Oh, pity, great Father of lights, then I cried,
Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee; Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;
From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free.
And darkness and doubt are now flying away.
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn,
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb!
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his harp rang symphonious a hermit began;
No more with himself, or with nature, at war,
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
YET such the destiny of all on earth;
So flourishes and fades majestic man!
Fair is the bud his vernal morn brings forth,
And fostering gales a while the nursling fan:
O smile, ye heavens, serene; ye mildews wan,
Ye blighting whirlwinds, spare his balmy prime,
Nor lessen of his life the little span:
Borne on the swift, though silent wings of Time,
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
And be it so. Let those deplore their doom,
Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn :
But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb,
Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.
James Beattie.
THE SHEPHERD SWAIN.
THERE liv'd in gothic days, as legends tell,
A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree;
Whose sires, perchance, in Fairyland might dwell,
Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady.
But he, I ween, was of the north countrie:
A nation fam'd for song, and beauty's charms;
Zealous, yet modest: innocent, though free;
Patient of toil; serene, amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms.
АH! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar ;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime
Has felt the influence of malignant star.
And waged with Fortune an eternal war;
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And poverty's unconquerable bar,
In life's low vale remote has pined alone,
Then dropp'd into the grave, unpitied and unknown!
TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE.
WHERE'ER I turn my eyes,
Some sad memento of my loss appears;
I fly the fated house-suppress my sighs,
Resolved to dry my unavailing tears:
But, ah! in vain-no change of time or place
The memory can efface
Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,
Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and despair.
ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME.
ROCK OF AGES, cleft for me,
Keep me ever near to Thee !
Let the water and the blood
From thy wounded side which flow'd,
Be of sin the double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and pow'r !
Not the labor of my hands
Can fulfil thy law's demands;
Could my zeal no respite know
Could my tears forever flow,-
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone!
Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace ;
Leprous, to the Fountain fly;
Wash me Saviour, or I die!
While I draw this fleeting breath,-
When my eyes shall close in death,-
When I soar to worlds unknown,—
See Thee on thy judgment throne,-
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!
A. Toplady, 1740-'78.
LOVE divine, all love excelling,
Joy of heaven to earth come down;
Fix in us thy humble dwelling,
All thy faithful mercies crown;
Jesus, Thou art all compassion!
Pure unbounded love Thou art;
Visit us with thy salvation,
Enter every trembling heart.
SHUDDER not to pass the stream,
Venture all thy care on Him;
Him-whose dying love and power
Still'd its tossing, hush'd its roar :
Safe is the expanded wave,
Gentle as a summer's eve;
Not one object of his care
Ever suffer'd shipwreck there i
THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground,
"Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our later stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection, to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.
Mrs. Thrale, 1740-1822.
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