The last and the noblest and fairest of all
Of the ancient race.
But he died the beautiful death,
For the Church and the King!
And none shall see me shed one tear,
While yet o'er sorrow my soul can hear
The war-cry ring—
So fiercely strong, so sweetly clear-
"For Church and King!"
O GLOTONIE, full of cursednesse ;
O cause first of our confusion,
O original of our damnation,
Til Crist had bought us with His Blood agen.
Loketh, how dere, shortly for to sain
Abought was thilke cursed vilaine :
Corrupt was all this world for glotonie.
Adam, our father, and his wif also
Fro' Paradis, to labour and to wo,
Were driven for that vice, it is no drede,
For while that Adam fasted, as I rede,
He was in Paradise, and whan that he
Ete of the fruit defended on a tree,
Anon he was cast out to wo and peine.
O glotonie, on thee wel ought us plaine.
O wist in man how many maladies
Folwen of excesse and of glotonies,
He wolde ben the more mesurable
Of his diete, sitting at his table.
CHAUCER, Pardonere's Tale.
WELCOME, deare feast of Lent: who loves not thee, He loves not Temperance, nor Authoritie,
But is composed of passion.
The Scriptures bid us fast, the Church says Now:
Give to thy mother what thou wouldst allow
To ev'ry corporation.
It's true, we cannot reach Christ's forti'th day;
Yet to go part of that religious way
Is better than to rest :
We cannot reach our Saviour's puritie ;
Yet we are bid, "Be holy ev'n as He!"
In both let's do our best.
Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone,
Is much more sure to meet Him, than one
That travelleth by-wayes.
Perhaps my God, though He be farre before,
May turn, and take me by the hand, and more,
May strengthen my decayes.
Yet, Lord, instruct us to improve our fast
By starving sinne, and taking such repast
As may our faults controle:
That ev'ry man may revell at his doore,
Not in his parlour; banquetting the poore,
And among those his soul.
O SAY! what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the light?
O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I always keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy!
COLLEY CIBBER, 1671-1737.
LET not soft slumber close your eyes,
Before you've recollected thrice
The train of action through the day!
Where have my feet chose out their way?
What have I learnt, where'er I've been,
From all I've heard, from all I've seen?
What know I more that's worth the knowing?
What have I done that's worth the doing?
What have I sought that I should shun?
What duty have I left undone?
Or into what new follies run?
These self-inquiries are the road
That leads to virtue and to God.
THOU Cam'st not to thy place by accident,
It is the very place God meant for thee;
And shouldst thou then small scope for action see,
Do not for this give room to discontent;
Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent
In idly dreaming how thou mightest be,
In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free
From outward hindrance or impediment;
For presently this hindrance thou shalt find
That without which all goodness were a task
So slight, that Virtue never could grow strong:
And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind,
The Imposer's—overburdened thou shalt ask,
And own thy need of grace to help, ere long.
ARCHBISHOP TRENCH.
A THOUSAND pretty ways we'll think upon
To mock our separation.
Alas! ten thousand will not do :
My heart will thus no longer stay,
No longer 'twill be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease;
That as a bird that flies about,
And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no passage out,
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.
LOVE OF SELF AND GOD.
THIS love of self sinks man in sinful sloth :
Yet, if he seek to live, he needs must feign
Sense, goodness, courage. Thus he dwells in
pain,
A sphinx, tiny-souled, a false self-stunted growth. Honours, applause, and wealth, these torments soothe ;
Till jealousy, contrasting his foul stain
With virtues eminent, by spur and rein
Drives him to slay, steal, poison, break his oath.
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