Then, as down to ocean glancing, When the lonely night-watch keeping, Mindful of the friends behind thee! Turned to those who wake for thee. When with slow and gentle motion, When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, wreck, and death before thee; While the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrent streaming, Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts, to Heaven ascending, Met by prayers that rise for thee! H. Gould. A NAME IN THE SAND. Alone I walked the ocean-strand; And so, methought, 'twill shortly be Will sweep across the place, And yet with Him who counts the sands, Of all this mortal part hath wrought; H. Gould. THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. Now the growing year is over, Rings a low farewell: Now the birds of Autumn shiver, Where the withered beech-leaves quiver, O'er the dark and lazy river, In the rocky dell. Now the mist is on the mountains, Reddening in the rising sun : Now the flowers around the fountains Perish one by one: Not a spire of grass is growing, But the leaves that late were glowing, Now its blighted green are strowing With a mantle dun. Now the torrent brook is stealing That the sound of cataracts falling As its hoarse and heavy brawling Darkly blue the mist is hovering Slow the blood-stained moon is riding Through the still and hazy air, Like a sheeted spectre gliding In the torch's glare: Few the hours her light is given- Percival. THE FLIGHT OF TIME. Faintly. flow, thou falling river, Keep thy calm unruffled way: Roses bloom, and then they wither: Cheeks are bright, then fade and die; Shapes of light are wafted hither— Then, like visions, hurry by: Quick as clouds at evening driven O'er the many-coloured west, Years are bearing us to heaven, Home of happiness and rest. Percival. |