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BENEFITS OF AFFLICTION.

Is it then fitting that one soul should pine
For lack of culture in this favour'd land ?—
That spirits of capacity divine

Perish, like seeds upon the desert sand ?—
That needful knowledge in this age of light
Should not by birth be every Briton's right?

273

INDUSTRY.

TRAIN up thy children, England, in the way
Of righteousness, and feed them with the bread
Of wholesome doctrine. Where hast thou thy mines
But in their industry?

Thy bulwarks where but in their breast?
Thy might but in their arms?

Shall not their numbers therefore be thy wealth,
Thy strength, thy power, thy safety, and thy pride?
Oh grief then, grief and shame,

If in this flourishing land

There should be dwellings where the new-born babe Doth bring unto its parent's soul no joy!

Where squalid poverty

Receives it at its birth,

And on her wither'd knees

Gives it the scanty food of discontent!

BENEFITS OF AFFLICTION.

BEHOLD this vine ;

I found it a wild tree, whose wanton strength
Had swollen into irregular twigs

And bold excrescences,

And spent itself in leaves and little rings;

So in the flourish of its outwardness,

Wasting the sap and strength

That should have given forth fruit;

But when I pruned the tree,

Then it grew temperate in its vain expanse
Of useless leaves, and knotted, as thou see'st,
Into these full, clear clusters, to repay
The hand that wisely wounded it.
Repine not, O my son!

In wisdom and in mercy, Heaven inflicts,

Like a wise leech, its painful remedies.—
If ye would know

How visitations of calamity

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Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown ye there!
Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky,
Sailing alone, doth cross in her career

The rolling moon! I watched it as it came,

And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams;
But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs
In waves of silver round, and clothes
The orb with richer beauties than her own;
Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene.

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THE SABBATH BELLS.

THE cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard,
Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice
Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims
Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when
Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear
Of the contemplant, solitary man,

Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure
Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,

And oft again, hard matter, which eludes

And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick and tired

Of controversy, where no end appears,
No clue to his research, the lonely man
Half wishes for society again.

Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute.

HOPE TRIUMPHANT IN DEATH,

Sudden his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul
Yearns after all the joys of social life,
And softens with the love of human kind.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

BORN, 1777; DIED, 1843.

275

HOPE TRIUMPHANT IN DEATH.

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn-
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return,
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!
Oh! then thy kingdom comes, Immortal Power!
What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!
Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day--
Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin,
And all the Phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh, deep enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes!
Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh,

It is a dread and awful thing to die!
Mysterious worlds, untravelled by the sun!
Where time's far-wandering tide has never run,
From your unfathomed shades, and viewless spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.

'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud!
While Nature hears, with terror-mingled thrust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss,
And shrieks and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

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Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb! Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased, on his night-steed, by the star of day! The strife is o'er--the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven, undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem, sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill !

Soul of the just! companion of the dead !..
Where is thy home, and whither art thou fled?
Back to its heavenly source thy being goes,
Swift as the comet wheels to whence he rose ;
Doomed on his airy path awhile to burn,
And doomed, like thee, to travel and return.-
Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven,
With sounds, that shook the firmament of heaven,
Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bickering wheels, and adamantine car;
From planet whirled to planet more remote,
He visits realms, beyond the reach of thought;
But, wheeling homeward, when his course is run,
Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!

So hath the traveller of earth unfurled

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;
And, o'er the path, by mortal never trod,
Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God!

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"My birthday !"--what a different sound,
That word had in my youthful years !
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links,

That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain,

Who said-"Were he ordained to run His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."

Ah! 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely, carelessly—
Of counsel mocked-of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
Of nursing many a wrong desire—
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That crossed my pathway for his star!
All this it tells, and could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface,

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-

277.

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