Some of thy stern, unyielding might, Enduring still through day and night Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,That I may keep at bay The changeful April sky of chance, And the strong tide of circumstance, - Some of thy mournfulness serene, Put in this scrip of mine, That grief may fall like snow-flakes light, Ready to be an angel bright,- A little of thy merriment, Ye have been very kind and good Of all good things I would have part, Heaven help me! how could I forget That flowers here as well, unseen, ODE TO DUTY. - Wordsworth. STERN daughter of the voice of God! And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity! There are who ask not if thine eye Who do thy work and know it not; Long may the kindly impulse last! But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast! Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold, Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet find that other strength, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried, And oft, when in my heart was heard The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, af I may, Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in ine wrought, But in the quietness of thought: Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear Flowers laugh before thee on their beds; To humbler functions, awful Power. And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live! FAMILIAR LOVE. - Milnes. WE read together, reading the same book, Our heads bent forward in a half embrace, So that each shade that either spirit took Was straight reflected in the other's face; We read, not silent, nor aloud, but each Followed the eye that passed the page along, With a low murmuring sound, that was not speech, Yet with so much monotony In its half slumbering harmony, More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices, DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.- Shirley. THE glories of our birth and state There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal mide With the poor, crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow; See where the victor victim bleeds; To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. - Bloomfield. COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again; In frame of wood, On chest or window by my At every side ; birth still thou wert near, Still spoke thine admonitions clear, And when my husband died. |