NOR scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend The Soul's eternal interests to promote: Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot; And evil Spirits may our walk attend For aught the wisest know or comprehend; Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note Of elevation; let their odours float
Around these Converts; and their glories blend, The midnight stars outshining, or the blaze Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords Of good works, mingling with the visions, raise The Soul to purer worlds: and who the line Shall draw, the limits of the power define, That even imperfect faith to man affords?
How beautiful your presence, how benign, Servants of God! who not a thought will share With the vain world; who, outwardly as bare As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign
That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine! Such Priest, when service worthy of his care Has called him forth to breathe the common air, Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine Descended: - happy are the eyes that meet The Apparition; evil thoughts are stayed At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat A benediction from his voice or hand;
Whence grace, through which the heart can understand,
And vows, that bind the will, in silence made.
Ан, when the Body, round which in love we clung, Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail? Is tender pity then of no avail?
Are intercessions of the fervent tongue
A waste of hope? From this sad source have
Rites that console the Spirit, under grief
Which ill can brook more rational relief:
Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung For Souls whose doom is fixed! The way is smooth For Power that travels with the human heart: Confession ministers the pang to soothe
In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start. Ye holy Men, so earnest in your care, Of your own mighty instruments beware!
LANCE, shield, and sword relinquished, at his side A bead-roll, in his hand a clasped book,
Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, The war-worn Chieftain quits the world to hide His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide In cloistered privacy. But not to dwell In soft repose he comes: within his cell, Round the decaying trunk of human pride, At morn, and eve, and midnight's silent hour, Do penitential cogitations cling;
Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine In grisly folds and strictures serpentine; Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring, For recompence - their own perennial bower.
METHINKS that to some vacant hermitage
My feet would rather turn - to some dry nook Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage, Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage In the soft heaven of a translucent pool; Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool, Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, A maple dish, my furniture should be;
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl From thorp or vill his matins sound for me, Tired of the world and all its industry.
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