Sidor som bilder

The gracious answer, Lord ' we hail, And mark the treasure given,

A solace-through the gloomy vale,

A comforter when griefs assail,
A wise—the boon of Heaven.

O may the solemn nuptial vow
Be registered on high;

And with our joyous strains below,

May angel notes accordant flow,
To bless the sacred tie.

Now, hand in hand, a favored pair,
May they thine altar raise;

Together, Lord! thy favor share;

And that which thou hast given to prayer, Oh may it end in praise!


MEEE Charity to thee we’re told is given
In rms of holiest proof, the countless faults
Of m n to hide; and, in the sight of Heaven,
To ender him beloved. Then, in the assaults
Of fiercest passions, when we’re urged along
With unrelenting fury to pursue
Some fallen enemy, whose wilful wrong
Hath caused our hatred, let us pause and view
HIS meek example, who the precept gave;
For think not Charity sincerely shown
By ostentatious homage at the throne
Of our own vainness! Let us humbly save
The poor from want, and secretly give rest
Unto the weary desolate:—'twill please Heaven best

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Summer music is their flowing;
Flowering plants in them are growing
Happy life is in them all,
Creatures innocent and small ;
Little birds come down to drink
Fearless on their leafy brink'
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low,
And between the sunshine glancing

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CAPR1cious month of smiles and tears'
There’s beauty in thy varied reign:
Emblem of being’s hopes and fears—
Its hours of joy and days of pain.
A false inconstant scene is thine;
Changeful with light and shadow deep—
Oft-times thy clouds with pure sunshine
Are painted—then in gloom they sleep.

Yet is there gladness in thy hours,
Frail courier of a brighter scene—
Thou fragrant guide to buds and flowers,
To meadows fresh and pastures green
For as thy days grow few and brief,
The radiant looks of spring appear—
With swelling glow, and opening leaf,
To deck the morning of the year.

Yes, though thy light is checkered oft
With drifting showers of sorrowing rain—
Yet balmy airs and breezes soft
Are lingering richly in thy train:
And for thy eddying gusts will coine
The lay of the rejoicing bird,
That tries his new and brightening plume—
'Mill the void sky’s recesses heard.

And soon the many clouds that hang
Their solemn drapery o'er the sky,
Will pass, in shadowy solds away—
Lo! mark them now !—they break—they fly
And over earth in one broad smile,
Looks forth the glorious eve of day—
While hill, and vale, and ocean-isle,
Are laughing in the breath of May.

Type of existence 1 mayst thou be
The emblem of the Christian's race—
Through all whose trials we may see
The sunshine of undying grace:
The calin and heaven-enkindled eye,
The faith that mounts on ardent wing,
That looks beyond the o’erarching sky
To heaven's undimmed and golden spring.


DEAR as the dove, whose wafting wing
The green leaf ransomed from the main,
Thy genial glow, returning Spring,
Comes to our shores again;
For thou hast been a wanderer long,
On many a fair and foreign strand,
ln calm and beauty, sun and song,
Passing from land to land.

Thou bring'st the blossom to the bee,
To earth a robe of emerald die;
The leaflet to the naked tree,
And rainbow in the sky;
I feel thy blest, benign control
The pulses of my youth restore;
Opening the spring of sense and soul
To love and joy once more.

1 will not people thy green bowers
With sorrow's pale and spectre band,
Or blend with thine the faded flowers
Of memory's distant land;
For thou wert surely never given
To wake regret for pleasures gone;
But, like an angel sent from heaven,
To sooth creation's groan.

Then while the groves their garlands twine,
Thy spirit breathes in flower and tree,
My heart shall kindle at thy shrine,
And worship God in thee:
And in some calm sequestered spot,
While listening to thy choral strain,
Past griefs shall be a while forgot
And pleasures bloom again.


LoRD of the winds ! I feel thee nigh:
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wings of the heavy gales. Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast,-and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral rayA glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches with hues of death The clouds above and the earth beneath, To its covert flies the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer he sound.

He is come ! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled 2 Giant of air we bid thee hail – How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale– How his huge and writhing arms are bent, To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain, the visible space Darker—still darker the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air:. And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the worlds below, And flood the skies' with a lurid glow.

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“SPEAK, Lord!” the youthful prophet humbly cries;
“Thy servant hears P’
And instant, hark' the voice divine replies,
Its will declares:—
No other ear in all that temple’s round
Receives the deep, impressive, solemn sound;
The sacred tribe, the aged priest passed by,
God stands revealed to youthful piety.

He comes no more to rouse the outward ear
At dead of night;
No fearful dream his purposed act makes clear
To mortal sight:—
But wheresoe'er man seeks to meet him, still
A voice is near him, whispering of his will,
And ever, as he calls on God to “speak,”
That inward voice will nature’s silence break.

Yes, Christian, he whose voice then spake on earth
Still speaks to thee;
Whether in sweetest music, warbling forth
From every tree,
Or in the stillness of the evening hour,
Or when the tempest gathers all its power,
Or when the sea its awful voice uprears,
Be thine to answer, “Speak; thy servant hears.”

In all thy varying portion, in the strife
*Twixt earth and heaven,
Or when sweet gleamings of a better life
To thee are given,
When hard the conflict, dim the distant end,
No light to cheer thee, at thy side no friend,
Yet, hark e'er now, in answer to thy prayer,
The voice, the voice of Love Divine is there !

Or when the page of truth before thee spreads
Its chastened light,
And some reviving promise round thee sheds
Hopes clear and bright,
There speaks the Gospel's Author: to that word,
Favored disciple of a pitying Lord,
Bend, maekly bend, a still, attentive ear:
'Tis his to speak; with reverence thine to hear.

Thankful for this, thy destined path pursue,
Or dark, or bright ;
Till faith, while glory burst upon the view,
Is lost in sight:
Till then, with ever wakeful care, abide
By the least whispers of thy heavenly guide;
For still, when followed most, that voice shall be
Strength, comfort, peace, and blessedness to thee.


Oh! for the coming of that glorious time
When prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth
And best protection, this imperial realm,
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit
An obligation, on her part, to teach
Them who are born to serve her and obey;
Binding herself by statute to secure
For all the children whom her soil maintains
The rudiments of letters, and to inform
The mind with moral and religious truth,
Both understood, and practised, so that none,
However destitute, be left to droop
By timely culture unsustained, or run
Into a wild disorder; or be forced
To drudge through weary life without the aid
Of intellectual implements and tools;
A savage horde among the civilized,
A servile band among the lordly free!
This right, as sacred almost as the right
To exist and be supplied with sustenance
And means of life, the lisping babe proclaims
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will,
For the protection of his innocence;

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The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled,
Yet mutinously knits his angry brow,
And lifts his wilful hand, on mischief bent,
Or turns the sacred faculty of speech
To impious use—by process indirect
Declares his due—while he makes known his nee:
—This sacred right is fruitlessly announced,
This universal plea in vain addressed,
To eyes and ears of parents who themselves
Did, in the time of their necessity
Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a prayer
That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven,
It mounts to reach the state's parental ear;
Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart,
And be not most unfeelingly devoid
Of gratitude to providence, will grant
The unquestionable good; which, England, safe
From interference of external force,
May grant at leisure; without risk incurred
That what in wisdom for herself she doth,
Others shall e'er be able to undo.

Look ' and behold from Calpe’s sun-burnt cliffs

To the flat margin of the Baltic sea,

Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds;
Laws overturned,—and territory split;
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes,
Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust
Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed.
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair isles
Remains entire and indivisible;
And, if that ignorance were removed, which acts
Within the compass of their several shores
To breed commotion and disquietude,
Each might preserve the beautiful repose
Of heavenly bodies shining in their sphelez
—The discipline of slavery is unknown
Amongst us, hence the more do we require
The discipline of virtue; order else
Can not subsist, nor confidence, nor peace.
Thus, duties rising out of good possessed,
And prudent caution needful to avert
Impending evil, do alike require
That permanent provision should be made
For the whole people to be taught and trained.
So shall licentiousness and black resolve
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits -
Take their place; and genuine piety descena
Like an inheritance, from age to age.
WoRDsw unro-


MERcy is welcome news indeed,
To those that guilty stand;

Wretches, who feel the help they need.
Will bless the helping hand.

Who rightly would his alms dispense, Must give them to the poor;

None but the wounded patient knows The comforts of a cure.

We all have sinned against our God; Exception none can boast;

But he that feels the heaviest load, Will prize forgiveness most.

No reckoning can we rightly keep,
For who the sum can know 7

Some souls are fifty talents dcep,
And some five hundred owe.

But let our debts be what they may, However great or small,

As soon as we have naught to pay, Our Lord forgives us all.

'Tis perfect poverty alone,
That sets the soul at large;

While we can call one mite our own,
We have no full discharge.

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I saw the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night,
He beam'd upon my wondering sight.
I heard his voice, and warmly prest
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhal'd whene'er he sigh'd,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant of the Cyprian band,
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;
I took the wreath, whose inmost twine
Breath'd of him and blush'd with wine,
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow;
And ah! I feel its magic now :
I feel that even his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much.


GIVE me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I.
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety;
Flashing around such sparks of thought,
As Bacchus could alone have taught.

Then give the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrill'd along; But tear away the sanguine string, For war is not the theme I sing


List EN to the muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire!
Sketch'd in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;
Many a city. revelling free,
Full of loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain.
Piping as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the carthly heaven of love,
Thus delighted mortals prove.


WULCAN | hear your glorious task;
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No—let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul;
But mind that, o'er its simple frame
No mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side,
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.
I care not for the glitt'ring wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But let the vine luxuriant roll
Its blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lip'd bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes,
And flights of Loves in wanton play,
Wing through the air their winding way;
While Venus from her harbour green,
Looks laughing at the joyous scene,
And young Lyaeus by her side
Sits, worthy of so bright a bride.

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Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul,
Grave for me an ample bowl,
Worthy to shine in hall or bower,
When spring-time brings.the reveller's hour;
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Fit for a simple board like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites,
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate,
Which History shudders to relate.
No—cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heav'n and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy,
And while he smiles at every tear,
Let warm-ey'd Venus dancing near,
With spirits of the genial bed,
The dewy herbage deftly tread.
Let love be there, without his arms,
In timid nakedness of charms;
And all the graces, link'd with Love,
Stray laughing, through the shadowy grove,
While rosy boys disporting round
In circlets trip the velvet ground.
But ah! if there Apollo toys,
I tremble for the rosy boys.


As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping,
I found the urchin Cupid sleeping,
I caught the boy, a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side,
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelm'd him in the racy spring ;
Then drank I down the poison'd bowl,
And love now nestles in my soul.
O yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

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