Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems Hid in thy radiant bow ? and gold When Science from Creation's face And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, When o'er the green undeluged earth, And when its yellow lustre smiled Methinks thy jubilee to keep, Nor ever shall the Muse's eye The earth to thee her incense yields, How glorious is thy girdle cast As fresh in yon horizon dark, For, faithful to its sacred page, Nor lets the type grow pale with age, THOMAS CAMPBELL. THIS The Bible. HIS Book, this holy Book-on every line Marked with the seal of high divinity, On every leaf bedewed with drops of love Divine, and with the eternal heraldry And signature of God Almighty stamped From first to last-this ray of sacred light, This lamp, from off the everlasting throne, Mercy took down, and in the night of Time Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow; And evermore beseeching men, with tears For ever happy, and for ever young. ROBERT POLLOK. The Good Shepherd. SHEPHERD, with meek brow wreathed with blossoms sweet, Who guard'st thy timid flock with tenderest care, Who guid'st in sunny paths their wandering feet, And the young lambs dost in thy bosom bear; Who lead'st thy happy flock to pastures fair, And by still waters at the noon of dayCharming with lute divine the silent air, What time they linger on the verdant way: Good shepherd! might one gentle, distant strain Of that immortal melody sink deep Into my heart, and pierce its careless sleep, And melt by powerful love its sevenfold chain: Oh, then my soul thy voice should know, and flee To mingle with thy flock, and ever follow Thee. ELIZABETH F. ELLET. The Soul's Return. F in departed souls the power remain IF These earthly scenes to visit once again, Not in the night thy visit wilt thou make, When only sorrowing and longing wake;No! in some summer morning's light serene, When not a cloud upon the sky is seen, When high the golden harvest rears its head, All interspersed with flowers of blue and red, Thou, as of yore, around the fields wilt walk, Greeting the reapers with mild, friendly talk. JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND, Trans. by W. W. STORY. The Christian yields an Angel to his God. ERE sleeps what once was beauty, once was HE grace; Grace with that tenderness and sense combin'd To form that harmony of soul and face, Where beauty shines, the mirror of the mind. Such was the maid, that in the morn of youth, In virgin innocence, in nature's pride, Blest with each art that owes its charm to truth, Sunk in her father's fond embrace and died. He weeps: O venerate the holy tear: Faith lends her aid to ease Affliction's load; The parent mourns the child upon the bier, The Christian yields an angel to his God. JOHN MASON. The Death of a Good Bishop. THE good old man is gone! He lies in his saintly rest, And his labours all are done, I stood in the holy aisle, That bound him, through care and toil, And I saw how the depths of his manly soul By that sacred vow were stirred. And nobly his pledge he keptFor the truth he stood up alone, And his spirit never slept, And his march was ever on! Oh! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, The brave old man that's gone. There were heralds of the cross, By his bed of death that stood, And heard how he counted all but loss, For the gain of his Saviour's blood; And patiently waited his Master's voice, Let it call him when it would. The good old man is gone! An apostle's chair is void; There is dust on his mitre thrown, And they've broken his pastoral rod! |