A purer piece of endless transitory,
A shrine of grace, a little throne of glory,
A heaven-born offspring of a new-born birth,
An earthly heaven, an ounce of heavenly earth.
FRANCIS QUARLES.
The Entreaty.
LORD! another day is flown,
And we, a lonely band,
Are met once more before Thy throne,
To bless Thy fostering hand.
And wilt Thou bend a listening ear,
To praises low as ours?
Thou wilt! for Thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.
And Jesus, Thou Thy smiles wilt deign,
As we before Thee pray;
For Thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.
Oh! let Thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease; And shed abroad in every heart Thine everlasting peace!
Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;
The Sun of Holiness shall shine,
In glory on our head.
And Thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And Thou wilt bless our way;
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Universal Beauty.
IKE Nature's law, no eloquence persuades,
The mute harangue our every sense invades ;
The apparent precepts of the eternal will,
His every work, and every object fill;
Round with our eyes his revelation wheels,
Our every touch his demonstration feels.
And, O Supreme! whene'er we cease to know
Thee, the sole source whence sense and science
flow;
Then must all faculty, all knowledge fail.
And more than monster o'er the man prevail.
Not thus he gave our optics' vital glance,
Amid omniscient art, to search for chance,
Blind to the charms of Nature's beauteous frame;
Nor made our organ vocal to blaspheme:
Nor thus he willed the creatures of his nod,
And made the mortal to unmake his God;
Breathed on the globe, and brooded o'er the wave,
And bid the wide obsequious world conceive;
Spoke into being myriads, myriads rise,
And, with young transport, gaze the novel skies:
Glance from the surge, beneath the surface scud, Or cleave enormous the reluctant flood:
Or roll vermicular, their wanton maze,
And the bright path with wild meanders glaze; Frisk in the vale, or o'er the mountains bound, Or in huge gambols shake the trembling ground: Swarm in the beam, or spread the plumy sail— The plume creates, and then directs the gale; While active gaiety, and aspect bright,
In each expressive, sums up all delight.
WEET day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to night;
Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in the grave;
Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,—
My music shows you have your closes,
Only a sweet and virtuous soul
Like seasoned timber never gives;
But though the whole world turn to a coal,
Then chiefly lives.
GEORGE HERBERT.
HE summer day is closed-the sun is set; Well they have done their office, those bright hours,
The latest of whose train goes softly out
In the red West. The green blade of the ground Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun;
Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil,
From bursting cells, and in their graves await
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings,
That now are still for ever; painted moths
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again;
The mother-bird have broken for her brood
Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest,
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves,
In woodland cottages with barky walls,
In noisome cells of the tumultuous town,
Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe.
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out
And filled, and closed. This day hath parted
That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit
New friendships; it hath seen the maiden plight
Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long
Had wooed; and it hath heard from lips which late
Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word,
That told the wedded one her peace was flown.
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day
Is added now to Childhood's merry days,
And one calm day to those of quiet Age.
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean,
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit,
By those who watch the dead, and those who twine
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes
Of her sick infant shades the painful light,
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath.
Oh thou great Movement of the Universe,
Or Change, or Flight of Time-for ye are one!
That bearest, silently, this visible scene
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me?
I feel the mighty current sweep me on,
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar
The courses of the stars; the very hour
He knows when they shall darken or grow bright;
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love,
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame and general scorn of
Which who can bear?—or the fierce rack of pain, Lie they within my path? Or shall the years
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