TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

III

TO A YOUNG FRIEND ON ENTERING THE MINISTRY.

HIGH thoughts at first, and visions high

Are ours, of easy victory;

The word we bear seems so divine,

So framed for Adam's guilty line,

That none, unto ourselves we say,

Of all his sinning suffering race
Will hear that word, so full of grace,
And coldly turn away.

But soon a sadder mood comes round;
High hopes have fallen to the ground,
And the ambassadors of peace

Go weeping, that men will not cease

To strive with Heaven-they inly mourn,

That suffering men will not be blest,

That weary men refuse to rest,

And wanderers to return.

Well is it if has not ensued

Another, yet unworthier, mood,

When all unfaithful thoughts have way,
When we hang down our hands, and say,
"Alas! it is a weary pain

To seek with toil and fruitless strife
To chafe the numbed limbs into life,
That will not live again."

Then if Spring-odours on the wind.
Float by, they bring into our mind

That it were wiser done, to give
Our hearts to Nature, and to live

For her; or in the student's bower
To search into her hidden things,
And seek in books the wondrous springs
Of knowledge and of power.

Or if we dare not thus draw back,

Yet oh! to shun the crowded track

And the rude throng of men ! to dwell
In hermitage or lonely cell,

Feeding all longings that aspire

Like incense heavenward, and with care
And lonely vigil nursing there

Faith's solitary pyre.

Oh! let not us this thought allow-
The heat, the dust upon our brow,
Signs of the contest, we may wear;
Yet thus we shall appear more fair
In our Almighty Master's eye,
Than if in fear to lose the bloom,
Or ruffle the soul's lightest plume,
We from the strife should fly.

And for the rest, in weariness,

In disappointment, or distress,

When strength decays, or hope grows dim, We ever may recur to Him,

Who has the golden oil divine, Wherewith to feed our failing urns, Who watches every lamp that burns Before His sacred shrine.

ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

113

ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRIEND.

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile,
Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by every wile
That's justified by honour;
Not for to hide it in a hedge,
Nor for a train-attendant;
But for the glorious privilege
Of being independent.

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip,
To haud the wretch in order;
But where ye feel your honour grip,
Let that aye be your border:
Its slightest touches, instant pause-
Debar a' side pretences,
And resolutely keep its laws,
Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere,

Must sure become the creature ;
But still the preaching cant forbear,
And e'en the rigid feature:
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range
Be complaisance extended;

An Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange
For Deity offended!

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring,
Religion may be blinded;

P

Or if she gie a random sting,
It may be little minded;
But when on life we're tempest-driven,
A conscience but a canker-
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven
Is sure a noble anchor!

CANNING ON THE DEATH OF HIS ELDEST SON.

THOUGH short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees,
Which made that shortened span one long disease,
Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope
For youthful virtues,-love and faith and hope,
Meek resignation, pious charity;

And, since this world was not the world for thee,
Far from thy path removed, with partial care,
Strife, glory, gain, and Pleasure's flowery snare,
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,
And fixed on Heaven thy unreverted eye!

Oh! marked from birth and nurtured for the skies!
In youth, with more than learning's wisdom, wise!
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure !

Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure!

Pure from all stain (save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away)!
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed,
Mount, happy spirit, to thy destined rest!
While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doom-
Pour forth a Father's sorrows on thy tomb!

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid where there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye;

Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!