In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse Upon the days gone by; to act in thought Past seasons o'er, and be again a child; To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,
Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled) Would throw away, and straight take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the press'd daisy scarce declined her head.
Hard by the house of prayer, a modest roof, And not distinguish'd from its neighbour-baru, Save by a slender-tapering length of spire, The grandame sleeps. A plain stone barely tells The name and date to the chance passenger. For lowly born was she, and long had eat, Well-earn'd, the bread of service: hers was else A mounting spirit, one that entertain'd Scorn of base action, deed dishonourable, Or aught unseemly. I remember well Her reverend image: I remember, too, With what a zeal she served her master's house; And how the prattiing tongue of garrulous age Delighted to recount the oft-told tale
Or anecdote domestic. Wise she was, And wondrous skill'd in genealogies, And could in apt and voluble terms discourse Of births, of titles, and alliances; Of marriages, and intermarriages; Relationship remote, or near of kin ; Of friends offended, family disgraced- Maiden high-born, but wayward, disobeying Parental strict injunction, and regardless Of unmix'd blood, and ancestry remote, Stooping to wed with one of low degree. But these are not thy praises; and I wrong Thy honour'd memory, recording chiefly Things light or trivial. Better 'twere to tell, How with a nobler zeal and warmer love She served her heavenly Master. I have seen That reverend form bent down with age, and pain, And rankling malady. Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Her trust in him, her faith and humble hope- So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross- For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ, much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
THE cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one who, from the far-off hills, proclains Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when Their piercing tones fall sudden on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man,
Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft,
And oft again, hard matter, which eludes
And baffles his pursuit-thought-sick, and tired
Of controversy, where no end appears, No clew to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again.
Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute Sudden! his heart awakes, his ears drink in
The cheering music; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind.
FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS
THE truant Fancy was a wanderer ever,
A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By crystal streams and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death for ever.
FROM broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. How total a privation of all sounds,
Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. "Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the moanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough
Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices, And little images of pleasures past,
Of health, and active life-health not yet slain,
Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says, "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end "I'is darkness and conjecture all beyond;
Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes, Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down, By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parts, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates
A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Their heads encompass'd with crowns, their heels With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed From damn'd spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his breth'ren, fashioned of the earth, As he was, nourish'd with the selfsame bread, Belike his kindred or companions once- Through everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, For those thus sentenced-pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Bless'd be God, The measure of his judgments is not fixed By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Between the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy called: they best Stand in his sight approved who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.
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