I praise Thee, I bless Thee, my King and my God, LADY ABEL SMITH. THE THREE TABERNACLES. METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build. But for whom? Nor Elias, nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, Shall we build to ambition? Oh, no! For see they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To Beauty? Ah, no! she forgets The charms which she wielded before; The skin which but yesterday fools could adore For the smoothness it held, and the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas, they are all laid aside! And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed But the long-winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain! The treasures are squandered again : And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which mirth can afford? The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to affection and love? Ah, no! they have withered and died, Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear : Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known; And here there are trophies enow: Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown. The first Tabernacle to HOPE we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise. The second to FAITH, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. HERBERT KNOWLES. THE LARK. How sweet is the song of the lark as she springs And she sings when we hear her no more. It is thus with the Christian; he sees from afar For the land whence the radiance is given: He sings on his way from the cloud-covered spot The quicker his progress, the sweeter his note: When we hear him no longer, the song ceases not; It blends with the choirs of heaven. THE COMPLAINT. O YOU, who at lighter afflictions repine, Still memory tells of that moment of bliss, I asked not for beauty, I asked not for wealth; My babe he was lovely in infantine charms, And fondly I waited the moment so dear, When my baby should part from my arms with a tear; When his sweet voice should greet me with accents of joy : But none were reserved for my poor idiot boy. When the glittering trinket was held in his sight, His lovely blue eyes never wandered around, His accent was plaintive, distressful, and weak; The first year, the second, my grief was beguiled child: But hope is no longer; for seven sad years He has laid in my bosom, bedewed with my tears. In vain I caress him, and lure him to speak; A void vacant stare is his only reply. |