CCCXL. HENRY NEELE, 1798-1828.
O Thou! who mak'st the sun to rise,
Beam on my soul, illume mine eyes,
And guide me through this world of care;
The wandering atom thou canst see,
The falling sparrow's marked by thee,
Then, turning mercy's ear to me,
Listen! listen! listen to an infant's prayer
O Thou! whose blood was spilt to save
Man's nature from a second grave;
To share in whose redeeming care,
Want's lowliest child is not too mean,
Guilt's darkest victim too unclean,
Oh! thou wilt deign from heaven to lean,
And listen listen! listen to an infant's prayer!
O Thou! who wilt from monarchs part,
To dwell within the contrite heart,
And build thyself a temple there;
O'er all my dull affections move,
Fill all my soul with heav'nly love,
And, kindly stooping from above,
Listen! listen listen to an infant's prayer!
CCCXLI. ROB. GILFILLAN, 1798-1950.
THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.
The poor man's grave!-a lesson learn,
And profit by 't who can-
Here lies a man all nobly poor,
And yet an honest man!
He was a man well known for worth,
But all unknown to fame;
And yet within his village bounds,
He did not lack a name!
For all the village came to him,
When they had need to call;
His counsel free to all was given,
For he was kind to all!
The young, the old, the sick, the hale,
Found him a friend most sure;
For he rejoiced in others' weal,
Although himself was poor.
And yet not poor; for calm content
Made all that he possess'd
Be cherish'd with a grateful heart,
Which made it doubly blest.
Serene 'mid ills, to age designed,
His days in peace did flow—
His timeward pilgrimage is past,
And now he sleeps below!
CCCXLII. HERBERT KNOWLES, 1798-18
LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD.
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,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.
Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
For, see! they would pin him below,
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.
To Beauty? ah, no!—she forgets
The charms which she wielded before-
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or 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 ;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squandered again;
Aud here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.
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,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have wither'd and died,
Or fled with the spirit above;
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.
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 bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies
CCCXLIII. ROB. POLLOK, 1799-1827.
Thou mightst have seen him at the midnight hour,
When good men slept, and in light-winged dreams
Ascended up to God,-in wasteful hall,
With vigilance and fasting worn to skin
And bone, and wrapt in most debasing rags,—
Thou mightst have seen him bending o'er his heaps,
And holding strange communion with his gold;
And as his thievish fancy seemed to hear
The night-man's foot approach, starting alarmed,
And in his old, decrepit, withered hand,
That palsy shook, grasping the yellow earth
To make it sure. Of all God made upright,
And in their nostrils breathed a living soul,
Most fallen, most prone, most earthy, most debased.
Of all that sold Eternity for Time,
None bargained on so easy terms with death.
Illustrious fool! Nay, most inhuman wretch!
He sat among his bags, and, with a look
Which hell might be ashamed of, drove the poor
Away unalmsed; and 'midst abundance died—
Sorest of evils! died of utter want!
CCCXLIV. THOMAS HOOD, 1799—1845.
1. MASKS OF RELIGION.
I do confess that I abhor and shrink
From schemes with a religious willy-nilly,
That frown upon St Giles's sins, but blink
The peccadillos of all Piccadilly.
My soul revolts at such base hypocrisy,
And will not, dare not, fancy in accord
The Lord of Hosts with an exclusive lord
Of this world's aristocracy.
It will not own a nation so unholy,
As thinking that the rich by easy trips
May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly
Must work their passage, as they do in ships.
One place there is-beneath the burial sod-
Where all mankind are equalized by death:
Another place there is the fane of God-
Where all are equal who draw living breath.
Juggle who will, elsewhere, with his own soul,
Playing the Judas with a temporal dole—
He who can come beneath that awful cope,
In the dread presence of a Maker just,
Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust
One even measure of immortal hope-
He who can stand within that holy door,
With soul unbowed by that pure Spirit-level,
And frame unequal laws for rich and poor-
Might sit for hell and represent the Devil!
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window, where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a week too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;-
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember,
The roses red and white,
The violets and the lily-cups-
Those flowers made of light;
The lilacs where the robins built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum, on his birth-day-
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air would rush as fresh
As swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers, then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly coo!
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops,
Were close against the sky!
It was a childish ignorance,-
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
CCCXLV. LORD MACAULAY, 1800-1860.
Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple
Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be.
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