'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

'One morn, I missed him on the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,

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Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

'The next with dirges due in sad array,

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown :
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to misery all he had, a tear;

He gained from Heaven, 'twas all he wished, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose ;) The bosom of his Father and his God.

Thomas Gray.

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CLXXIII

WRESTLING JACOB.

Come, O Thou traveller unknown,
Whom still I hold, but cannot see,
My company before is gone,

And I am left alone with Thee;
With Thee all night I mean to stay,
And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell Thee who I am,
My misery or sin declare;
Thyself hast called me by my name;

Look on thy hands, and read it there!
But who, I ask Thee, who art Thou?
Tell me thy Name, and tell me now.

In vain Thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold;
Art Thou the Man that died for me?

The secret of thy love unfold.
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Wilt thou not yet to me reveal

Thy new, unutterable Name? Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell :

To know it now, resolved I am : Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I thy Name, thy nature know. 'Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue,

Or touch the hollow of my thigh;

Though every sinew be unstrung,

Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

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What though my shrinking flesh complain,
And murmur to contend so long?

I rise superior to my pain;

When I am weak, then am I strong:
And when my all of strength shall fail,
I shall with the God-Man prevail.

My strength is gone; my nature dies;
I sink beneath thy weighty hand;
Faint to revive, and fall to rise;

I fall, and yet by faith I stand :
I stand, and will not let Thee go,
Till I thy Name, thy nature know.

Yield to me now, for I am weak,
But confident in self-despair;

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Speak to my heart, in blessings speak,

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Be conquered by my instant prayer!

Speak, or Thou never hence shalt move,

And tell me, if thy Name be Love?

'Tis Love! 'tis Love! Thou diedst for me!

My prayer hath power with God; the grace
Unspeakable I now receive;

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Through faith I see Thee face to face,

I see Thee face to face, and live :
In vain I have not wept and strove;
Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

I know Thee, Saviour, who Thou art;
Jesus, the feeble sinner's Friend!

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Nor wilt Thou with the night depart,
But stay, and love me to the end!
Thy mercies never shall remove,
Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

The Sun of Righteousness on me

Hath rose, with healing in his wings;
Withered my nature's strength, from Thee
My soul its life and succour brings;
My help is all laid up above;
Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Contented now upon my thigh

I halt, till life's short journey end; All helplessness, all weakness, I

On Thee alone for strength depend; Nor have I power from Thee to move; Thy nature and thy Name is Love.

Lame as I am, I take the prey,

Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercome;

I leap for joy, pursue my way,

And, as a bounding hart, fly home;

Through all eternity to prove,

Thy nature and thy Name is Love!

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Charles Wesley.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!

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