The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day Those now by me, as they have been! Shall never more be heard or seen; But what I once enjoyed in them Shall seem hereafter as a dream. All earthly comforts vanish thus - Yet we are neither just nor wise I therefore do not so bemoan, Lord, keep me faithful to the trust For though our being man and wife Extendeth only to this life, Yet neither life nor death should end The being of a faithful friend. Unto Thine honor let it be, And for a blessing unto me. FOR A SERVANT. DISCOURAGE not thyself, my soul, Our mean and much despised lot, To be a servant is not base, Though I am now despised and poor, The Lord of heaven and earth was pleased A servant's form to undertake; were. He was reviled, yet naught replied, Those helps which I through him en- And I will imitate the same; joyed, Let Thy continual aid supply For though some faults may be de nied, That, though some hopes in him are In part I always faulty am: void, I always may on Thee rely; Content with meek and humble heart And act an humble servant's part, JOHN WOLCOT (PETER PINDAR). TO MY CANDLE. THOU lone companion of the spectred night! I wake amid thy friendly watchful light. To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep. Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark! [the dark, Hell's genius roams the regions of And swells the thundering horrors of the deep! From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies, Now blackened, and now flashing through the skies; [beam. But all is silence here, beneath thy I own I labor for the voice of praise For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream? Who would not live in songs of distant days? TO MARY. CHARLES WOLFE. IF I had thought thou couldst have died, I might not weep for thee; But I forgot, when by thy side, That thou couldst mortal be: It never through my mind had passed The time would e'er be o'er, And I on thee should look my last, And thou shouldst smile no more! And still upon that face I look, And think 'twill smile again; And still the thought I will not brook, That I must look in vain! But when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! While e'en thy chill, bleak corpse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; I do not think, where'er thou art, In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turn ing; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, [him; And o'er his cold ashes upbraid Sing, though I shall never hear thee; May thy soul with pleasure shine Like the sun, thy presence glowing, That they nothing seem without thee; By that pure and lucid mind Go, thou vision, wildly gleaming, Softly on my soul that fell; Go, for me no longer beamingHope and Beauty! fare ye well! Go, and all that once delighted Take, and leave me all benighted— Glory's burning, generous swell Fancy, and the poet's shell. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deeptangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it; The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it; And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well[bucket, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure; For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure The purest and sweetest that nature And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the wellThe old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above | In hours of weariness, sensations Tintern Abbey.] His little, nameless, unremembered [From Lines Composed a Few Miles Above acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, 1 trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect inore sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burden of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened; that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood, Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. I have learned To look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Not harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts: a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Tintern Abbey. APOSTROPHE TO THE POET'S Thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest friend, My dear, dear friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear sister! And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her: 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy: for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all |