Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works,
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence? Thou canst ;
For thou art full of universal love,
And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour!
Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys,
The gauds, and honours of the world, appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatched the slow-paced night? Why on the page,
The schoolman's laboured page, have I employed
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay
The loss of health? Or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?
Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,
Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave—
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?
Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God,
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And, oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
The Ore of Truth from Mines of Thought.
THE heart has tendrils, like the vine,
Which round another's bosom twine, Outspringing from the parent tree
Of deeply-planted sympathy,
Whose flowers are hope, its fruits are bliss,
Beneficence its harvest is.
There are some bosoms dark and drear,
Which an unwatered desert are;
Yet there a curious eye may trace
Some silent spot, some verdant place,
Where little flowers, the weeds between,
Spend their soft fragrance all unseen.
Despise them not-for wisdom's toil
Has ne'er disturbed that stubborn soil;
Yet care and culture might have brought
The ore of truth from mines of thought;
And fancy's fairest flowers had bloomed
Where truth and fancy lie entombed.—
Insult him not-his blackest crime
May, in his Maker's eye sublime,
In spite of all thy pride, be less
Than e'en thy daily waywardness:
Than many a sin, and many a stain,
Forgotten, and impressed again.—
There is, in every human heart,
Some not completely barren part,
Where seeds of love and truth might grow,
And flowers of generous virtue blow;
To plant, to watch, to water there,—
This be our duty-be our care!
And sweet it is the growth to trace
Of worth, of intellect, of grace,
In bosoms where our labours first
Bid the young seed of spring-time burst;
And lead it on, from hour to hour,
To ripen into perfect flower.
Hast thou e'er seen a garden clad
In all the robes that Eden had!
Or vale o'erspread with streams and trees,—
A paradise of mysteries!
Plains, with green hills adorning them,
Like jewels in a diadem ?
These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills,
Which beauty gilds and music fills,
Were once but deserts-culture's hand
Has scattered verdure o'er the land;
And smiles and fragrance rule, serene,
Where barren wilds usurped the scene.
And such is man! a soil which breeds
Or sweetest flowers, or vilest weeds:
Flowers lovely as the morning's light!-
Weeds deadly as the aconite;
Just as his heart is trained to bear
The poisonous weed, or floweret fair.
Flow, then, pure knowledge! ever flow!
Change nature's face to man below;
A paradise once more disclose-
Make deserts bloom with Sharon's rose;
And, through a Saviour's blood once shed,
Raise his forlorn and drooping head.
The Light of Stars. THE night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven,
But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
To the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love?
The star of love and dreams ?
Oh, no! from that blue tent above,
A hero's armour gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise,
When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
The shield of that red star.
O star of strength! I see thee stand
And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailèd hand,
And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no light,
But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquered will,
He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
And calm, and self-possessed.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
Be resolute and calm.
Oh, fear not in a world like this,
And thou shalt know ere long,
Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong.
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
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