TO THE EVENING RAINBOW.
MILD arch of promise! on the evening sky
Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray,
Each in the other melting. Much mine eye
Delights to linger on thee; for the day,
Changeful and many-weather'd, seem'd to smile,
Flashing brief splendour through the clouds awhile,
That deepen'd dark anon, and fell in rain:
But pleasant it is now to pause, and view
Thy various tints of frail and watery hue,
And think the storm shall not return again.
Such is the smile that piety bestows
On the good man's pale cheek, when he in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes,
Anticipates the realm where sorrows cease.
THE bird that soars on highest wing
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade, when all things rest:
In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.
When Mary chose "the better part,"
She meekly sat at Jesus' feet: And Lydia's gently-open'd heart
Was made for God's own temple meet. 1 Fairest and best adorn'd is she,
Whose clothing is humility.
The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,
In deepest adoration bends
The weight of glory bows him down
Then most when most his soul ascends.
Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.
My rest is in heaven; my rest is not here;
Then why should I murmur when trials are near?
Be hush'd, my dark spirit! the worst that can come,
But shortens thy journey and hastens thee home.
It is not for me to be seeking my bliss,
And building my hopes in a region like this:
I look for a city which hands have not piled:
I pant for a country by sin undefiled.
The thorn and the thistle around me may grow;
I would not lie down upon roses below:
I ask not my portion, I seek not a rest,
Till I find them for ever in Jesus's breast.
Afflictions may damp me, they cannot destroy;
One glimpse of his love turns them all into joy :
And the bitterest tears, if He smile but on them,
Like dew in the sunshine, grow diamond and gem.
Let doubt, then, and danger, my progress oppose;
They only make heaven more sweet at the close.
Come joy, or come sorrow, whate'er may befal,
An hour with my God will make up for it all.
A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand,
I march on in haste through an enemy's land:
The road may be rough, but it cannot be long;
And I'll smooth it with hope, and I'll cheer it with
THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;
The bees have humm'd their noon-tide harmony.
Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,
Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound:
For now the caudle-cup is circling there,
Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,
And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire
The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.
and then these sounds shall
The day again, and gladness fill the vale;
So soon the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.
Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sirloin;
The ale, now brew'd, in floods of amber shine:
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,
'Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,
The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguil'd,
""Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smil'd."
And soon again shall music swell the breeze;
Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees
Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,
And violets scatter'd round; and old and young,
In every cottage-porch with garlands green,
Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;
|
