Yet there was something in his eye Once, when my scanty meal was spread, I spied him, where a fountain burst He heard it, saw it hurrying on : I ran to raise the sufferer up; Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup, I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Twas night-the floods were out; it blew I heard his voice abroad, and flew I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest- Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, Wine, oil, refreshment-he was heal'd: He ask'd if I for him would die? The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill, Then in a moment, to my view, The stranger darted from disguise; The tokens in his hands I knew My Saviour stood before my eyes! He spake—and my poor name He named,— "Of Me thou hast not been ashamed: These deeds shall thy memorial be: Fear not, thou didst them unto Me!" SANCTIFIED AFFLICTION. He that from dross would win the precious ore, Lest the one brilliant moment should pass by, Thus in God's furnace are His people tried : Who from the crucible come forth so pure, That He whose eyes of flame look through the whole, May see His image perfect in the soul? Nor with an evanescent glimpse alone, As in that mirror the refiner's face; But, stamp'd with heaven's broad signet, there be shown Immanuel's features, full of truth and grace; And round that seal of love this motto be, "Not for a moment, but-eternity!" NIGHT. NIGHT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife: Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are ! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep, Hopes, that were angels at their birth, Night is the time to watch; O'er the ocean's dark expanse Night is the time for care, Brooding on hours misspent, Night is the time to think; When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink Discerns beyond the' abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Night is the time to pray ; Our Saviour oft withdrew So will His followers do, Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And commune there alone with God. Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease, Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. THE NIGHTINGALE. AND hark! the Nightingale begins his song; A melancholy bird? O! idle thought.— In nature there is nothing melancholy. But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of some grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love; (And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds give back the tale Of his own sorrow ;) he, and such as he, We have learnt A different lore; we may not thus profane |