I see the land which heroes trod; The land she gave to those Who know that on the hearth alone Lift up, not only hand and eye, Lift up, O Man, thy heart on high : Or downward gaze once more; and see Then far into the Future dive, And ask if there indeed survive, Nor seldom seen through this; Not lost, though merged in heavenlier love The sun is set but upwards without end Two mighty beams, diverging, Like hands in benediction raised, extend; From the great deep a crimson mist is surging. Deep gleams, high Words which God to man doth speak, They speak. A loftier vision dost thou seek? Rise then COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness: grief should be, Strong to consume small troubles; to command A CHURCHYARD. I. Ir stands a grove of cedars vast and green, Cathedral-wise disposed, with nave and choir, With flowers like urns of white and crimson fire; II. But when the winds of night begin to move A midnight service for departed souls. And on the slender plants above them swinging; Some vital warmth would add-or borrow of its cold. THE TRUE BLESSEDNESS. BLESSED is he who hath not trod the ways Who hath not spent in Time's vainglorious war How fatal are those victories that raise Their iron trophies to a temple's height On trampled Justice, who desires not bliss, But peace; and yet, when summoned to the fight Of God and of His angels; seeking this SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING. SAD is our youth, for it is ever going In current unperceived, because so fleet; Sad are our hopes, for they are sweet in sowing, - Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; A nearer good to cure an older ill; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, Not for their sake, but His, who grants them or denies them! CHARLES DIBDIN. DIBDIN, CHARLES, an English dramatist and writer of songs, born at Southampton in 1745; died in 1814. He was destined for the Church; but manifesting a talent for music, he went to London at the age of sixteen, and for a while supported himself by composing ballads for music-dealers and tuning pianos. He was engaged in several unsuccessful theatrical enterprises until, at the age of forty-five, he instituted a sort of musical entertainment, which he called "The Whim of the Moment," of which he was the sole author, composer, and performer. This proved successful, and he kept up this and similar entertainments until 1805, when he retired from professional life, having received a government pension of £200. He wrote nearly fifty dramatic pieces, none of which attained a permanent success. His place in literature rests mainly upon his sea-songs, the number of which exceeds 1000. The best known of these are "Poor Jack," and "Tom Bowling," written upon the death of his brother, Thomas Dibdin, a sea-captain. SEA SONG. I SAILED in the good ship the Kitty, With a smart blowing gale and rough sea; She blubbered salt tears when we parted, I told her not to be down-hearted, So up went the anchor. Yo, Yea! And from that time, no worse nor no better, When the wind whistled larboard and starboard, Go patter to lubbers and swabs, d'ye see, Though the tempest topgallant-mast smack smooth should smite Clear the deck, stow the yards, and house everything tight, And under reef foresail we 'll scud: Avast! nor don't think me a milksop so soft, To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, I heard our good chaplain palaver one day |