« ForrigeFortsett »
There sorrow, for his sake, is found
A joy beyond compare;
No pride can enter there.
A Saviour doubles all my joys,
And sweetens all my pains,
Consoles me and sustains.
I fear no ill, resent no wrong,
Nor feel a passion move,
Such patience is in love.
SCENE8 FAVOURABLE i'O MEDITATION.
Wilds horrid and dark with o'ershadowing trees,
Rocks that ivy and briers infold, Scenes nature with dread and astonishment sees,
But I with a pleasure untold;
Though awfully silent, ind shaggy, and rude,
Your shades are a temple where none will intrude,
I am sick of thy splendour, O Fountain of day,
And here I am hid from its beams; Here safely contemplate a brighter display
Of the noblest and holiest of themes.
Ye forests, that yield me my sweetest repose,
Where stillness and solitude reign, To you I securely and boldly disclose
The dear anguish of which I complain.
Here, sweetly forgetting and wholly forgot
The birds and the streams lend me many a note
Here, wandering in scenes that are sacred to night,
And often the sun has spent much of his light
While a mantle of darkness envelopes the sphere,
My sorrows are sadly rehearsed;
And the last is as sweet as the first.
I lerc I and the beasts of the deserts agree;
Mankind are the wolves that I fear,
But nobody questions it here.
Though little is found in this dreary abode
That appetite wishes to find,
And appetite wholly resigned.
Ye desolate scenes, to your solitude lend,
My life I in praises employ,
Proceed they from sorrow or joy.
There's nothing I seem to have skill to discern;
I feel out my way in the dark,
Yet hardly distinguish the spark.
1 live, yet I seem to myself to be dead;
Such a riddle is not to be found;
I have nothing, and yet I abound.
O Love ! who in darkness art pleased to abide
Though dimly, yet surely I see
In the soul that is chosen of thee.
Ah, send me not back to the race of mankind,
Perversely by folly beguiled,
The spirit and heart of a child?
Here let me, though fixed in a desert, be free;
A little one whom they despise,
Shall be holy and happy and wise.
TRANSLATIONS FROM VINCENT BOURNE.
Thracian parents, at his birth,
But with undissembled mirth
Greece and Rome with equal scom,
"Whether they rejoice or mourn,
But the cause of this concern
And this pleasure would they trace,
Even they might somewhat learn
RECIPROCAL KINDNESS THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE
ANDROCLES from his injured lord in dread
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled.
Tired with his toilsome flight, and parched with heat,
He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat,
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,
When, hugest of his kind, a lion came:
He roared approaching; but the savage din
To plaintive murmurs changed,—arrived within,
And with expressive looks, his lifted paw
Presenting, aid implored from whom he saw.
The fugitive, through terror at a stand,
Dared not awhile afford his trembling hand,
But bolder grown, at length inherent found
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound.
The cure was wrought; he wiped the sanious blood,
And firm and free from pain the lion stood.
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day,
Regales his inmate with the parted prey;
Nor he disdains the dole, though unprepared,
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shared.
But thus to live—still lost—sequestered still—
Scarce seemed his lord's revenge a heavier ill.
Home! native home! O might he but repair!
He must, he will, though death attends him there.
He goes, and doomed to perish, on the sands
Of the full theatre unpitied stands;
When lo! the self-same lion from his cage
Flies to devour him, famished into rage.
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey,
The man, his healer, pauses on his way,
And softened by remembrance into sweet
And kind composure, crouches at his feet.
Mute with astonishment the assembly gaze:
Mori Ancient Than Thr Art Of Printing, And Not To Be Found In Any
(Its excellence is such)
Words none, things numerous it contains;
And, things with words compared,
Which merits most regard?
Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue
A golden edging boast;
Twelve pages at the most.
Nor name, nor title, stamped behind,
Adorns its outer part;
A magazine of art.
The whitest hands that secret hoard
Oft visit; and the fair
As with a miser's care, i
Thence implements of every size,
And formed for various use,
They readily produce.
The largest and the longest kind
Possess the foremost page,
Or nearly such from age.
The full-charged leaf, which next ensues,
Presents in bright array
Not quite so blind as they.
The third, the fourth, the fifth supply
What their occasions ask,
Perform a nicer task.
liut still with regular decrease
From size to size they fall, In every leaf grow less and less; . The last are least of all.
Oh! what a fund of genius, pent
This volume's method and intent
It leaves no reader at a loss
No commentator's tedious gloss,
Search Bodley's many thousands o'er
Nor yet in Granta's numerous store,
No !—rival none in either host
Of this was ever seen,
Ho brilliant and so keen.
A Needle small, as small can be,
Nor is my purchase dear;
As days are in the year.
Yet though but little use we boast,
The labour is not light;
To fashion us aright.
One fuses metal o'er the fire,
The shears another plies,
Gives all an equal size.
A fifth prepares, exact and round,
The knob, with which it must be crowned;
His follower makes it fast:
The seventh and the last.
Now therefore! Oidipus! declare