66. The Soul's Emblem.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow;
E'en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve, that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west;-
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven; Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.
John Wilson, Scotland, 1785-1854.
Low walks the sun, and broadens by degrees, Just o'er the verge of day. The shifting clouds Assembled gay, a richly gorgeous train,
In all their pomp attend his setting throne.
Air, earth, and ocean smile immense.
As if his weary chariot sought the bowers
Of Amphitrite and her tending nymphs,
(So Grecian fable sung,) he dips his orb;
Now half immersed; and now a golden curve
Gives one bright glance, then total disappears.
Jas. Thomson, England, 1700-1748.
68. Happiness.
True happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where Duty went, she went, with justice went,
And with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued,
Or virtue's feeble embers fanned; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish;
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.
Robt. Pollok, England, 1799-1827.
69. Memory's Power.
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy.
They come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long, be my heart with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled;
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Thomas Moore, Dublin, 1779-1852.
For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honor peereth in the meanest habit.
What! is the jay more precious than the lark;
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eyes?
Oh no, good friend: neither art thou the worse
For this poor furniture and mean array.
Wm. Shakespeare, England, 1564-1616.
With silent awe I hail the sacred morn,
That slowly wakes while all the fields are still! A soothing calm on every breeze is borne; A graver murmur gurgles from the rill, And echo answers softer from the hill; And softer sings the linnet from the thorn; The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill. Hail, light serene! hail, sacred sabbath morn! The rooks float silent by, in airy drove;
The sun a placid yellow luster throws; The gales that lately sighed along the grove, Have hushed their downy wings in dead repose; The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move; So smiled the day when the first morn arose!
John Leyden, Scotland, 1775-1811.
But who the melodies of morn can tell?The wild brook babbling down the mountain's side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd, dim descried In the low valley; echoing far and wide, The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bee; the linnet's lay of love;
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
Jas. Beattie, Scotland, 1735-1803.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well,-
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.
Walter Scott, Scotland, 1771-1832.
Amid the distant vales she tarried long,
But she hath come, oh joy! for I have heard
Her many-chorded harp the livelong day,
Sounding from plains and meadows, where, of late,
Rattled the hail's sharp arrows, and where came
The wild north wind, careering like a steed
Unconscious of the rein. She hath gone forth
Into the forest, and its poiséd leaves
Are platformed for the zephyr's dancing feet.
Under its green pavilions she hath reared
Most beautiful things; the Spring's pale orphans lie
Sheltered upon her breast; the bird's loud song
At morn outsoars his pinion; and when waves
Put on night's silver harness, the still air
Is musical with soft tones. She hath baptized
Earth with her joyful weeping. She hath blessed
All that do rest beneath the wing of Heaven,
And all that hail its smile. Her ministry
Is typical of love. She hath disdained
No gentle office, but doth bend to twine
The grape's light tendrils, and to pluck apart
The heart-leaves of the rose. She doth not pass
Unmindful of the bruised vine, nor scorn to lift
"The trodden weed; and when the lowlier children
Faint by the way-side, like worn passengers,
She is a gentle mother, all night long
Bathing their pale brows with her healing dews.
The hours are spendthrifts of her wealth; the days
Are dowered with her beauty.
Anna Drinker (Edith May), Penn.
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