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There stands the messenger of truth: there stands
The legate of the skies!—His theme divine,
His office sacred, his credentials clear.
By him the violated law speaks out

Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet
As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace.
He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak,
Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart,
And, armed himself in panoply complete
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms
Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule
Of holy discipline, to glorious war,

The sacramental host of God's elect!

Are all such teachers would to Heaven all were!

THE POPLAR FIELD.

HE poplars are felled, farewell to the shade

THE

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view
Of

my favourite field, and the bank where they grew : And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if any thing can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.

TO MARY UNWIN.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more;
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil

The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou playd'st the housewife's part
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,

Thy hands their little force resign,
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st
That now at every step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last—
My Mary!

Anna Letitia Barbauld.

HYMN TO CONTENT.

THOU, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!
Receive my temperate vow:

Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth the unaltered brow.

O come, in simple vest arrayed,
With all thy sober cheer displayed,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;

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Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,

And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear, undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offered blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to wait:
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bowed his meek, submissive head,
And kissed thy sainted feet.

But thou, O nymph retired and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?

The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.

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