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Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him:
TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER Hide his pale features with the sable pall:
TRINITY. Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him:
THE sound of war! In earth and air Widowed and childless, she has lost her all!
The volleying thunders roll:
Their fiery darts the fiends prepare, Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our
And dig the pit, and spread the snare, weeping ?
Against the Christian's soul Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delayed ?
The tyrant's sword, the rack, the flame, "Set down the bier—he is not dead but sleeping! The scorner's serpent tone, “Young man, arise !"-He spake, and was
Of bitter doubt, the barbed aim, obeyed!
All, all conspire his heart to tame:
Force, fraud, and hellish fires assail Change, then, oh sad one! grief to exultation,
The rivets of his heavenly mail,
Amidst his foes alone.
Of darkness and of air,
In vain each missile lightning tost,
In vain the tempter's snare!
Though fast and far your arrows fly,
Though mortal nerve and bone
Shrink in convulsive agony, When the word of Jehovah came down from
The Christian can your rage defy;
Towers o'er his head salvation's crest,
Faith, like a buckler, guards his breast,
Undaunted, though alone. And mighty the tones which the firmament rended,
'T is past ! 't is o'er! in foul defeat When on wheels of the thunder, and wings of
The demon host are fled! the wind,
Before the Saviour's mercy-seat, By lightning, and hail, and thick darkness at
(His live-long work of faith complete,) tended,
Their conqueror bends his head. He uttered on Sinai his laws to mankind.
“The spoils thyself hast gained, Lord! And sweet was the voice of the First-born of
I lay before thy throne:
Thou wert my rock, my shield, my sword; heaven, (Though poor his apparel, though earthly his
My trust was in thy name and word:
'T was in thy strength my heart was strong; form,) Who said to the mourner, “Thy sins are for
Thy spirit went with mine along;
How was I then alone ?" given!" “Be whole!" to the sick,—and "Be still!” to the storm.
TWENTY-SECOND SUNDAY AFTER Oh, Judge of the world! when, arrayed in thy
TRINITY. glory, Thy summons again shall be heard from on On God! my sins are manifold, against my life high,
they cry, While nature stands trembling and naked before And all my guilty deeds foregone, up to thy temthee,
ple fly; And waits on thy sentence to live or to die; Wilt thou release my trembling soul, that to de
spair is driven? When the heaven shall fly fast from the sound of "Forgive!" a blessed voice replied, “and thou thy thunder,
shalt be forgiven!" And the sun, in thy lightnings, grow languid and pale,
My foemen, Lord! are fierce and fell, they spurn And the sea yield her dead, and the tomb cleave me in their pride, asunder,
They render evil for my good, my patience they In the hour of thy terrors, let mercy prevail ! deride;
Arise, oh King! and be the proud to righteous ruin driven!
FOR ST. JAMES'S DAY. "Forgive !" an awful answer came, “as thou Thorgu sorrows rise and dangers roll would'st be forgiven !"
In waves of darkness o'er my soul,
Though friends are false and love decays, Seven times, Oh Lord! I pardoned them, seven And few and evil are my days, times they sinned again;
Though conscience, fiercest of my foes, They practice still to work me wo, they triumph Swells with remembered guilt my woes, in my pain;
Yet ev’n in nature's utmost ill, But let them dread my vengeance now, to just re
I love thee, Lord! I love thee still!
Peals o'er mine unprotected head,
Till nature, shrieking in the strife,
Would fly to hell, to 'scape from life,
Though every thought has power to kill,
I love thee, Lord! I love thee still!
Oh, by the pangs thyself hast borne,
The ruffian's blow, the tyrant's scorn;
By Sinai's curse, whose dreadful doom
Was buried in thy guiltless tomb: From giddy change by fancy bred;
By these my pangs, whose healing smart
Thy grace hath planted in my heart;
I know, I feel thy bounteous will!
Thou lovest me, Lord! thou lovest me still !
Oh, captain of God's host, whose dreadful might The spirit's help of thee we crave,
Led forth to war the armed Seraphim, That thou whose blood was shed to save,
And from the starry height,
Subdued in burning fight,
Cast down that ancient dragon, dark and grim!
Thine angels, Christ! we laud in solemn lays,
Our elder brethren of the crystal sky, TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER Who, ʼmid thy glory's blaze, TRINITY
The ceaseless anthem raise,
And gird thy throne in faithful ministry!
We celebrate their love, whose viewless wing
But thee, the first and last, we glorify,
Not with thine hierarchy,
The armies of the sky, (For darkness and the deep had heard his fame, But didst with thine own arm the battle win, Nor longer might their ancient rule endure;) The mightiest of mankind stood hushed and tame: Alone didst pass the dark and dismal shore And, trooping on strong wing, his angels came Alone didst tread the wine-press, and alone, To work his will, and kingrom to secure: All glorious in thy gore, No strength he needed save his Father's name ; Didst light and life restore, Babes were his heralds, and his friends the poor! To us who lay in darkness and undone !
FROM Greenland's icy mountains,
From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains
Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river,
From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver
Their land from error's chain !
AT A FUNERAL. BENEATH our feet and o'er our head
Is equal warning given; Beneath us lie the countless dead,
Above us is the heaven!
What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
And only man is vile:
The gifts of God are strown,
Bows down to wood and stone!
Their names are graven on the stone,
Their bones are in the clay;
Ourselves may be as they.
He lurks in every flower;
Its peril every hour!
Of youth's soft cheek decay,
On manhood's middle day.
Halt feebly towards the tomb,
And dreams of days to come?
Can we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny ? Salvation ! oh salvation !
The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation
Has learned Messiah's name!
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.
Turn, mortal, turn! thy danger know;
ON RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.
OH, Saviour of the faithful dead,
With whom thy servants dwell,
Above their narrow cell,
No more we cling to mortal clay,
We doubt and fear no more,
Which thou hast trod before !
'Twas hard from those I loved to go,
Who knelt around my bed,
Whose tears bedewed my burning brow, Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not de
Whose arms upheld my head! plore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the As fading from my dizzy view, tomb:
I sought their forms in vain, Thy Saviour has passed through its portal before The bitterness of death I knew, thee,
And groaned to live again. And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the
'Twas dreadful when th' accuser's power gloom!
Assailed my sinking heart, Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold Recounting every wasted hour, thee,
And each unworthy part:
Thy blessed comfort stole,
Like sunshine in a stormy day,
Across my darkened soul! Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,
When soon or late this feeble breath Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long;
No more to thee shall pray, But the mild rays of paradise beamed on thy Support me through the vale of death, waking,
And in the darksome way! And the sound which thou heardst was the sera
When clothed in fleshly weeds again phim’s Song!
I wait thy dread decree, Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not de- Judge of the world ! bethink thee then plore thee,
That thou hast died for me, Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;
Thou art gone to the grave! and whole nations bemoan thee, He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore Who caught from thy lips the glad tidings of peace: thee,
Yet grateful, they still in their hearts shall enthrone thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died !*
And ne'er shall thy name from their memories cease.
Thou art gone to the grave! but thy work shall not perish, The following stanzas were written as an addition to the That work which the spirit of wisdom hath blest ; above hymn, by an English clergyman, on hearing of the de. His strength shall sustain it
, his comforts shall cherish, Cease of the author.
And make it to prosper, though thou art at rest.
Translations of Pindar.
THE FIRST OLYMPIC ODE. Can honour give to actions ill,
And faith to deeds inoredible;TO HIERO OF SYRACUSE, VICTOR IN THE HORSE
And bitter blame, and praises high,
Fall truest from posterity.-
But, if we dare the deeds rehearse
Of those that aye endure, Or lives there one, whose restless eye
'T were meet that in such dangerous verse Would seek along the empty sky,
Our every word were pure.Beneath the sun's meridian ray,
Then, son of Tantalus, receive A warmer star, a purer day?
A plain unvarnished lay! O thou, my soul, whose choral song,
My song shall elder fables leave, Would tell of contests sharp and strong,
And of thy parent say, Extol not other lists above
That, when in heaven a favoured guest, The circus of Olympian Jove;
He called the gods in turns to feast Whence borne on many a tuneful tongue,
On Sipylus, his mountain home :So Saturn's seed the anthem sung,
The sovereign of the ocean foam, With harp, and fute, and trumpet's call,
-Can mortal from such favour prove? Hath sped to Hiero's festival.
Rapt thee on golden car above
To highest house of mighty Jove ; Over sheep-clad Sicily
To which, in after day, Who the righteous sceptre beareth, Came golden-haired Ganymede, Every flower of virtue's tree
As bard in ancient story read, Wove in various wreath he weareth.
The dark-winged eagle's prey.But the bud of poesy
Is the fairest flower of all; Which the bards, in social glee,
And when no earthly tongue could tell
The fate of thee, invisible;-
Nor friends, who sought thee wide in vain,
| To soothe thy weeping mother's pain, Seize it, boy, for Pisa's sake;
Could bring the wanderer home again; And that good steed's, whose thought will wake
Some envious neighbour's spleen, A joy with anxious fondness blended :
In distant hints, and darkly, said, No sounding lash his sleek side rended ;
That in the caldron hissing red, By Alpheus' brink, with feet of flame,
And on the god's great table spread, Self-driven, to the goal he tended :
Thy mangled limbs were seen.And earned the olive wreath of fame
But who shall tax, I dare not, I, For that dear lord, whose righteous name
The blessed gods with gluttony?-
Full oft the sland'rous tongue has felt
By their high wrath the thunder dealt;
And sure, if ever mortal head In Pelop's Lydian colony.
Heaven's holy watchers honoured, -Of earth-embracing Neptune, he
That head was Lydia's lord.— The darling, when, in days of yore,
Yet, could not mortal heart digest All lovely from the caldron red
The wonders of that heavenly feast; By Clotho's spell delivered,
Elate with pride, a thought unblest The youth an ivory shoulder bore.
Above his nature soared. -Well!—these are tales of mystery!
And now, condemned to endless dread, And many a darkly-woven lie
(Such is the righteous doom of fate,) With men will easy credence gain;
He eyes, above his guilty head, While truth, calm truth, may speak in vain; The shadowy rocks' impending weight:For eloquence, whose honeyed sway
The fourth, with that tormented three(1) Our frailer mortal wits obey,
In horrible society!