With a quick and sudden swell
Prone the liquid ramparts fell;
Over horse, and over car,
Over every man of war,
Over Pharaoh's crown of gold
The loud thundering billows roll'd.
As the level waters spread
Down they sank, they sank like lead,
Down without a cry or groan.
And the morning sun, that shone
On myriads of bright-armed men,
Its meridian radiance then
Cast on a wide sea, heaving as of yore,
Against a silent, solitary shore.
BROTHER, thou hast gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown;
From the burden of the flesh,
And from care and fear released, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.
The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er,
And borne the heavy load,
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach his blest abode.
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus
Upon his Father's breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail.
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovedst best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed :
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a welcome find;
May each, like thee, depart in peace,
To be a glorious guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stain'd
With watching his own gold; every one knows him,
Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he,
Nor kindred, nor familiar; not a slave,
Not a lean serving wench; nothing e'er enter'd
But his spare self within his jealous doors,
Except a wandering rat; and that, they say,
Was famine-struck, and died there. What of him?
Fazio. Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones.
There's not a galliot on the sea but bears
A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre,
Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes,
But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage; he,
He only stocks our prisons with his debtors.
I saw him creeping home last night; he shudder'd
As he unlock'd his door, and look'd around,
As if he thought that very breath of wind
Were some keen thief; and when he lock'd him in,
I heard the grating key turn twenty times,
To try if all were safe. I look'd again
From our high window by mere chance, and saw
The motion of his scanty, moping lantern,
And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuff'd
With tatter'd remnants of a money-bag,
Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his face,
Like some dry, wither-boned anatomy,
Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily
Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels,
Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold,
Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily,
As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard,
And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel.
His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them
As a gross satyr on a sleeping nymph;
And then, as he heard something like a sound,
He clapp'd the lid to, and blew out the lantern;
But I. Bianca, hurried to thy arms,
And thank'd my God that I had braver riches.
The exultation of unfetter'd earth!-
From east to west they lift their trampled necks,
The indignant nations: earth breaks out in scorn;
The valleys dance and sing; the mountains shake
Their cedar-crowned tops! The strangers crowd
To gaze upon the howling wilderness,
Where stood the Queen of Nations. Lo! even now,
Lazy Euphrates rolls his sullen waves
[reeds.
Through wastes, and but reflects his own thick
I hear the bitterns shriek, the dragons cry;
I see the shadow of the midnight owl
Gliding where now are laughter-echoing palaces!
O'er the vast plain I see the mighty tombs
Of kings, in sad and broken whiteness gleam
Beneath the o'ergrown cypress-but no tomb
Bears record. Babylon, of thy last lord;
Even monuments are silent of Belshazzar!
I HAVE been able to learn scarcely any thing of the history of Mr. KEBLE. He was educated at Oxford, entered holy orders, and was for some time pastor of a rural congregation, to whose spiritual interests he devoted himself with untiring ardour and affection. He was subsequently elected Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford, and he has been distinguished as one of those eminent scholars and divines, among whom are NEWMAN, HOOK and PUSEY, who have since shaken the religious world with some of the most ingenious and able theological discussions of modern times, in the Oxford Tracts.
AWAKE-again the Gospel-trump is blown-
From year to year it swells with louder tone;
From year to year the signs of wrath
Are gathering round the Judge's path:
Strange words fulfill'd, and mighty works achieved,
And truth in all the world both hated and believed.
Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,
Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown?
Up, from your beds of sloth, for shame,
Speed to the eastern mount like flame,
Nor wonder, should ye find your king in tears,
E'en with the loud Hosanna ringing in his ears.
Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago
They are gone forth to swell Messiah's show;
With glittering robes and garlands sweet
They strew the ground beneath his feet:
All but your hearts are there-O doom'd to prove
The arrows wing'd in heaven for faith that will not
love!
Meanwhile He paces through the adoring crowd,
Calm as the march of some majestic cloud,
That o'er wild scenes of ocean-war
Holds its course in heaven afar:
Even so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on, Thou keepest silent watch from thy triumphal throne;
Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze
On the dread vision of the latter days,
Constrain'd to own Thee, but in heart
Prepared to take Barabbas' part:
"Hosanna" now, to-morrow "Crucify,"
The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.
Yet, in that throng of selfish hearts untrue,
Thy sad eye rests upon thy faithful few;
Mr. KEBLE is known as a poet chiefly through The Christian Year, which was first published in 1827. It has passed through more than thirty editions in England, and has been several times reprinted in this country. The American impressions contain a preface and other valuable additions by the author's friend, the Rt. Rev. Dr. DOANE, Bishop of the Episcopal church in New Jersey. Beside this, he has written The Child's Christian Year, and some of the finest pieces in the Lyra Apostolica, republished last summer in New York. I believe Mr. KEBLE is now about fifty years of age.
Children and childlike souls are there,
Blind Bartimeus' humble prayer,
And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep,
Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.
And fast beside the olive-border'd way
[stay,
Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign'd to
And peaceful home, to Zeal sincere
The heavenly Contemplation dear,
Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet,
And wiser Mary linger'd at thy sacred feet.
Still, through decaying ages as they glide,
Thou lovest thy chosen remnant to divide;
Sprinkled along the waste of years,
Full many a soft green isle appears:
Pause where we may upon the desert road,
Some shelter is in sight, some sacred, safe abode.
When withering blasts of error swept the sky,"
And Love's last flower seem'd fain to droop and die,
How sweet, how lone, the ray benign,
On shelter'd nooks of Palestine!
THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.
SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies, Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies,
To fill the heart's fond view? In childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on life's downward way, How soothing! in our last decay Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fall'n all beside the world of life, How is it stain'd with fear and strife! In Reason's world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare!
But cheerful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The same that won Eve's matron smile
In the world's opening glow. The stars of heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought;Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
And guilty man, where'er he roams,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet-
But we may taste your solace sweet
And come again to-morrow.
Ye fearless in your nests abide-
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes:
For ye could draw the admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys; Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paused and own'd you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd.
What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight,
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And heaven thy morn will bless."
LESSONS sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,
Instinct pure, or heaven-taught art?
Be your title what it may,
Sweet and lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touch'd by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice,
Minds us of our better choice.
Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men: Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die,Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse.
See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging
O'er the moss and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipp'd with vernal red,
And her kindly flower display'd
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.
Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,
But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile.
Thus I learn contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.
If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving
For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.
Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest, darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining-
All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;
So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.
FOREST LEAVES IN AUTUMN.
RED O'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away
That crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dun
Falls on the moor the brief November day.
Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,
And echo bids good-night from every glade;
Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float
Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.
How like decaying life they seem to glide!
And yet no second spring have they in store,
But where they fall forgotten to abide,
Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, The green buds glisten in the dews of spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old.
Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,
In all the world of busy life around No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.
Man's portion is to die and rise again
Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, As his when Eden held his virgin heart.
And haply, half unblamed his murmuring voice
Might sound in heaven, were all his second life
Only the first renew'd-the heathen's choice,
A round of listless joy and weary strife.
For dreary were this earth, if earth were all,
Though brighten'd oft by dear affection's kiss ;-
Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?
But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss.
Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart,
Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne
On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart
O'er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn. Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at evenWho but would follow, might he break his chain?
And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm
Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free
As his transfigured Lord with lightning form
And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee.
When from the grave he sprung at dawn of morn,
And led thro' boundless air thy conquering road,
Leaving a glorious track, where saints new-born
Might fearless follow to their blest abode.
But first, by many a stern and fiery blast
The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine,
And many a gale of keenest wo be pass'd,
Till every pulse beat true to airs divine;
Till every limb obey the mounting soul,
The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given.
He who the stormy heart can so control
The laggard body soon will waft to heaven.
Or the bright things in earth and air
How little can the heart embrace!
Soft shades and gleaming lights are there-
I know it well, but cannot trace.
Mine eye unworthy seems to read
One page of Nature's beauteous book:
It lies before me, fair outspread-
I only cast a wishful look.
I cannot paint to Memory's eye
The scene, the glance, I dearest love-
Unchanged themselves, in me they die,
Or faint, or false, their shadows prove.
In vain, with dull and tuneless ear,
I linger by soft music's cell,
And in my heart of hearts would hear
What to her own she deigns to tell.
'Tis misty all, both sight and sound-
I only know 'tis fair and sweet-
'Tis wandering on enchanted ground
With dizzy brow and tottering feet.
But patience! there may come a time
When these dull ears shall scan aright
Strains, that outring earth's drowsy chime,
As heaven outshines the taper's light.
These eyes, that dazzled now and weak
At glancing motes in sunshine wink,
Shall see the King's full glory break,
Nor from the blissful vision shrink:
Though scarcely now their laggard glance
Reach to an arrow's flight, that day
They shall behold, and not in trance,
The region "very far away."
If memory sometimes at our spell
Refuse to speak, or speak amiss,
We shall not need her where we dwell,
Ever in sight of all our bliss.
Meanwhile, if over sea or sky,
Some tender lights unnoticed fleet, Or on loved features dawn and die, Unread, to us, their lesson sweet; Yet are there saddening sights around, Which heaven, in mercy, spares us too, And we see far in holy ground,
If duly purged our mental view.
The distant landscape draws not nigh
For all our gazing; but the soul,
That upward looks, may still descry
Nearer, each day, the brightening goal.
And thou, too curious ear, that fain
Wouldst thread the maze of harmony,
Content thee with one simple strain,
The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee;
Till thou art duly train'd, and taught
The concord sweet of love divine:
Then, with that inward music fraught,
For ever rise, and sing, and shine.
Thus bad and good their several warnings give
Of His approach, whom none may see and live:
Faith's ear, with awful still delight,
Counts them like minute bells at night,
Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn,
While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne.
But what are Heaven's alarms to hearts that cower
In wilful slumber, deepening every hour,
That draw their curtains closer round,
The nearer swells the trumpet's sound?
Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die,
Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel
Thee nigh.
YE whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of poesy,
Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth,
(If the word be not too bold,)
Giving virtue a new birth,
And a life that ne'er grows old
Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye who hath set your parts?
He, who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you to lead
His hosannas here below;-
Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and wo.
But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest
High and low in choir shall meet,
Ere His name shall be unblest.
Lord, by every minstrel tongue
Be thy praise so duly sung,
That thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here!
We the while, of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to listen well.
But should thankless silence seal
Lips that might half-heaven reveal-
Should bards in idol-hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below
Noblest things find vilest using,)
Then, thy power and mercy show,
In vile things noble breath infusing.
Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of thy shrine,
Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore,
Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy,
If it flow from childlike hearts.
TYRE of the farther west! be thou too warn'd, Whose eagle wings thine own green world o'erspread,
Touching two oceans: wherefore hast thou scorn'd
Thy fathers' God, O proud and full of bread?
Why lies the cross unhonour'd on thy ground,
While in mid-air thy stars and arrows flaunt?
That sheaf of darts, will it not fall unbound,
Except, disrobed of thy vain earthly vaunt,
Thou bring it to be bless'd where saints and
angels haunt?
The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar grace,
Is rooted here and there in thy dark woods;
But many a rank weed round it grows apace,
And Mammon builds beside thy mighty floods,
O'ertopping nature, braving nature's God;
Oh while thou yet hast room, fair, fruitful land, Ere war and want have stain'd thy virgin sod, Mark thee a place on high, a glorious stand, Whence truth her sign may make o'er forest,
Eastward, this hour, perchance thou turnest thine Listening if haply with the surging sea [ear, Blend sounds of ruin from a land once dear
To thee and Heaven. O trying hour for thee! Tyre mock'd when Salem fell; where now is Tyre? Heaven was against her. Nations thick as waves Burst o'er her walls, to ocean doom'd and fire; And now the tideless water idly laves Her towers, and lone sands heap her crowned merchants' graves.
CHAMPIONS OF THE TRUTH.
"Whoshall go for us?" And I said, "Here am I: send me." DULL thunders moan around the Temple rock, And deep in hollow caves, far underneath, The lonely watchman feels the sullen shock, His footsteps timing as the low winds breathe; Hark! from the Shrine is ask'd, What steadfast heart
Dares in the storm go forth? Who takes the Almighty's part?
And with a bold gleam flush'd, full many a brow Is raised to say, "Behold me, Lord, and send!" But ere the words be breathed, some broken vow Remember'd, ties the tongue; and sadly blend With faith's pure incense, clouds of conscience dim, And faltering tones of guilt mar the Confessor's
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