106 TROUBADOUR SONG. And love, that keeps the music, fills So teach ye me the wisest part, And vocal with such songs as own To me fair memories belong Of scenes that erst did bless; For no regret, And lasting thankfulness, And very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they I will have hopes that cannot fade, TROUBADOUR SONG.—Mrs. Hemans. THE warrior crossed the ocean's foam HUMAN FRAILTY. His voice was heard where javelin-showers Her step was 'midst the summer-flowers, His shield was cleft, his lance was riven, Yet a thousand arrows passed him by, That perish with a breeze. As roses die, when the blast is come There was death within the smiling home, HUMAN FRAILTY.- Couper. WEAK and irresolute is man, The bow well bent and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain; But passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again. 107 108 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. Some foe to his upright intent But pleasure wins his heart. 'Tis here the folly of the wise, Through all his art, we view; Bound on a voyage of awful length, A stranger to superior strength, But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast; The breath of heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost. THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. - Pope. FATHER of all! in every age, In every clime, adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Thou great First Cause, least understood, Yet gave me, in this dark estate, THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. What conscience dictates to be done, This teach me more than hell to shun, What blessings thy free bounty gives, For God is paid when man receives, - Yet not to earth's contracted span Let not this weak, unknowing hand And deal damnation round the land If I am right, thy grace impart If I am am wrong, O, teach my To find that better way. heart Save me alike from foolish pride, At aught thy wisdom has denied, Teach me to feel another's woe; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. 109 110 SIR PATRICK SPENCE Mean though I am, not wholly so, This day be bread and peace my lot; Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, To Thee, whose temple is all space, SIR PATRICK SPENCE. THE king sits in Dunfermline town, O, up and spake an eldern knight,— The king has written a braid letter, "To Noroway, to Noroway, |