Though the virgins of Salem lament, 86. The Soldier. Now in myself I notice take LORD BYRON. My hair stands up, my heart doth ache, This horrid fear, On me lay hold, And run from head to heel. It is not loss of limbs or breath When cannons roar, I start no more Than mountains from their place, Though swords and spears Are darted in my face. A soldier it would ill become His passage choke, He boldly marcheth on, His back to turn, Till all be lost or won. The flashing fires, the whizzing shot, Distemper not his wits; The barbed steed he dreadeth not, With sword and shield, That whereupon the dread begins Wherewith I find Into the field they go, Than all the wrath And engines of the foe. Defend me, Lord! from those misdeeds Preserve me far From acts of war, Where thou dost peace command ; And in my breast Let mercy rest, Though justice use my hand. Be thou my leader to the field, I will rely On Thee, O Lord! alone; And in this trust, I cannot be undone. G. WITHER. 87. To Keep a True Lent. "Behold, ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of wickedness: Is it such a fast that I have chosen? a day for a man to afflict his soul? Is it to bow down his head as a bulrush, and to spread sackcloth and ashes under him? wilt thou call this a fast? "Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? "Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? . "And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul, then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noonday." 88. The Noble Nature. IT is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:. A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— B. JONSON. 89. Virtue. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, 90. The Parrot. THE deep affections of the breast, G. HERBERT. That Heaven to living things imparts, Are not exclusively possessed By human hearts. A Parrot, from the Spanish main, Full young, and early caged, came o'er To spicy groves, where he had won For these he changed the smoke of turf, But, petted, in our climate cold He lived and chattered many a day ; At last, when blind and seeming dumb, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mulla's shore ; He hailed the bird in Spanish speech; T. CAMPBELL. 91. Coronach. HE is gone on the mountain, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount, reappearing, From the raindrops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The island of Mull, off the west coast of Scotland. |