"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away,
And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray?"
"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."
"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away:
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death; Now tell me the reason, I pray?
"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied, "Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God;
And He hath not forgotten my age
20. EARLY PIETY.
BY cool Siloam's shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon's dewy rose !
Lo such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God!
By cool Siloam's shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man's maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passion's rage!
O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within Thy Father's shrine!
Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd,
Were all alike Divine;
Dependent on Thy bounteous breath,
We seek Thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still Thine own!
A PARAPHRASE ON 1 COR. xiii.
ID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, Than ever man pronounced, or angel sung; Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define;
And had I power to give that knowledge birth
In all the speeches of the babbling earth;
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire
To weary tortures and rejoice in fire;
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw
When Moses gave them miracles and law:
Yet, gracious Charity! indulgent guest,
Were not thy power exerted in my breast,
Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer,
That scorn of life would be but wild despair;
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice-
My faith were form, my eloquence were noise.
Charity! decent, modest, easy, kind,
Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with just reins, and gentle hand to guide,
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride:
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives,
And much she suffers as she much believes.
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives;
She builds our quiet as she forms our lives:
Lays the rough path of peevish nature even,
And opens in our heart a little heav'n.
Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds and due restrictions knows:
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power,
And finishing its act exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail and prophecy shall cease;
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,
And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive.
As through the artist's intervening glass
Our eye observes the distant planets pass,
A little we discover, but allow
That more remains unseen than art can show:
So, whilst our mind its knowledge would improve,
(Its feeble eye intent on things above,)
High as we may, we lift our reason up,
By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope;
Yet are we able only to survey
Dawnings of beams and promises of day:
Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight.
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light.
But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd,
The Sun shall soon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated, sublime, on his meridian throne.
Then constant Faith and holy Hope shall die,
One lost in certainty, and one in joy;
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity,
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,
Thy office and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame,
Shalt still survive.
Shalt stand before the host of Heav'n confess'd,
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd.
THE CHILD'S WISH IN JUNE.
[OTHER, mother, the winds are at play;
Prithee let me be idle to-day.
Look, dear mother, the flowers all lie
Languidly under the bright blue sky;
See, how slowly the streamlet glides;
Look, how the violet roguishly hides;
Even the butterfly rests on the rose,
And scarcely sips the sweets as he goes.
Poor Tray is asleep in the noon-day sun,
And the flies go about him, one by one;
And pussy sits near with a sleepy grace,
Without ever thinking of washing her face.
There flies a bird to a neighbouring tree;
But very lazily flieth he;
And he sits and twitters a gentle note,
That scarcely ruffles his little throat.
You bid me be busy; but, mother, hear
How the humdrum grasshopper soundeth near;
And the soft west wind is so light in its play,
It scarcely moves a leaf on the
I wish, oh, I wish I were yonder cloud,
That sails about with its misty shroud;
Books and work I no more should see,
But I'd come and float, dear mother, o'er thee!
23. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
[OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharg'd his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
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