« 上一頁繼續 »
For here are eyes that shame the violet,
And thick about those lovely temples lie
And well thou mayst; for Italy’s brown maids
Then henceforth let no maid or matron grieve
Soft voices and light laughter wake the street
No swimming Juno gait, of languor born,
Ye that dash by in chariots, who will care
Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air,
These sights are for the earth and open sky,
And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by.
WHo scorn the hallowed day set heaven at naught. Heaven would wear out whom one short sabbath tires. Emblem and earnest of eternal rest, A festival with fruits celestial crowned, A jubilee releasing him from earth, The day delights and animates the saint. It gives new vigor to the languid pulse Of life divine, restores the wandering feet, Strengthens the weak, upholds the prone to slip, Quickens the lingering, and the sinking lifts, Establishing them all upon a rock. Sabbaths, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim’s path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretastes of the long, long spring to come. To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn Seems like the first, when every thing was new. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold. In every thing a smiling God is seen. On earth, his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines. In objects overlooked On other days he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell. While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea. His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now To bring him near; for Faith performs the work; In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, With such transparent vividness, she feels
Struck with admiring awe, as if transform'd
—oIndustry and Prayer.—CARLos WIL.cox.
TIME well employed is Satan’s deadliest foe: It leaves no opening for the lurking fiend: Life it imparts to watchfulness and prayer, Statues, without it in the form of guards.
The closet which the saint devotes to prayer Is not his temple only, but his tower, Whither he runs for refuge, when attacked; His armory, to which he soon retreats When danger warns, his weapons to select, And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead, When taken by surprise and half o'ercome, That, now, to venture near the hallowed place Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul Glad to impose on conscience with a show Of humble veneration, to secure Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed, It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.
The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near The upper world of purity and light. He loses sight of his intended prey, In that effulgence beaming from the throne Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails To succor and preserve the tempted soul, Whose time and talents rest or run to waste. Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse A salutary savor through the day, With charities and duties not well filled. These form the links of an electric chain That join the orisons of morn and eve, And propagate through all its several parts, While kept continuous, the ethereal fire; But if a break be found, the fire is spent.
Consolations of Religion to the Poor.—PERc1 v AL.
THERE is a mourner, and her heart is broken; She is a widow; she is old and poor; Her only hope is in that sacred token Of peaceful happiness when life is o'er ; She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight Of her Redeemer. Sceptics, would you pour Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's night? She lives in her affections; for the grave Has closed upon her husband, children; all Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save Her treasured jewels; though her views are small, Though she has never mounted high, to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall Her unperverted palate, but will bring Ajoy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave, The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore Of matted grass and flowers, so softly pour The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more She muses on the griefs of former days; Her full heart melts, and flows in Heaven's dissolving rays. And faith can see a new world, and the eyes Of saints look pity on her: Death will come— A few short moments over, and the prize Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb Becomes her fondest pillow ; all its gloom Is scattered. What a meeting there will be To her and all she loved here ! and the bloom Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee: Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity.
WHERE lies our path —Though many a vista call, We may admire, but cannot tread them all.
Where lies our path?—A poet, and inquire