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Brighter than rose-hues of the morn, or red
Through orbits of interminable light
They look-how piercing is their visual might ! Discerning germs, with which all worlds are rife, Ere they expanding blossom into life!
STANZAS ON THE TIMES.
Or love, the flower that closes up for fear,
When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.-KEBLE.
THE cares of life hang heavy on our hearts—
To minds with heaven-sown virtue once instinct.
Gain, or a good as palpable, distinct.
Few, like the maid beloved of Heaven, will choose
The better part-what win they for the prize they lose?
A stream spontaneous flowing from the heart
Of love divine, an ardent zeal for truth,
Wanting no aid from oratory's art—
These these pervade not now, as once, our youth
All for effect now speak and write, in sooth. To idols of the theatre we bow:
Even our compassion is but show of ruth; We seem with an indignant zeal to glow
In halls that ring with slavery's wrongs, but shun the house of woe.
The meeting's frequent shout is as the clash
Of feeling; how unlike the purer light
That lives self-fed within the heart, by night By day in shade or sunshine burning strong! Effluence of seraph fair, Charissa hight
Supreme the brightest sanctities among!
Can her fine spirit visit those who court the ignoble throng?
HAST thou the high-spiced bowl of pleasure drained,
That overlooks the sea, there build thy skiff;
Where scents of wild thyme freshen through the gale;
Of primitive joy that quells e'en grief intense,
How beautiful the ocean's argentry,
Is Nature's aspect clear as Jesus' brow.
Call it not solitude!-the Almighty Power
Is as a visible presence in this hour.