Till all obscuring earth hath laid It is a weary interlude, Which doth short joys, long woes include; H. KING. AN EPODE FROM A CHORUS IN THE UNFINISHED TRAGEDY OF SOHRAB. WHAT Power, beyond all powers elate, Sustains this universal frame? 'Tis not nature, 'tis not fate, "Tis not the dance of atoms blind, But provident of endless good, By ways nor seen nor understood, Which e'en His angels vainly might explore. High their highest thoughts above, Truth, wisdom, justice, mercy, love, Wrought in His heavenly essence, blaze and soar. Mortals who His glory seek, Rapt in contemplation meek, Him fear, Him trust, Him venerate, Him adore ! SIR W. JONES. ON THE GRAVE. Solum mihi superest sepulchrum. Job. WELCOME, thou safe retreat! Where the' injured man doth fortify 'Gainst the invasions of the great: Where the lean slave, who the' oar doth ply, Soft as his admiral may lie! Great statist! 'tis your doom, Though your designs swell high and wide, To be contracted in a tomb! And all your happy cares provide But for your heir authorized pride. Nor shall your shade delight In the' pomp of your proud obsequies. And should the present flattery write A glorious epitaph, the wise Will say the poet's wit here lies. How reconciled to fate Will grow the aged villager, When he shall see your funeral state! The great decree of God * The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Gray. E'en I, while humble zeal And when I'm lost in death's cold night, HABINGTON. TIMES GO BY TURNS. THE lopped tree in time may grow again, 'Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favours to the lowest ebb: Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web: No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay: Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; The net that holds no great takes little fish ; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. SOUTHWELL. STANZAS. A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the west, My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh; In luxury loses its heavenly ray; How soon, in the lavishing cup of desire, more: 'Oh, thus,' I exclaim'd, ' can a heavenly eye Shed light on the soul that was darken'd before!' T. MOORE. THE LEADING STRING. GUIDE of my wayward steps, when young desire Oft as my thoughts recall those early days, Beneath a thousand forms reflection shows Combining perils, hardships, pains, and woes : O! baneful influence, every moment spread In varied terrors o'er an infant's head; Whom still, alike unconscious, unalarm'd, The plain invited, and the desert charm'd; Whose heedless foot with equal haste had trod The fatal precipice and flowery road; Who, fondly rash, no other object knew Than what each changing trifle set to view;— Tired of the present, fond of that which flies; Still prone to fall, and impotent to rise. Even now I tremble at the' affecting scene:Be firm, my soul!-What can this transport mean? Hark! on mine ear some sound more awful breaks! 'Tis no illusion! 'tis the Muse that speaks. 'My son!' she says, 'if thus thine heart, aghast, Starts at the little snares thy childhood pass'd, |