THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN. 745 THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDAS. WHERE the remote Bermudas ride What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels every thing, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet. But apples-plants of such a price No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars, chosen by His hand From Lebanon, He stores the land; And makes the hollow seas, that roar, Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple, where to sound His name. O! let our voice His praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault; Which, then, perhaps rebounding, may Echo beyond the Mexique bay. Thus sang they, in the English boat, ANDREW MARVELL. HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze— Forsaken Israel wanders lone; And Thou hast left them to their own. But, present still, though now unseen, To temper the deceitful ray. In shade and storm the frequent night, Our harps we left by Babel's streams- And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. SIR WALTER SCOTT THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN. Up to the throne of God is borne Nor will He turn his ear aside What though our burden be not light, Blest are the moments, doubly blest, Each field is then a hallowed spot- Look up to heaven! the industrious sun Lord! since his rising in the east Is fasting then the thing that God requires? Help with Thy grace, through life's short Can sackcloth clothe a fault, or hide a shame? day, Our upward and our downward way; WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. Is this a fast-to keep And clean From fat of veals and sheep? Is it to quit the dish Of flesh, yet still The platter high with fish? Is it to fast an hour Or ragged to go- A downcast look, and sour Can ashes cleanse thy blot, or purge thy of fence? Or do thy hands make heaven a recompense, No! though thou pine thyself with willing Or face look thin, or carcass ne'er so gaunt; wear, Or naked go, or sleep in shirts of hair; pains. Such holy madness God rejects and loathes, That sinks no deeper than the skin or clothes. 'Tis not thine eyes, which, taught to weep by art, CHARITY AND HUMILITY. 'Tis not your mimic mouths, your antic 747 faces, Your Scripture phrases, or affected graces, Nor prodigal up-banding of thine eyes, CHARITY AND HUMILITY. FAR have I clambered in my mind, Whose gashful balls do seem to pelt the But naught so great as love I find; skies; 'Tis not the strict reforming of your hair, So close that all the neighbor skull bare; is 'Tis not the drooping of thy head so low, Nor yet the lowering of thy sullen brow; Nor wolvish howling that disturbs the air, Nor repetitions, or your tedious prayer: No, no! 'tis none of this, that God regardsSuch sort of fools their own applause rewards; Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might, Sure source of lasting happiness! Higher than heaven, lower than hell! Such puppet-plays to heaven are strange and It shall return with that it sought. quaint; Their service is unsweet, and foully taint; Their words fall fruitless from their idle brain But true repentance runs in other strain: Where sad contrition harbors, there the heart Is truly acquainted with the secret smart The troubled soul's amazed with dire aspects Aye, this is incense whose accepted favor Mounts up the heavenly Throne, and findeth favor; Aye, this is it whose valor never failsWith God it stoutly wrestles, and prevails; Aye, this is it that pierces heaven above, Never returning home, like Noah's dove, But brings an olive leaf, or some increase That works salvation, and eternal peace. FRANCIS QUARLES. Lord, stretch Thy tent in my strait breast Enlarge it downward, that sure rest O feeble rays of mental light, Is more than my poor soul durst crave, HENRY MORE |