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LXXXII.

ANTICIPATION.

OW it belongs not to my care
Whether I die or live;

To love and serve Thee is my share,
And Thou the grace must give.

Christ leads me through no darker rooms
Than He went through before :

He that unto God's kingdom comes,
Must enter by this Door.

Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet
Thy blessed face to see,
For if Thy work on earth be sweet,
What will Thy glory be?

Then I shall end my sad complaints,
And weary, sinful days,

And join with those triumphant saints
That sing Jehovah's praise.

My knowledge of that life is small,

The eye of faith is dim:

But 't is enough that Christ knows all,
And I shall be with Him.

R. Baxter.

LXXXIII.

EAK is the will of Man, his judgment blind; Remembrance persecutes, and Hope betrays; Heavy is woe ;-and joy, for human kind, A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!' Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days Who wants the glorious faculty assigned

To elevate the more-than-reasoning Mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,
Imagination lofty and refined:

'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
W. Wordsworth.

LXXXIV.

RETRIBUTION.

H righteous doom, that they who make
Pleasure their only end,

Ordering the whole life for its sake,
Miss that whereto they tend.

While they who bid stern Duty lead,

Content to follow, they

Of Duty only taking heed,
Find Pleasure by the way.

R. C. Trench.

LXXXV.

A FUNERAL HYMN.

E left his home with a bounding heart,
For the world it was all before him;
And felt it scarce a pain to part

Such bright sunbeams came o'er him.
He turned him to visions of future years;
The rainbow's hues were round them-
And a father's bodings, a mother's tears,

Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them.

That mother's cheek is far paler now
Than when she last caressed him—

There's an added gloom on that father's brow
Since the hour when last he blessed him.
Oh! that all human hopes should prove
Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow—
And the cankering visions of anxious love
Ever end in ruth and sorrow!

He left his home with a swelling sail,
Of fame and fortune dreaming:
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale
Or the pennon above him streaming.
He hath reached his goal-by a distant wave
'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him—
And stranger forms bent o'er his grave
When the last sad rites were paid him.

He should have died in his own loved land
With friends and kinsfolk near him ;
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand
With no thought, save heaven, to cheer him.
But what recks it now? is his sleep less sound
In the port where the wild waves swept him,
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound,
And the hearts he loved had wept him?

Then why repine? Can he feel the rays
That a pestilent sun sheds o'er him?
Or share the grief that may cloud the days
Of the friends who now deplore him?
No-his bark's at anchor, its sails are furled,
It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding—
And, safe from the buffeting waves of the world,
In a haven of peace is riding.

A. Watts.

Cas.

LXXXVI.

JULIUS CÆSAR.

ACT I. SCENE I.-Rome. A Public Place.

BRUTUS and CASSIUS.

RUTUS, I do observe you now of late : I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you.

Bru.

Cassius,

Be not deceived: if I have veiled my look,

I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am

Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself,

Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours;
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved—
Among which number, Cassius, be you one-

Nor construe any further my neglect,

Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,

Forgets the shows of love to other men.

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion : By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations.

Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face?

Bru. No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself,

But by reflection, by some other things.

Cas. 'Tis just :

And it is very much lamented, Brutus,

That you have no such mirrors as will turn
Your hidden worthiness into your eye,

That you might see your shadow. I have heard,
Where many of the best respect in Rome,
Except immortal Cæsar, speaking of Brutus
And groaning underneath this age's yoke,
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes.

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself

For that which is not in me?

Cas. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear:
And since you know you cannot see yourself
So well as by reflection, I, your glass,
Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which you yet know not of.
And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus :
Were I a common laugher, or did use
To stale with ordinary oaths my love
To every new protester; if you know
That I do fawn on men and hug them hard
And after scandal them, or if you know
That I profess myself in banqueting

To all the rout, then hold me dangerous.

[Flourish, and shout. Bru. What means this shouting? I do fear, the people Choose Cæsar for their king.

Cas.

Ay, do you fear it?

Then must I think you would not have it so.

Bru. I would not, Cassius; yet I love him well.
But wherefore do you hold me here so long?

What is it that you would impart to me?
If it be aught toward the general good,

Set honour in one eye and death i' the other,
And I will look on both indifferently,
For let the gods so speed me as I love

The name of honour more than I fear death.
Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus,
As well as I do know your outward favour.
Well, honour is the subject of my story.
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be as live to be

In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Cæsar; so were you :

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