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I feel no shock, I hear no groan,
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone-
A hundred ruined realms.

Lo! in that dot some mite like me,
Impelled by woe or whim,

May crawl some atom-cliffs to see,-
A tiny world to him.

Lo! while he pauses and admires
The works of Nature's might,
Spurned by my foot, his world expires,
And all to him is night.

O God of terrors! what are we?
Poor insects sparked with thought.
Thy whisper, Lord;-a word from thee-
Could smite us into nought.

But shouldst thou wreck our fatherland
And mix it with the deep,

Safe in the hollow of thy hand

Thy little ones would sleep.

E. Elliott.

CXLIV.

CHRISTIAN PATRIOTISM.

ATRIOTS have toiled, and in their country's cause, Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic Muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust : But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid,

To those, who, posted at the shrine of Truth,
Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood,
Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed,
And for a time ensure, to his loved land
The sweets of liberty and equal laws;
But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize,
And win it with more pain.

Their blood is shed

In confirmation of the noblest claim,
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth,
To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.

Yet few remember them. They lived unknown,
Till Persecution dragged them into fame,

And chased them up to Heaven. Their ashes flew
-No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song:
And History, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this. She execrates, indeed,
The tyranny, that doomed them to the fire,
But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.

He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain,
That hellish foes, confederate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and, though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to Heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say-' My father made them all.'
W. Cowper.

CXLV.

HOLY THURSDAY.

WAS on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,

Came children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green :

Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white

as snow,

Till into the high dome of Paul's, they like Thames' waters

flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London

town,

Seated in companies they were, with radiance all their

own :

The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,

Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,

Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among :

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the

poor,

Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your

door.

W. Blake.

CXLVI.

THE MILK-MAÏD O' THE FARM.

(IN THE DORSET DIALECT.)

BE the milk-maïd o' the farm :
I be so happy out in groun',

Wi' my white milk-païl in my eärm,
As if I wore a goolden crown.

An' I don't zit up ha'f the night,
Nor lie vor ha'f the day a-bed :
An' that's how 'tis my eyes be bright,
An' why my cheäks be always red.

In zummer mornèns, when the lark
Do rouse the eärly lad an' lass
To work, I be the vu'st' to mark

My steps upon the dewy grass.

An' in the evenèn, when the zun

Do sheen upon the western brows
O' hills, where bubblèn brooks do run
There I do zing an' milk my cows.

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An' never move, nor kick my païl,
Nor bleäre at tother cows, nor try

To hook, or switch me wi' her taïl.

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An' I at mornen an' at night

Do skim the yaller cream, an' mould
An' press my cheeses, red an' white,

An' zee the butter vetched an' rolled.

An' Tommas shan't be called the wo'st
Young man alive, vor he do try
To milk roun' all his own cows vu'st,
An' then to come an' milk vor I.

I be the milk-maïd o' the farm :
I be so happy out in groun',
Wi' my white milk-païl in my eërm
As if I wore a goolden crown.

W. Barnes.

CXLVII.

THE SUN RISES BRIGHT IN FRANCE.

HE sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had

In my ain countree.

O it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my e'e,
But the dear Marie I left ahin',
Wi' sweet bairnies three.

My lanely hearth burned bonnie,

An' smiled my ain Marie;

I've left a' my heart behin'
In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,

And the blossom to the bee;

But I'll win back-O never,

To my ain countree.

R

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