Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we any thing so fair
As is the smile upon thy face.

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are
fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice,
The confidence of reason give:

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!

LIII.

W. Wordsworth.

SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.

(FROM SALIS.)

NTO the silent land!

Ah! who shall lead us thither?

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.

Who leads us with a gentle hand

Thither, O thither,

Into the Silent Land?

Into the Silent Land!

To you, ye boundless regions

Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions

Of beauteous souls! The Future's pledge and band!

H

Who in Life's battle firm doth stand,
Shall bear Hope's tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land!

O Land

O Land!

For all the broken-hearted

The mildest herald by our fate allotted,
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand

Into the land of the great Departed,

Into the Silent Land!

H. W. Longfellow.

LIV.

ADDRESS OF COMUS.

HE star that bids the shepherd fold,*
Now the top of Heaven doth hold;
And the gilded car of day

His glowing axle doth allay

In the steep Atlantic stream ;
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the East:
Meanwhile welcome joy and feast.
Rigour now is gone to bed,

And Advice with scrupulous head.

Strict Age and sour Severity

With their grave saws + in slumber lie.

We that are of purer fire

Imitate the starry quire,‡

Who in their nightly watchful spheres
Lead in swift round the months and years.

* Fold, fold their flocks.

Saws, sayings, maximis.

Choir,

The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove,
Now to the moon in wavering morrice* move;
And on the tawny sands and shelves

Trip the pert faeries and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook and fountain brim
The Wood-Nymphs decked with daisies trim
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep :
What hath Night to do with Sleep?
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round,

J. Milton.

LV.

RUTH.

HE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasped by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripened; such a blush
In the midst of brown was born
Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veiled a light,
That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;-
Thus she stood among the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks ;—

* Morrice, or Moorish dance.

Sure, I said, heaven did not mean,
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,

Share my harvest and my home.

LVI.

SLEEP.

'He giveth His beloved sleep.'-Psalm cxxvii. 2.

T. Hood.

1.

F all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this— 'He giveth His beloved, sleep?'

II.

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?—
'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'

III.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake.

'He giveth His belovéd, sleep.'

IV.

'Sleep soft, beloved!' we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;

But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when 'He giveth His belovéd, sleep.'

V.

O earth, so full of dreary noises !
O men, with wailing in your voices !
O delvéd gold, the wailer's heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And 'giveth His belovéd, sleep.'

VI.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still

Though on its slope men sow and reap.

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,
'He giveth His belovéd, sleep.'

VIL

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;

But angels say—and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard-
'He giveth His belovéd, sleep.'

VIII.

For me, my heart that erst did go

Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,

Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose,

Who 'giveth His belovéd, sleep!'

1X.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,