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More melting than e'er gleam'd from human face, — And quits his hold; the voyagers, appallid, As when a sunbeam, through a summer shower, Shrink from the fancied Spirit of the Flood : Shines mildly on a little hill-side flock;
But when the voice of Jesus with the storm And with that look of love he said, Behold Soft mingled, It is 1, be not afraid ; My mother and my brethren; for I say,
Fear fled, and joy lighten'd from eye to eye. That whosoe'er shall do the will of God,
Up he ascends, and, from the rolling side,
Surveys the tumult of the sea and sky
Sinks to a sudden calm; the clouds disperse ;
The moonbeam trembles on the face divine, BLIND, poor, and helpless Bartimeus sat,
Reflected mildly in th’ unruffled deep.
THE DUMB CURED.
The dumb man, with a supplicating look, Of thousand steps ; it is the hum of tongues Turn'd as the Lord pass'd by: Jesus beheld, Innumerable: But when the sightless man And on him bent a pitying look, and spake : Heard that the Nazarene was passing by
His moving lips are by the suppliant seen,
Was never utter'd but in doing good.
THE DEATH OF JESUS. Forbid them not. Imbolden'd by his words, 'Tis finished: he spake the words, and bow'd The mothers onward press; but finding vain His head, and died.-Beholding him far off, Th’ attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their They who had minister'd unto him hope. babes
'Tis his last agony: The temple's vail To strangers' hands; The innocents, alarm'd
Is rent; revealing the most holy place, Amid the throng of faces all unknown,
Wherein the cherubim their wings extend, Shrink, trembling,-till their wandering eyes dis- O'ershadowing the mercy-seat of God.
Appall’d the leaning soldier feels the spear The countenance of Jesus, beaming love
Shake in his grasp ; the planted standard falls And pity ; eager then they stretch their arms,
Upon the heaving ground; the sun is dimm'd, And, cowering, lay their heads upon his breast.
And darkness shrouds the body of the Lord.
JESUS CALMS THE TEMPEST,
The setting orb of night her level ray
Last of the stars, day's harbinger: No sound
Was heard, save of the watching soldier's foot: Benignant shines; he dreams that he beholds
Within the rock-barr'd sepulchre, the gloom The opening eyes,—that long hopeless had roll'd
Of deepest midnight brooded o'er the dead,
The Holy One: but, lo! a radiance faint
Began to dawn around his sacred brow :
The linen vesture seem'd a snowy wreath,
Drifted by storms into a mountain cave:
Upon that face, clothed in a smile benign,
Though yet exanimate. Nor long the reign
Of death; the eyes that wept for human griefs
Unclose, and look around with conscious joy. JESUS WALKS ON THE SEA, AND CALMS THE Yes ; with returning life, the first emotion STORM.
That glow'd in Jesus' breast of love was joy Loud blew the storm of night; the thwarting surge At man's redemption, now complete; at death Dash'd, boiling, on the labouring bark: dismay, Disarm’d;
the grave transform'd into the couch
Majestical he rose: trembled the earth;
Into invisibility, while forth
Of justice, temperance, and the life to come,
Who healeth all thy diseases: who redeemeth thy life
These eyes, that were half-closed in death, A hymn, low-breathed; a hymn of sorrow, blent Now dare the noontide blaze; With hope ; when, in the midst, sudden he stood;
My voice, that scarce could speak my wants, The awe-struck circle backward shrink; he looks
Now hymns Jehovah's praise.
How pleasant to my feet unused,
To tread the daisied ground! Pavilion'd in dark clouds, mildly comes forth,
How sweet to my unwonted ear
The streamlet's lulling sound.
That on my temples play'd !
How sweet the woodland evening song,
Full floating down the glade!
But sweeter far the lark that soars
Through morning's blushing ray ; Behold his dauntless outstretch'd arm, his face For then unseen, unheard, I join Illumed of heaven :-he knoweth not the fear
His lonely heavenward lay. Of man, of principalities, of powers.
And sweeter still that infant voice, The stoic's moveless frown; the vacant stare
With all its artless charms ;Of Epicurus' herd; the scowl and gnash malign
'Twas such as he that Jesus took, Of superstition, stopping both her ears;
And cherish'd in his arms.
O Lord my God! all these delights
I to thy mercy owe; As if no worldly object could inspire
For thou hast raised me from the couch A terror in his soul; as if the vision,
Of sickness, pain, and wo. Which, when he journey'd to Damascus, shone 'Twas thou that from the whelming wave From heaven, still swam before his eyes,
My sinking soul redeemid; Outdazzling all things earthly; as if the voice,
'Twas thou that o'er destruction's storm That spake from out th' effulgence, ever rang
A calming radiance beam'd.
ON VISITING MELROSE,
AFTER AN ABSENCE OF SIXTEEN YEARS. GOVERNOR OF JUDEA.
Yon setting sun, that slowly disappears, The judge ascended to the judgment-seat; Gleams a memento of departed years: Amid a gleam of spears th' apostle stood.
Ay, many a year is gone, and many a friend, Dauntless he forward came, and look'd around, Since here I saw the autumn sun descend. And raised his voice, at first in accents low, Ah! one is gone, whose hand was lock'd in mine, Yet clear; a whisper spread among the throng:- In this, that traces now the sorrowing line: So when the thunder mutters, still the breeze And now alone I scan the mouldering tombs, Is heard, at times, to sigh ; but when the peal Alone I wander through the vaulted glooms, Tremendous, louder rolls, a silence dead
And list, as if the echoes might retain Succeeds each pause,-moveless the aspen leaf. One lingering cadence of her varied strain. Thus fix'd and motionless, the listening band Alas! I heard that melting voice decay, Of soldiers forward lean'd, as from the man Heard seraph tones in whispers die away; Inspired of God, truth's awful thunders roll’d. I mark'd the tear presageful fill her eye, No more he feels, upon his high-raised arm, And quivering speak, I am resign'd to die. The ponderous chain, than does the playful child Ye stars that through the fretted windows shed The bracelet, form'd of many a flowery link. A glimmering beam athwart the mighty dead, Heedless of self, forgetful that his life
Say to what sphere her sainted spirit flew, Is now to be defended by his words,
That thither I may turn my longing view, He only thinks of doing good to them
And wish, and hope, some tedious seasons o'er, Who seek his life ; and while he reasons high To join a long lost friend, to part no more.
THE WILD DUCK AND HER BROOD. EPITAPH ON A BLACKBIRD KILLED BY A
WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd the Held in the concave of th' inverted sky,–
glade; In which is seen the rook's dull flagging wing
The blackbird's note among the wild woods rung: Move o'er the silvery clouds. How peaceful sails Ah, short-lived note ! the songster now is laid Yon little fleet, the wild duck and her brood !
Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung. Fearless of harm, they row their easy way;
Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent, The water-lily neath the plumy prows,
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay; Dips, reappearing in their dimpled track.
A primrosed turf is all thy monument, Yet, e'en amid that scene of peace, the noise
And for thy dirge the redbreast lends his lay.
THE POOR MAN'S FUNERAL.
Yon motley, sable-suited throng, that wait
Around the poor man's door, announce a tale To lure the foe, and lead him from their young;
Of wo; the husband, parent, is no more.
From day to day, he from his sick-bed saw,
The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head,
Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend ! FROM snowy plains, and icy sprays,
The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp From moonless nights, and sunless days,
Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand Welcome, poor bird ! I'll cherish thee;
(Poor helpless child !) just reaches to the pall. I love thee, for thou trustest me.
And now they pass into the field of graves, Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
And now around the narrow house they stand, Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:
And view the plain black board sink from the sight. How quick thy little heart is beating!
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds, As if its brother flutterer greeting.
As falls each spadeful of the bone-mix'd mould. Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
The turf is spread ; uncover'd is each head, No: freely flutter round my room ;
A last farewell: all turn their several ways. Perch on my lute's remaining string,
Wo's me! those tear-dimm'd eyes, that sobbing
breast! And sweetly of sweet summer sing. That note, that summer note, I know;
Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand It wakes at once, and soothes my wo;
That wont to lead thee home: No more that hand I see those woods, I see that stream,
Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gentle stroke I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Thy sun-bleach'd head and downy cheek. Still with thy song those scenes renew,
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps ;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,Though through my tears they reach my view. No more now, at my lonely meal,
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone, While thou art by, alone I'll feel;
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze For soon, devoid of all distrust,
Of wo profound. Haste to the widow'd arms; Thou'lt nibbling share my humble crust;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice, Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief. Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice; And when (our short collation o’er) Some favourite volume I explore, Be't work of poet or of sage,
THE THANKSGIVING OFF CAPE TRA. Safe thou shalt hop across the page ;
FALGAR. Uncheck'd, shall flit o’er Virgil's groves, Upon the high, yet gently rolling wave, Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.
The floating tomb that heaves above the brave, Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roar'd, Thou'lt dwell with me till winter's past; Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword. And when the primrose tells 'tis spring, And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls And when the thrush begins to sing,
The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, Soon as I hear the woodland song,
And from the ramparts, while their comrades fell, Freed, thou shalt join the vocal throng.
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread, Ah, no! full oft a boding horror flies
To think I still survived within his heart;
How gently I would lead him by the hand;
What lore I taught him, roaming wood and wild,
And how the man descended to the child; TWICE has the sun commenced his annual round, How well I loved with him, on Sabbath morn, Since first thy footsteps totter'd o'er the ground, To hear the anthem of the vocal thorn; Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear, To teach religion, unallied to strife, By faltering out the name to fathers dear.
And trace to him the way, the truth, the life. O! nature's language, with her looks combined, But far and farther still my view I bend, More precious far than periods thrice refined ! And now I see a child thy steps attend ;0! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile, To yonder churchyard wall thou takest thy way, I prize you more than beauty's magic smile: While round thee, pleased, thou seest the infant play; Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm Then lifting him, while tears suffuse thine eyes, I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.
Pointing, thou tell'st him, There thy grandsire lies.
JOANNA BAILLIE, sister of the celebrated Dr. passions. Her plays, however, have not the tranMatthew Baillie, was born at Bothwell, in Scotland, scendent dramatic merit which has been claimed about the year 1765. We have been unable to for them by some of her admirers. She is by no collect any particulars of her life, but she is well means a Shakspeare. One of her most recent pubknown to the public as one of the most successful lications is, A View of the general Tenor of the New female writers of the present age. Her most | Testament, regarding the Nature and Dignity of celebrated production is her Plays of the Passions; Jesus Christ. She is also the author of The Family a series in which each passion is made the subject Legend, a tragedy ; Metrical Legends, or Exalted of a tragedy and a comedy. These procured her Characters; two dramas, entitled, respectively,great reputation, particularly her tragedies, which The Martyr, and The Bride; and a volume of evince strong conceptions of character, vivid dramas, very recently published. imagery, and a masterly delineation of the various
Old Man. Bears she such offerings to St. Francis'
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says ?
—'Twill drain the treasury !
Cit. Since she, in all this splendid pomp, returns
Who from his sick-bed hath restored her father, DUKE OF MANTUA.
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands ? GAURICEIO, his minister.
She loves magnificenceVALTOMER,
}Two officers of Basil's troops. (Discovering among the crowd old Geoffry,) FREDERICK,
Ha! art thou here, old remnant of the wars? GEOFFRY,
an old soldier very much maimed
Thou art not come to see this courtly show,
Geof. I come not for the show; and yet, methinks, VICTORIA,
daughter to the Duke of Mantua. It were a better jest upon me still, COUNTE58 OF ALBINI, friend and governess to Victoria. If thou didst truly know mine errand here. ISABELLA, a lay attending upon Victoria.
Cit. I prithee say. Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, gc. Geof.
What, must I tell it thee? The scene is in Mantua and its environs. Time As o'er my evening fire I musing sat, supposed to be the sirteenth century, when Charles the Some few days since, my mind's eye backward turn'd Fifth defeated Francis the First, at the battle of Pavia.
Upon the various changes I have pass'd
How in my youth, with gay attire allured,
And all the grand accoutrements of war,
WHO SEEM TO BE WAITING IN EXPECTATION OF When clashing arms and sights of blood were new :
Then all the after chances of the war:
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was, First Man. Well, friend, what tidings of the When with an arm (I speak not of it oft) grand procession ?
Which now (pointing to his empty sleeve) thou Cit. I left it passing by the northern gate.
seest is no arm of mine, Second Man. I've waited long, I'm glad it comes in a straight pass I stopp'd a thousand foes, at last.
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge ; Young Man. And does the princess look so won- For which good service, in his tented court, drous fair
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me; As fame reports ?
Whilst his fair consort, seated by his side, Cit. She is the fairest lady of the train, The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld, Yet all the fairest beauties of the court
Gave me what more than all besides I prizedAre in her train.
Methinks I see her still—a gracious smile 39
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