Ah then, I said, if death be only this Through the dark hills a channel short and wide, That leads to sunshine on the other sideThen better than the best of life it is To die. ARTHUR MUNBY. THE RAINBOW. STILL young and fine! but what is still in view We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! HENRY VAUGHAN. A DROP OF DEW. EE how the orient dew SE Shed from the bosom of the morn Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born, And in its little globe's extent But, gazing back upon the skies, Because so long divided from the sphere. Till the warm sun pities its pain, So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green, And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater heaven in a heaven less. In how coy a figure wound, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna's sacred dew distil, White and entire, though congealed and chill; ANDREW MARVELL. SWE VIRTUE. WEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, E R Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous Soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. GEORGE HERBERT. A THE EVENING CLOUD. CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun; A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below: Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow; Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous WestEmblem, methought, of the departed soul! To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies. JOHN WILSON. PARTING GLEAMS. THE lights o'er yonder snowy range Or, slowly passing, only change Before the dying eyes of Day And morn spread still beyond her. Lo! heavenward now those gleams expire The barrier-mountains, peak and spire, Thus shine, O God, our mortal powers, AUBREY DE Vere. |