'Doth God exact day labour, light denied?' That murmur, soon replies, 'God doth not need MILTON. LONDON, 1802. MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen, And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. WORDSWORTH. NOT MADE IN VAIN. LET me not deem that I was made in vain, Which fate, in working its sublime intent, For which the violet cared not while it stayed, Proved that the sun was shining, by its shade. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. SELF-DEPENDENCE. JEARY of myself, and sick of asking WEARY What I am, and what I ought to be, At the vessel's prow I stand, which bears me And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: 'Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 'Ah, once more,' I cried, 'ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew! Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!' From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, In the rustling night air came the answer- 'Unaffrighted by the silence round them, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll. Why?-self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 'Bounded by themselves and unregardful O air-born voice! long since, severely clear MATTHEW ARNOLD. MORALITY. WE cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides, But tasks in hours of insight willed With aching hands and bleeding feet Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, Thy struggling tasked morality— And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek! 'Ah, child!' she cries, 'that strife divineWhence was it, for it is not mine? 'There is no effort on my brow- 'I knew not yet the gauge of time, I saw it in some other place. 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, And lay upon the breast of God.' MATTHEW ARNOLD. ALL SAINTS. NE feast, of holy days the crest, I, though no churchman, love to keep, And scorned to blot it with a name, Men of the plain heroic breed, That loved Heaven's silence more than fame. Such lived not in the past alone, But thread to-day the unheeding street, And stairs to Sin and Famine known Sing with the welcome of their feet; |