The Arbour

I'll rest me in this sheltered bower,
And look upon the clear blue sky
That smiles upon me through the trees,
Which stand so thickly clustering by;

And view their green and glossy leaves,
All glistening in the sunshine fair;
And list the rustling of their boughs,
So softly whispering through the air.

And while my ear drinks in the sound,
My winged soul shall fly away;
Reviewing long departed years
As one mild, beaming, autumn day;

And soaring on to future scenes,
Like hills and woods, and valleys green,
All basking in the summer's sun,
But distant still, and dimly seen.

Oh, list! 'tis summer's very breath
That gently shakes the rustling trees–
But look! the snow is on the ground–
How can I think of scenes like these?


'Tis but the frost that clears the air,
And gives the sky that lovely blue;
They're smiling in a winter's sun,
Those evergreens of sombre hue.

And winter's chill is on my heart–
How can I dream of future bliss?
How can my spirit soar away,
Confined by such a chain as this?

Home

How brightly glistening in the sun
  The woodland ivy plays!
While yonder beeches from their barks
  Reflect his silver rays.

That sun surveys a lovely scene
  From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees
  The wind of winter sighs:

Now loud, it thunders o'er my head,
  And now in distance dies.
But give me back my barren hills
  Where colder breezes rise;

Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees
  Can yield an answering swell,
But where a wilderness of heath
  Returns the sound as well.

For yonder garden, fair and wide,
  With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
  And velvet lawns between;

Restore to me that little spot,
  With grey walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
  And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
  Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within–
  Oh, give me back my home!

Vanitas Vanitatum, Omnia Vanitas

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil, and Vanity.
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;

And ere one generation dies,
Another in its place shall rise;
That, sinking soon into the grave,
Others succeed, like wave on wave;

And as they rise, they pass away.
The sun arises every day,
And hastening onward to the West,
He nightly sinks, but not to rest:

Returning to the eastern skies,
Again to light us, he must rise.
And still the restless wind comes forth,
Now blowing keenly from the North;

Now from the South, the East, the West,
For ever changing, ne'er at rest.
The fountains, gushing from the hills,
Supply the ever-running rills;

The thirsty rivers drink their store,
And bear it rolling to the shore,

But still the ocean craves for more.
'Tis endless labour everywhere!
Sound cannot satisfy the ear,

Light cannot fill the craving eye,
Nor riches half our wants supply;
Pleasure but doubles future pain,
And joy brings sorrow in her train;

Laughter is mad, and reckless mirth–
What does she in this weary earth?
Should Wealth, or Fame, our Life employ,
Death comes, our labour to destroy;

To snatch the untasted cup away,
For which we toiled so many a day.
What, then, remains for wretched man?
To use life's comforts while he can,

Enjoy the blessings Heaven bestows,
Assist his friends, forgive his foes;
Trust God, and keep his statutes still,
Upright and firm, through good and ill;

Thankful for all that God has given,
Fixing his firmest hopes on heaven;
Knowing that earthly joys decay,
But hoping through the darkest day.

The Penitent

I mourn with thee, and yet rejoice
  That thou shouldst sorrow so;
With angel choirs I join my voice
  To bless the sinner's woe.

Though friends and kindred turn away,
  And laugh thy grief to scorn;
I hear the great Redeemer say,
  "Blessed are ye that mourn."

Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange
  That earthly cords are riven:
Man may lament the wondrous change,
  But "there is joy in heaven!"

Music on Christmas Morning


Music I love–but never strain
Could kindle raptures so divine,
So grief assuage, so conquer pain,
And rouse this pensive heart of mine–
As that we hear on Christmas morn,
Upon the wintry breezes borne.

Though Darkness still her empire keep,
And hours must pass, ere morning break;
From troubled dreams, or slumbers deep,
That music kindly bids us wake:
It calls us, with an angel's voice,
To wake, and worship, and rejoice;

To greet with joy the glorious morn,
Which angels welcomed long ago,
When our redeeming Lord was born,
To bring the light of Heaven below;
The Powers of Darkness to dispel,
And rescue Earth from Death and Hell.

While listening to that sacred strain,
My raptured spirit soars on high;
I seem to hear those songs again
Resounding through the open sky,
That kindled such divine delight,
In those who watched their flocks by night.

With them, I celebrate His birth–
Glory to God, in highest Heaven,
Good-will to men, and peace on Earth,
To us a Saviour-king is given;
Our God is come to claim His own,
And Satan's power is overthrown!

A sinless God, for sinful men,
Descends to suffer and to bleed;
Hell must renounce its empire then;
The price is paid, the world is freed,
And Satan's self must now confess,
That Christ has earned a Right to bless:

Now holy Peace may smile from heaven,
And heavenly Truth from earth shall spring:
The captive's galling bonds are riven,
For our Redeemer is our king;
And He that gave his blood for men
Will lead us home to God again.

Stanzas

Oh, weep not, love! each tear that springs
  In those dear eyes of thine,
To me a keener suffering brings,
  Than if they flowed from mine.

And do not droop! however drear
  The fate awaiting thee;
For my sake combat pain and care,
  And cherish life for me!


I do not fear thy love will fail;
  Thy faith is true, I know;
But, oh, my love! thy strength is frail
  For such a life of woe.


Were't not for this, I well could trace
  (Though banished long from thee,)
Life's rugged path, and boldly face
  The storms that threaten me.


Fear not for me–I've steeled my mind
  Sorrow and strife to greet;
Joy with my love I leave behind,
  Care with my friends I meet.

A mother's sad reproachful eye,
  A father's scowling brow–
But he may frown and she may sigh:
  I will not break my vow!

I love my mother, I revere
  My sire, but fear not me–
Believe that Death alone can tear
  This faithful heart from thee.

If this be all

O God! if this indeed be all
  That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
  No freshening dew from Thee,–

If with no brighter light than this
  The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
  And wake to weary woe;

If friendship's solace must decay,
  When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
  While I go wandering on,–

Wandering and toiling without gain,
  The slave of others' will,
With constant care, and frequent pain,
  Despised, forgotten still;

Grieving to look on vice and sin,
  Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
  The outward torrent's swell:

While all the good I would impart,
  The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
  And turned to wormwood, there;

If clouds must ever keep from sight
  The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter's blight,
  Ere Summer is begun;

If Life must be so full of care,
  Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
  My load of misery.

Memory

Brightly the sun of summer shone,
Green fields and waving woods upon,
  And soft winds wandered by;

Above, a sky of purest blue,
Around, bright flowers of loveliest hue,
  Allured the gazer's eye.

But what were all these charms to me,
When one sweet breath of memory
  Came gently wafting by?
I closed my eyes against the day,
And called my willing soul away,
  From earth, and air, and sky;

That I might simply fancy there
One little flower–a primrose fair,
  Just opening into sight;
As in the days of infancy,
An opening primrose seemed to me
  A source of strange delight.

Sweet Memory! ever smile on me;
Nature's chief beauties spring from thee;
  Oh, still thy tribute bring!
Still make the golden crocus shine
Among the flowers the most divine,
  The glory of the spring.

Still in the wall-flower's fragrance dwell;
And hover round the slight blue bell,
  My childhood's darling flower.

Smile on the little daisy still,
The buttercup's bright goblet fill
  With all thy former power.

For ever hang thy dreamy spell
Round mountain star and heather bell,
  And do not pass away
From sparkling frost, or wreathed snow,
And whisper when the wild winds blow,
  Or rippling waters play.

Is childhood, then, so all divine?
Or Memory, is the glory thine,
  That haloes thus the past?
Not all divine; its pangs of grief,
(Although, perchance, their stay be brief,)
  Are bitter while they last.

Nor is the glory all thine own,
For on our earliest joys alone
  That holy light is cast.
With such a ray, no spell of thine
Can make our later pleasures shine,
  Though long ago they passed.

To Cowper

Sweet are thy strains, celestial Bard;
  And oft, in childhood's years,
I've read them o'er and o'er again,
  With floods of silent tears.

The language of my inmost heart,
  I traced in every line;
My sins, my sorrows, hopes, and fears,
  Were there–and only mine.

All for myself the sigh would swell,
  The tear of auguish start;

I little knew what wilder woe
  Had filled the Poet's heart.

I did not know the nights of gloom,
  The days of misery;
The long, long years of dark despair,
  That crushed and tortured thee.

But they are gone; from earth at length
  Thy gentle soul is pass'd,
And in the bosom of its God
  Has found its home at last.

It must be so, if God is love,
  And answers fervent prayer;
Then surely thou shalt dwell on high,
  And I may meet thee there.

Is he the source of every good,
  The spring of purity?
Then in thine hours of deepest woe,
  Thy God was still with thee.

How else, when every hope was fled,
  Couldst thou so fondly cling
To holy things and holy men?
  And how so sweetly sing,

Of things that God alone could teach?
  And whence that purity,


That hatred of all sinful ways–
  That gentle charity?

Are these the symptoms of a heart
  Of heavenly grace bereft:
For ever banished from its God,
  To Satan's fury left?

Yet, should thy darkest fears be true,
  If Heaven be so severe,
That such a soul as thine is lost,–
  Oh! how shall I appear?

The Doubter's Prayer

Eternal Power, of earth and air!
Unseen, yet seen in all around,
Remote, but dwelling everywhere,
Though silent, heard in every sound.

If e'er thine ear in mercy bent,
When wretched mortals cried to Thee,
And if, indeed, Thy Son was sent,
To save lost sinners such as me:

Then hear me now, while, kneeling here,
I lift to thee my heart and eye,
And all my soul ascends in prayer,
Oh, give me–give me Faith! I cry.

Without some glimmering in my heart,
I could not raise this fervent prayer;
But, oh! a stronger light impart,
And in Thy mercy fix it there.

While Faith is with me, I am blest;
It turns my darkest night to day;
But while I clasp it to my breast,
I often feel it slide away.

Then, cold and dark, my spirit sinks,
To see my light of life depart;
And every fiend of Hell, methinks,
Enjoys the anguish of my heart.

What shall I do, if all my love,
My hopes, my toil, are cast away,
And if there be no God above,
To hear and bless me when I pray?

If this be vain delusion all,
If death be an eternal sleep,
And none can hear my secret call,
Or see the silent tears I weep!

Oh, help me, God! For thou alone
Canst my distracted soul relieve;
Forsake it not: it is thine own,
Though weak, yet longing to believe.

Oh, drive these cruel doubts away;
And make me know, that Thou art God!
A faith, that shines by night and day,
Will lighten every earthly load.

If I believe that Jesus died,
And, waking, rose to reign above;
Then surely Sorrow, Sin, and Pride,
Must yield to Peace, and Hope, and Love.

And all the blessed words He said
Will strength and holy joy impart:
A shield of safety o'er my head,
A spring of comfort in my heart.