Would that men could well discern
What a lesson they might learn
From this natural separation,
Chemist Death's elimination
Of the drossy and the fleeting
Past all further trick or cheating;
And in the actual be so wise,
As to strive to analyse
The elements of life while blended,
Which they rank, when all is ended,
Thus concluded, proved, and past,
In a juster rate at last.
OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD.
By THOMAS MOORE.
THOU art, O God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee:
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening shades of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven;
Those hues that mark the sun's decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine,
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ;
And every flower the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye:
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
GOD'S WATCHFUL CARE.
By CUNNINGHAM.
THE insect, that with puny wing
Just shoots along one summer ray,
The floweret which the breath of spring
Wakes into life for half a day,
The smallest mote, the tenderest hair,
All feel a heavenly Father's care.
E'en from the glories of his throne
He bends to view this earthly ball;
Sees all as if that all were one,
Loves one as if that one were all;
Rolls the swift planets in their spheres,
And counts the sinner's lonely tears.
By HABINGTON, a poet who wrote in the early part of the seventeenth century.
WHEN I survey the bright
Celestial sphere,
So rich with jewels hung, that night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear;
My soul her wings doth spread,
And heaven-ward flies,
The Almighty's mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.
For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame
So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator's name.
No unregarded star
Contracts its light
Into so small a character
Removed far from our human sight;
But if we steadfast look,
We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,
How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR.
A translation by LONGFELLOW from the German of JULIUS MOSEN.
FORMS of saints and kings are standing
The cathedral door above;
Yet I saw but one among them
Who hath soothed my soul with love.
In his mantle-wound about him,
As their robes the sowers wind,-
Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.
And so stands he, calm and childlike,
High in wind and tempest wild;
O, were I like him exalted,
I would be, like him, a child.
And my songs green leaves and blossoms
To the doors of heaven would bear,
Calling, even in storm and tempest,
Round me still these birds of air.
This very beautiful poem was contributed by the Hon. Mrs. NORTON to the Amulet for 1830.
THOU hast been call'd to God, rebellious heart,
By many an awful and neglected sign,
By many a joy which came and did depart
Mocking thy weeping, frail worm that thou art,
For that thou didst not fear to call them thine,
Thou hast been call'd, when o'er thy trembling head
The storm in all its fury hath swept by ;
When the loud ocean rose within its bed,
And whelm'd, with greedy roar, the struggling dead,
Who never more may greet thine anxious eye.
Thou hast been call'd, when, beautiful and bright,
The calm still sunshine round about thee lay;
And, in thine ecstacy, thy spirit's flight
Hath soar'd unto those realms of life and light,
Where thy God's presence beams eternal day.
Thou hast been call'd, when thou hast raised to heaven
Thy suppliant hands, in vain and passionate grief;
When some young blessing which thy God had given,
The chains of mortal flesh and clay hath riven,
And faded from thee like an autumn leaf!
Thou hast been call'd, when by some early grave
Thou stoodest, yearning for what might not be,
Moaning above thy beautiful and brave,
And murmuring against the God that gave,
Because he claim'd his gift again from thee!
Thou hast been call'd, when the proud organ's peal
Hath thrill'd thy heart with its majestic sound;
Taught each strung fibre quiv'ringly to feel,
Bid the dim tear-drop from thy lashes steal,
And the loud passionate sob break silence round.
Yea, oft hast thou been call'd! and often now
The "still small voice" doth whisper thee of God;
Bidding thee smooth thy dark and sullen brow,
And from thy lip the prayer repentant flow,
Which may not rise unheard to His abode.
Yet empty is thy place amid the choirs
Of God's young angels in their peace and love;
Vainly with zeal thy soul a moment fires,
Since, clinging still to earth and earth's desires,
Thou losest sight of things which are above.
Oh, hear it, sinner! hear that warning voice
Which vainly yet hath struck thy harden'd ear;
Hear it while lingering death allows the choice,
And the glad troops of angels may rejoice
Over the sinner's warm repentant tear!
Lest when thy struggling soul would quit the frame
Which bound it here, by sin and passion toss'd,
Thy Saviour's voice shall wake despairing shame,
"How often have I sought thee, to reclaim !-
How often-but thou wouldst not-and art lost!"
ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY.
This very fine poem is by S. T. COLERIDGE.
Ir dead, we cease to be; if total gloom
Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare
As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,
Whose sound and motion not alone declare,
But are, their whole of being! If the Breath
Be Life itself, and not its Task and Tent,
If even a soul like Milton's can know death;
O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant,
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes !
Surplus of nature's dread activity,
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase,
Retreating slow, with meditative pause,
She form'd with restless hands unconsciously!
Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!
If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, Go, weigh thy Dreams, and be thy Hopes, thy Fears, The counter-weights!-Thy Laughter and thy Tears Mean but themselves, each fittest to create,
And to repay the other! Why rejoices
Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? Why cowl thy face beneath the Mourner's hood, Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold? Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun! Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have noneThy being's being is contradiction.
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