"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault, "Why did you promise love to me, Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep? "How could you say my face was fair, And yet that face forsake? How could you win my virgin heart, "Why did you say my lip was sweet, "That face, alas! no more is fair, Those lips no longer red: Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled. "The hungry-worm my sister is; This winding-sheet I wear: And cold and weary lasts our night, Till that last morn appear. "But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence; A long and late adieu! Come see, false man, how low she lies, Who died for love of you." The lark sung loud; the morning smiled With beams of rosy red: Pale William quaked in every limb, And raving left his bed. He hied him to the fatal place And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf, And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name, WILLIAM SHENSTONE. ODE TO MEMORY. OH Memory! celestial maid! 1714-1763. Who glean'st the flowerets cropp'd by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade, Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight With which my favour'd crook she bound; The gentle things she deign'd to say. And sketch with care the Muse's bower, That shines on Cherwell's verdant side; The song it 'vails not to recite But sure, to sooth our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streams: Or, by thy softening pencil shown, Assume thy beauties, not their own. And paint that sweetly vacant scene, When, all beneath the poplar bough, My spirits light, my soul serene, I breathed in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire But friendship warm, and love entire. Dull to the sense of new delight, On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb'd of sight, On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines. But let me chase those vows away Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place. Bring me the bells, the rattle bring, Then will I muse, and pensive say, While innocence allow'd to waste! CHARLES WESLEY. HYMN OF PRAISE. 1708-1788. Lo! God is here! let us adore, And silent bow before his face! Gladly the toils of earth we leave, Oh take! oh seal them for thine own! Being of beings! may our praise In thee we move all things of thee (Fall prostrate, lost in wonder fall, Ye sons of men! For God is Man!) All may we lose, so thee we gain! As flowers their op'ning leaves display, COMMUNION WITH GOD. THOU hidden love of God, whose height, My heart is pain'd, nor can it be Thy secret voice invites me still The sweetness of thy yoke to prove; And fain I would; but though my will Seem fix'd, yet wide my passions rove; Yet hind'rances strow all the way; I aim at thee, yet from thee stray. 'Tis mercy all, that thou hast brought Is there a thing beneath the sun, That strives with thee my heart to share! Then shall my heart from earth be free, |