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"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
"Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?
"How could you say my face was fair,
How could you win my virgin heart,
"Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And why did I, young witless maid!
"That face, alas! no more is fair,
"The hungry-worm my sister is;
And cold and weary lasts our night,
"But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence; A long and late adieu!
Come see, false man, how low she lies,
The lark sung loud; the morning smiled
He hied him to the fatal place
And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 1714-1763.
ODE TO MEMORY.
OH Memory! celestial maid!
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;
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,
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,
And bring the hobby I bestrode; When, pleased, in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode :
Why did not those enjoyments last? How sweetly wasted I the day,
While innocence allow'd to waste !
CHARLES WESLEY. 1708–1788.
HYMN OF PRAISE.
Lo! God is here! let us adore,
And own how dreadful is this place : Let all within us feel his
power, And silent bow before his face! Who know his power, his grace who prove, Serve him with awe, with rev'rence love. Lo! God is here! him day and night
Th' united choirs of angels sing : To him, enthroned above all height,
Heaven's host their noblest praises bring: Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song, Who praise thee with a stamm’ring torgue. Gladly the toils of earth we leave,
Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone;
Oh take! oh seal them for thine own!
Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill:
Still hear and do thy sovereign will :
Are full, thou Source and Life of all:
(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,
And glad drink in the solar fire,
So may thy influence us inspire ;
COMMUNION WITH GOD.
Thou hidden love of God, whose height,
Whose depth unfathom'd, no man knows: I see from far thy bounteous light,
Inly I sigh for thy repose: My heart is pain'd, nor can it be At rest, till it finds rest in thee.
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 hindrances strow all the way; I aim at thee, yet from thee stray.
'Tis mercy all, that thou hast brought
My mind to seek her peace in thee! Yet while I seek, but find thee not,
No peace my wand'ring soul shall see, Oh when shall all my wand'rings end, And all my steps to thee ward tend !
Is there a thing beneath the sun,
That strives with thee my heart to share ! Ah, tear it thence, and reign alone,
The Lord of every motion there: Then shall my heart from earth be free, When it hath found repose in thee.