L CXVII THE MARINER'S HYMN AUNCH thy bark, mariner! Christian, Heaven speed thee, Let loose the rudder bands! good angels lead thee! Set thy sails warily, tempests will come : Steer thy course steadily! Christian, steer home! Look to the weather bow, breakers are round thee! What of the night, watchman? what of the night? "Cloudy — all quiet -- no land yet all's right." Be wakeful, be vigilant, danger may be At an hour when all seems securest to thee. How gains the leak so fast? clear out the hold! Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island, Straight for the beacon steer,-straight for the high land; Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foam, C. Southey CXVIII I MY PSALM MOURN no more my vanished years: Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, The west winds blow, and singing low, No longer forward, nor behind, I plough no more a desert land I break my pilgrim staff, I lay The airs of spring may never play Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn; Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look Through fringed lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given; The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south wind softly sigh, And sweet calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word The graven flowers that wreathe the sword Enough that blessings undeserved That more and more a Providence Making the springs of time and sense That death seems but a covered way, That care and trial seem at last, That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And so the shadows fall apart, And all the windows of my heart angle CXIX J. G. Whittier YOUTH AND AGE 'HE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er, ansions are no more! For then we know how vain it was to boast Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home; Waller CXX E MY BIRD RE last year's moon had left the sky, And folded, O! so lovingly, Its tiny wings upon my breast. From morn till evening's purple tinge, There's not in Ind a lovelier bird; Broad earth owns not a happier nest: O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred, Whose waters nevermore shall rest! This beautiful, mysterious thing, The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, A silent awe is in my room,— |