Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head -poor foolish thing!. At last Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, THE SNOW-DROP. THE Snow-drop! 'tis an English flower, Of old and dear remembrances. The household voices kind and sweet, Their coming with a welcome tone; The brothers, that were children then, Unchanged, unchanged the very flower THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. THOUGHTS Of Heaven! they come when low With the tempest's might, come thoughts of Heaven. They come where man doth not intrude, In the stillness of the grey rocks' height, They come as we gaze on the midnight sky, When the star-gemmed vault looks dark and high, And the soul, on the wings of thought sublime, Soars from the dim world and the bounds of time, Till the mental eye becomes unsealed, And the mystery of being in light revealed: They rise in the gothic chapel dim, When slowly bursts forth the holy hymn, Thoughts of heaven! from his joy beguiled, Where the mourner goes with soundless tread; Pure thoughts of heaven are sent to all. 15 FROM "THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS." THE POOR SCHOLAR. Schol. Most precious words! Now go your way, Boy. You look so pale, sir! You are worse. Let me remain and be your nurse! Sir, when my mother has been ill, I've kept her chamber neat and still, And waited on her all the day! Schol. Thank you; but yet you must not stay. Still, still, my boy, before we part Receive my blessing - 't is my last! I feel death's hand is on my heart, And my life's sun is sinking fast: Yet, mark me, child, I have no fear,'Tis thus the Christian meets his end: I know my work is finished here, And God-thy God too—is my friend! Thy joyful course has just begun; Life is in thee a fountain strong; Yet, look upon a dying man, Receive his words and keep them long! Fear God, all wise, omnipotent, In him we live and have our being; He hath all love, all blessing sent — All-decreeing! Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust; But virtue, and its holy fruits, The poet's soul— the sage's sense, And these deserve thy reverence. To guide our inexperienced youth; Types are they of the One in heaven, Chastising but in love and truth. Keep thyself pure.- Sin doth deface The beauty of our spiritual life. Do good to all men - live in peace And charity, abhorring strife. The mental power which God has given, As I have taught thee, cultivate; Thou canst not be too wise for heaven, If thou dost humbly consecrate Thy soul to God. And ever take In his good book delight; there lies The highest knowledge, which will make Thy soul unto salvation wise. My little boy, thou canst not know And give at last to enter in The city of his rest, my boy. PRAYER OF THE SCHOLAR. Schol. Almighty God! look down Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him! Give him the victor's crown |