Morgenandacht im Freien. (KREUTZER.) O LORD, thy day is here: I stand alone upon the fell, and, save one distant sabbath bell, 'tis silence far and near. alone I bend the knee. o joyful awe, mysterious dream! alone no more, for myriads seem to kneel and pray with me. o joyful awe, mysterious dream! so solemn, beautiful, and bright, Gebet. FORSAKE me not: o Lord of all creation, I turn me to thy holy habitation, and trustfully to Thee commit my lot: forsake me not. forsake me not: Thou knowest all my sorrows; from Thee my heart its light and comfort borrows: at every season and in every spot, forsake me not. forsake me not: support me, Lord and Father, when round my path the shades of evening gather; when the stern archer aims his fatal shot, forsake me not. From HOHLFELDT. The Poet. WHOм once, Melpomene, with placid eye thou sawest born, him not the Isthmian toil, a boxer, shall renown; nor steed unwearied carry forth to victory in Achaean car. nor, as the chief who quell'd the swelling menaces of kings, shall war's triumphal hour exhibit to the Capitol, with Delian leaves adorn'd; but streams that skirt rich Tivoli and bowering woods shall form to greatness in Aeolian song. the sons of queenly Rome me with the lovely poet-quire approve to rank; and now the tooth of envy gnaws me less. o thou that temperest the golden shell's melodious din, Pierian maid, o thou that, if it be thy pleasure, canst even on the voiceless fish bestow the music of the swan, all this is of thy gift, that by the finger of the crowds who pass I am design'd the minstrel of the Roman lyre; that I am breathing still and pleasing, if I please, is thine. From HOR. Od. IV. 3. Horace's Choice. MAECENAS, scion of old royal ancestors, some supremely delights, and, by the glowing wheels shunn'd exactly, the goal, and the renowning palm. lords of landed domains up to the gods are lift, this one, if with acclaim Rome's fickle citizens vow to bear him aloft through the three offices, that one, if in his own barn he has harvested all that's swept from the large Libyan threshing-floors. one who loves with the hoe family fields to till not with Attalus' hoard e'er can you turn aside, in a Cyprian ship timidly voyaging, through the perils to rush of the Myrtoan sea. while the trader beholds billows Icarian with the storm-wind at war, frighted he cries for ease and his own country-town; soon fitting out again his rent navy, to bear scantness unteachable. mark who does not despise cups of old Massic wine, nor from day's solid hours to cull a part for joy, sometimes stretching his limbs 'neath a green arbute-tree, sometimes at the well-head of a soft hallowed stream. sweet to many the camp and the loud minglement of the clarion and trump, and, what the mothers hate, wild wars. lingering late under the chilly sky, of his delicate bride careless, the hunter stays, whether chance it a doe by his stanch hounds be view'd, or a Marsian boar burst the tight-meshèd nets. me the green ivy-wreath, prize of the scholar's brow, blends with godhead on high: me the cool forest shade and light choirs of the Nymphs with Satyr companies from the people remove, if nor the musical flutes Euterpe restrain, nor Polyhymnia scorn the Lesbian lute, leaving it unattuned. but amongst lyric bards grant thou a place to me, with my high-soaring head then shall I strike the stars. From HOR. Od. I. I. Farewell. THE happy weeks are past and gone: and, o young-eyed, young-hearted one, farewell! but 'twere a bitter lot once more farewell! yet do not deem the thought of thee can fly, one earnest pray'r shall rise for thee. still be thy guide his Providence, thy trust his blessing from above whose home is Heaven, whose name is Love! 1827. In Memoriam. O JANET, sweetest Janet, named from mine, and at the Christian font her holy child, where art thou now? that face so archly mild, that fair young forehead, in whose every line sat purity, that fairy frame of thine, those clear soft eyes, those lips that gaily smiled or tenderly, as mirth or love beguiled, for angels now they weave their artless spell. not by thine own pure life that bliss is won, not by thy death of anguish : thou art gone with thy true Saviour evermore to dwell. o rapt in fire to Heaven, farewell, farewell, good daughter, sister, friend, and, all in one, good Christian, more beloved than words can tell. January, 1863. |