113. THE GLORY OF GOD.
PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen,
With garlands gay of various green;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield:
But earth and ocean seem'd to say,
"Our beauties are but for a day."
I praised the sun, whose chariot roll'd
On wheels of amber and of gold;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Smiled sweetly through the summer sky:
But moon and sun in answer said,
"Our days of light are numbered."
O God! O good beyond compare,
If these thy meaner works are fair,
If these thy bounties gild the span
Of ruin'd earth and sinful man,
How glorious must those mansions be
Where thy redeem'd ones dwell with Thee!
EAVES have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's
And stars to set- but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer; But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth!
The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth and song and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine!
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee! but thou art not of those That wait the ripening bloom to seize their prey!
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set—but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain;
But who shall teach us when to look for thee?
Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our path grow pale?
They have one season -all are ours to die!
Thou art where billows foam;
Thou art where music melts upon the air;
Thou art around us in our peaceful home;
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!
Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;
Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set-but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
115. CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO T. CROMWELL.
YROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman..
Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard; say then, I taught thee—
Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways to glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure, and safe one-though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st,
O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.
There take an inventory of all I have;
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to heaven, are all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell! Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
116. THE BEAUTIES OF CREATION.
THOU art, O God! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day, with farewell beam, delays.
Among the op'ning clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven-
Those hues, that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
117. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.
HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread:
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day,
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours:
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago,
And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
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