« EelmineJätka »
Long have I looked upon that door
And watched, and still, and still there's room-
But still the loved ones do not come.
Or ere they close that fatal gate;
If haply they may find them yet-
And sing their carols o'er thy feast,
A grateful, but a mourning guest.
If bidden to honour so undue,
"Till those I love are welcomed too.
From forth the exile's tent,
Their hours of banishment
Whose deep, and melancholy wires,
By sin, by sorrow wrung, Reverbrate every touch of woe
As if they loved the song
Say, shall the harp of poesy
That sorrow loves so much,
Not answer to the touch ?
What joy? O such as Angels share
yon arch of Heaven
And welcom'd, and forgiven
The sun, so long, so darkly veil'd
the rapt and ravish'd eye Arisen without a cloud!
O if there be upon my harp
One string that joy may claim,
Wake it with Jesus' name
And let the musick of its voice
Be like the Sky-Lark's lay,
He hails returning day
Or rather let it be like that
Which spirits sing in Heaven,
Of mortal sins forgiven.
My heart was weary, faint, and sad,
And heavy stole the hours;
That once was strew'd with flow'rs.
I would have drunk the opiate draught
The world had giv'n before :
The world could fill no more.
On the cold pillow of the tomb
I would have laid my head;
Denied the earthy bed.
Was Heav'n regardless of the prayer?
Oh no! From stores above,
And told me, "God is love!'
Such love, as soothes my soul to peace,
And gave me back to bliss,
In fa worlds than this.
MY AIN FIRE-SIDE.
My ain fire-side, my ain fire-side,
Ance mair, Guid be thankit! by my ain heartsome ingle,
Ane's ain fire-side, ane's ain fire-side,
When I draw in my stool on my cozie hearth-stane,
My ain fire-side, my ain fire-side,
SUPPOSED ELIZABETH HAMILTON.
Roinans v. 2.
COME, O my soul, and for a while retreat
From this poor world, and raise thy thoughts on high : Come and bow down before Jehovah's feet,
And lift to Him thy supplicating eye; And watch till thou his beaming glory see, Shine from between the cherubim "on thee.
This is the hour of prayer and of peace ;
Thy season of refreshment and of rest;
From tumult and confusion-season blest :
Come, O my soul, for here the living stream
Is bearing silently its blessed wave;
Thou mayest freely drink and freely have;
Upon her golden palaees abides
The glory of God's everlasting light;
The river of ineffable delight;
LETTERS TO A YOUNG LADY
ON LEAVING SCHOOL.
LETTER THE FOURTEENTH.
I ACCEDE most willingly to your wish for more advice respecting the class of books I so strongly recommended to you under the general name of Biography. There is no sort of reading of which our supply is so abundant and so efficient-if I may take the liberty of including in the term all that I meant to include in the recom. mendation from the biography of the monarch whose narrative is the history of the world at the time in which he lives, to the Horæ Solitariæ of the obscure recluse, whose existence the world wots nothing of, till his bosom's history is found among his relicks, and given to
the publick for whom it was not intended, the most exquisite morceau of stolen truth-a' treasure of which the intrinsic value is attested by the eagerness with which it is received. In pointing out to you some works of this class, the difficulty is rather to choose than to find them. I conclude that your course of historical reading has comprised such works as Robertson's and some of Voltaire's separate reigns, which though bearing an individual name, rather class with history than biography. We pass them over. . But there is still a class of Biography bordering on historick reading, and giving a far deeper insight into it than any history--such of older days are Plutarch's Lives-of middle times Roscoe's Lorenzo de Medici, Leo X., &c. &c.; thence passing on to recent times, Miss Aikin's Elizabeth and James, Coxe's Duke of Marlborough and Sully, and innumerable others, that may be comprised in the class I would call historic biography. Approaching to these are the memoirs more personal, yet of a publick character, such as Colonel Hutchinson, Lord W. Russell, M-Creagh's Melville and Knox, Tomline's Life of Pitt, Bishop Hall and his Times, and numbers of like character. The interest rather increases than diminishes as it becomes more exclusively individual, and the claim to attention is for what they were independently of who they where. Such are Walton's Lives, Southey's Biographies of Nelson, Wesley, &c. But there are memoirs more interior still than these-call them Memoirs, Journals, Remains, Lettersmit matters not they are genuine biography-those tomes invaluable in which the heart has told for itself what no one could tell for it-where sorrow has registered its tears, and folly its absurdities, and genius its conceits, and piety its trials, and vice its bitterness, and wisdom its insufficiency, and holiness its blisstill there remains no secret of the human character undisclosed, and no consequences of action unproclaimed; by the which we might all, if we would, bé convicted, and enlightened, and forewarned, of all that is within us, and