Lie in forbearance, strength in standing still?

Soon shall the widow, (for the speed of Time Naught equals when the hours are winged with crime,)

Widow, or wife, implore on tremulous knee,
From him who judged her lord, a like decree;
The skies will weep o'er old men desolate :
Ye little-ones! Earth shudders at your fate,
Outcasts and homeless orphans

But turn, my Soul, and from the sleeping pair Learn thou the beauty of omniscient care! Be strong in faith, bid anxious thoughts lie still; Seek for the good and cherish it, — the ill Oppose, or bear with a submissive will.

XXXVI.

If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;

If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back ;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!

1833.

XXXVII.

THE LABORER'S NOONDAY HYMN.

Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim.

Nor will he turn his ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then, here reposing, let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burden be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the midday hour
Is in the thankful Creature's power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Each field is then a hallowed spot,
An altar is in each man's cot,

A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to Heaven! the industrious Sun
Already half his race hath run;

He cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal Spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the east,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from thy love's abundant source,
What yet remains of this day's course:

Help with thy grace, through life's short day;
Our upward and our downward way;

And glorify for us the west,

When we shall sink to final rest.

XXXVIII.

1834.

ODE,

COMPOSED ON MAY MORNING.

WHILE from the purpling east departs
The star that led the dawn,

Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts,
For May is on the lawn.

A quickening hope, a freshening glee,
For ran the expected Power,

Whose first-drawn breath from bush and tree
Shakes off that pearly shower.

All Nature welcomes her whose sway
Tempers the year's extremes;
Who scattereth lustres o'er noonday

Like morning's dewy gleams;
While mellow warble, sprightly trill,
The tremulous heart excite,
And hums the balmy air to still
The balance of delight.

Time was, blest Power! when youths and maids

At

peep

of dawn would rise,

And wander forth, in forest glades

Thy birth to solemnize.

Though mute the song, to grace the rite,

Untouched the hawthorn bough, Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight; Man changes, but not Thou!

Thy feathered lieges bill and wings

In love's disport employ;

Warmed by thy influence, creeping things

Awake to silent joy:

Queen art thou still for each gay plant

Where the slim wild deer roves,
And served in depths where fishes haunt
Their own mysterious groves.

Cloud-piercing peak, and trackless heath,
Instinctive homage pay;

Nor wants the dim-lit cave a wreath
To honor thee, sweet May!
Where cities fanned by thy brisk airs
Behold a smokeless sky,

Their puniest flower-pot nursling dares
To open a bright eye.

And if, on this thy natal morn,

The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song and dance and game; Still from the village-green a vow Aspires to thee addrest, Wherever peace is on the brow,

Or love within the breast.

Yes! where Love nestles thou canst teach

The soul to love the more; Hearts also shall thy lessons reach

That never loved before.

Stripped is the haughty one of pride,
The bashful freed from fear,
While rising, like the ocean-tide,
In flows the joyous year.

Hush, feeble lyre! weak words refuse
The service to prolong!

To yon exulting thrush the Muse

Intrusts the imperfect song: