Defiance breathes with more malignant ain;
And alien storms with homebred ferments claim Portentous fellowship. Her silver car,
By sleepless prudence ruled, glides slowly on; Unhurt by violence, from menaced taint Emerging pure, and seemingly more bright: Ah! wherefore yields it to a foul constraint Black as the clouds its beams dispersed, while shone, By men and angels blest, the glorious light?
METHINKS that I could trip o'er heaviest soil, Light as a buoyant bark from wave to wave, Were mine the trusty staff that JEWEL gave To youthful HOOKER, in familiar style The gift exalting, and with playful smile: * For thus equipped, and bearing on his head The Donor's farewell blessing; can he dread Tempest, or length of way, or weight of toil? More sweet than odors caught by him who sails Near spicy shores of Araby the blest, A thousand times more exquisitely sweet, The freight of holy feeling which we meet, In thoughtful moments, wafted by the gales From fields where good men walk, or bowers wherein they rest.
HOLY and heavenly Spirits as they are, Spotless in life, and eloquent as wise, With what entire affection do they prize Their Church reformed! laboring with earnest care To baffle all that may her strength impair; That Church, the unperverted Gospel's seat; In their afflictions, a divine retreat;
Source of their liveliest hope, and tenderest prayer!
The truth exploring with an equal mind, In doctrine and communion they have sought Firmly between the two extremes to steer; But theirs the wise man's ordinary lot,
To trace right courses for the stubborn blind, And prophesy to ears that will not hear.
MEN, who have ceased to reverence, soon defy Their forefathers; lo! sects are formed, and split With morbid restlessness;
Spreads wide; though special mysteries multiply, The Saints must govern, is their common cry; And so they labor, deeming Holy Writ
Disgraced by aught that seems content to sit
Beneath the roof of settled Modesty.
The Romanist exults; fresh hope he draws From the confusion, craftily incites
The overweening, personates the mad,
To heap disgust upon the worthier Cause:
Totters the Throne; the new-born Church is sad For every wave against her
FEAR hath a hundred eyes that all agree
To plague her beating heart; and there is one (Nor idlest that!) which holds communion
With things that were not, yet were meant to be. Aghast within its gloomy cavity
That eye (which sees as if fulfilled and done Crimes that might stop the motion of the sun) Beholds the horrible catastrophe
Of an assembled Senate unredeemed
From subterraneous Treason's darkling power. Merciless act of sorrow infinite!
Worse than the product of that dismal night, Wher, gushing copious as a thunder-shower, The blood of Huguenots through Paris streamed.
THE JUNG-FRAU AND THE FALL OF THE RHINE NEAR
THE Virgin-Mountain, wearing like a Queen A brilliant crown of everlasting snow,
Sheds ruin from her sides; and men below
Wonder that aught of aspect so serene Can link with desolation.
And seeming, at a little distance, slow, The waters of the Rhine; but on they go, Fretting and whitening, keener and more keen; Till madness seizes on the whole wide Flood, Turned to a fearful Thing whose nostrils breathe Blasts of tempestuous smoke,—wherewith he tries To hide himself, but only magnifies;
And doth in more conspicuous torment writhe, Deafening the region in his ireful mood.
TROUBLES OF CHARLES THE FIRST.
EVEN Such the contrast that, where'er we move, To the mind's eye. Religion doth present; Now with her own deep quietness content; Then, like the mountain, thundering from above Against the ancient pine-trees of the grove
And the Land's humblest comforts. Now her mood
Recalls the transformation of the flood,
Whose rage the gentle skies in vain reprove, Earth cannot check. O terrible excess
Of headstrong will! Can this be Piety? No,- some fierce Maniac hath usurped her name; And scourges England struggling to be free: Her peace destroyed! her hopes a wilderness! Her blessings cursed, — her glory turned to shame!
PREJUDGED by foes determined not to spare, An old, weak Man for vengeance thrown aside, Laud, "in the painful art of dying" tried, (Like a poor bird entangled in a snare,
Whose heart still flutters, though his wings forbear To stir in useless struggle,) hath relied
On hope that conscious innocence supplied, And in his prison breathes celestial air.
Why tarries then thy chariot? Wherefore stay, O Death! the ensanguined yet triumphant wheels Which thou prepar'st, full often, to convey (What time a state with madding faction reels) The Saint or Patriot to the world that heals All wounds, all perturbations doth allay?
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