JAPPY me! oh, happy sheep!
Whom my God vouchsafes to keep-
Een my God, for He it is
Points me to these ways of bliss,
On whose pastures cheerful Spring
All the year doth sit and sing,
And, rejoicing, smiles to see
Their green banks wear his livery.
Pleasure sings my soul to rest,
Plenty wears me at her breast;
Whose sweet temper teaches me
Nor wanton, nor in want to be.
At my feet the blubbering mountain
Weeping, melts into a fountain;
Whose soft, silver-sweating streams
Make high noon forget his beams.
When my wayward breath is flying,
He calls home my soul from dying;
Strokes and tames my rabid grief,
And does woo me into life.
When my simple weakness strays
(Tangled in forbidden ways),
He, my Shepherd, is my guide;
He's before me, on my side,
And behind me. He beguiles
Craft in all her knotty wiles.
He expounds the giddy wonder
Of my weary steps, and under
Spreads a path, clear as the day,
Where no churlish rub says nay
To my joy-conducted feet,
Whilst they gladly go to meet
Grace and peace, to meet new lays,
Tuned to my great Shepherd's praise.
-Come now, all ye terrors, sally,
Muster forth into the valley,
Where triumphant darkness hovers,
With a sable wing that covers
Brooding horror,-come, thou Death!
Let the damps of thy dull breath
Overshadow e'en the shade,
And make darkness' self afraid.
There my feet, e'en there, shall find
Way for a resolvèd mind.
Still my Shepherd, still my God,
Thou art with me-still Thy rod
And Thy staff, whose influence
Gives direction, gives defence.
At the whisper of Thy word,
Crown'd abundance spreads my board;
While I feast, my foes do feed
Their rank malice, not their need,
So that with the self-same bread
They are starved and I am fed.
How my head in ointment swims!
How my cup o'erlooks her brims !
e'en So, still may I move
So,
By the line of Thy dear love!
Still may Thy sweet mercy spread
A shady arm above my head,
About my paths; so shall I find
The fair centre of my mind,
The temple-and those lovely walls
Bright ever with a beam that falls
Fresh from the pure glance of Thine eye,
Lighting to eternity.
There I'll dwell for ever,-there
Will I find a purer air
To feed my life with ;-there I'll sup,
Balm and nectar in my cup,
And thence my ripe soul will I breathe
Warm into the arms of Death.
ON MR. ASHTON, A CONFORMABLE CITIZEN.
HE modest front of this small floor, Believe me, reader, can say more Than many a braver marble can,"Here lies a truly honest man;" One whose conscience was a thing That troubled neither church nor king; One of those few that in this town Honour all preachers, hear their own. Sermons he heard, yet not so many As left no time to practise any. He heard them reverently, and then His practice preach'd them o'er again. His parlour-sermons rather were Those to the eye than to the ear.
His prayers took their price and strength, Not from the loudness nor the lengthHe was a protestant at home,
Not only in despite of Rome.
He loved his father, yet his zeal
Tore not off his mother's veil.
To the church he did allow her dress,
True beauty to true holiness.
Peace, which he loved in life, did lend
Her hand to bring him to his end.
When age and death call'd for the score,
No surfeits were to reckon for,—
Death tore not, therefore, but, sans strife,
Gently untwined the thread of life.
And what remains then, but that thou
Write these lines, reader, on thy brow;
And by his fair example's light
Burn in thine imitation bright?
So, while these lines can but bequeath
A life, perhaps, unto his death,
His better epitaph shall be
His life still kept alive in thee.
|