XVIII.

APOLOGY.

NOR scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend
The Soul's eternal interests to promote :
Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot ;
And evil Spirits may our walk attend

!

For aught the wisest know or comprehend ;
Then be good Spirits free to breathe a note
Of elevation; let their odours float

Around these Converts; and their glories blend,
The midnight stars outshining, or the blaze
Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords
Of good works, mingling with the visions, raiso
The Soul to purer worlds: and who the line
Shall draw, the limits of the power define
That even imperfect faith to man affords ?

XIX.

PRIMITIVE SAXON CLERGY*,

How beautiful your presence, how benign,
Servants of God! who not a thought will share
With the vain world; who, outwardly as bare
As winter trees, yield no fallacious sign

That the firm soul is clothed with fruit divine!
Such Priest, when service worthy of his care
Has called him forth to breathe the common air,
Might seem a saintly Image from its shrine
Descended happy are the eyes that meet
The Apparition; evil thoughts are stayed
At his approach, and low-bowed necks entreat
A benediction from his voice or hand;

Whence grace, through which the heart can understand;
And vows, that bind the will, in silence made. 1

• See Note.

XX.

OTHER INFLUENCES.

An, when the Body, round which in love we clung,
Is chilled by death, does mutual service fail ?
Is tender pity then of no avail?

Are intercessions of the fervent tongue

A waste of hope?—From this sad source have sprung Rites that console the Spirit, under grief

Which ill can brook more rational relief:

Hence, prayers are shaped amiss, and dirges sung For Souls whose doom is fixed! The way is smooth For Power that travels with the human heart:

Confession ministers the pang to soothe

In him who at the ghost of guilt doth start.
Ye holy Men, so carnest in your care,

Of your own mighty instruments beware!

XXI.

SECLUSION.

LANCE, shield, and sword relinquished-at his side A bead-roll, in his hand a claspèd book,

Or staff more harmless than a shepherd's crook, The war-worn Chieftain quits the world—to hide

His thin autumnal locks where Monks abide

In cloistered privacy.

But not to dwell

In soft repose he comes.

Within his cell,

Round the decaying trunk of human pride,

At morn,

and eve, and midnight's silent hour,

Do penitential cogitations cling;

Like ivy, round some ancient elm, they twine

In grisly folds and strictures serpentine;

Yet, while they strangle, a fair growth they bring,

For recompense-their own perennial bower.

XXII.

CONTINUED.

METHINKS that to some vacant hermitage
My feet would rather turn-to some dry nook
Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook
Hurled down a mountain-cove from stage to stage,
Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage
In the soft heaven of a translucent pool;
Thence creeping under sylvan arches cool,
Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage
Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl,
A maple dish, my furniture should be;
Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl
My night-watch: nor should e'er the crested fowl
From thorp or vill his matins sound for me,

Tired of the world and all its industry.