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Wide was his parish, not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house;
Yet still he was at hand without request,
To serve the sick, to succour the distress'd:
Tempting, on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark, tempestuous night.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd,
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.

His preaching much, but more his practice wrought,
(A living sermon of the truths he taught):
For this by rules severe his life he squared,
That all might see the doctrine which they heard:
"For priests," he said, "are patterns for the rest;
(The gold of Heaven, who bear the God imprest):
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul, on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust."
The prelate for his holy life he prized:
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Saviour came not with a gaudy show,
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,
These marks of church and churchmen he design'd,
And living taught, and dying left behind.
The crown he wore was of the pointed thorn;
In purple he was crucified, not born.

They who contend for place and high degree

Are not his sons, but those of Zebedee.

Such was the Saint, who shone with every grace, Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face.

God saw his image lively was express'd,
And his own work, as in creation, bless'd.

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.
By THOMAS MOORE.

THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,

And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,

Even more than music, breathes of thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne ;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack

That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ;

Thy mercy in the azure hue

Of sunny brightness, breaking through.

There's nothing bright, above, below,

From flowers that bloom, to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see

Some feature of thy Deity.

There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy love;
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again.

RESIGNATION.

By LONGFELLOW.

THERE is no flock, however watch'd and tended, But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise;

But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapours;
Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no death! What seems so is transition;

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call death.

She is not dead,-the child of our affection,-
But gone unto that school

Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day, we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,

Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,

May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild

In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppress'd,

The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,-

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling

We

may not wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way.

TO THE RAINBOW.

By THOMAS CAMPBELL.

TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy

To teach me what thou art ;

Still seem, as to my childhood's sight,
A midway station given

For happy spirits to alight,

Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so,
As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth,
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth, deliver'd from the deep;
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye,
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme.

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town!
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down.

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.,

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span;
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

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