The Worlds Best Poetry, Volume 4 | Page 8

show,?That mercy show to me.
Mean though I am, not wholly so,?Since quickened by thy breath;?O, lead me wheresoe'er I go,?Through this day's life or death!
This day be bread and peace my lot;?All else beneath the sun,?Thou knowest if best bestowed or not,?And let thy will be done.
To thee, whose temple is all space,?Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,?One chorus let all Being raise,?All Nature incense rise!
ALEXANDER POPE.

ODE.
FROM "THE SPECTATOR."
The spacious firmament on high,?With all the blue ethereal sky,?And spangled heavens, a shining frame,?Their great Original proclaim;?The unwearied sun, from day to day,?Does his Creator's power display,?And publishes to every land?The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,?The moon takes up the wondrous tale,?And nightly to the listening earth?Repeats the story of her birth;?While all the stars that round her burn,?And all the planets in their turn,?Confirm the tidings as they roll,?And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all?Move round the dark terrestrial ball??What though no real voice or sound?Amid their radiant orbs be found??In Reason's ear they all rejoice,?And utter forth a glorious voice,?Forever singing, as they shine,?"The hand that made us is divine!"
JOSEPH ADDISON.

LORD! WHEN THOSE GLORIOUS LIGHTS I SEE.
HYMN AND PRAYER FOR THE USE OF BELIEVERS.
Lord! when those glorious lights I see?With which thou hast adorned the skies,?Observing how they moved be,?And how their splendor fills mine eyes,?Methinks it is too large a grace,?But that thy love ordained it so,--?That creatures in so high a place?Should servants be to man below.
The meanest lamp now shining there?In size and lustre doth exceed?The noblest of thy creatures here,?And of our friendship hath no need.?Yet these upon mankind attend?For secret aid or public light;?And from the world's extremest end?Repair unto us every night.
O, had that stamp been undefaced?Which first on us thy hand had set,?How highly should we have been graced,?Since we are so much honored yet!?Good God, for what but for the sake?Of thy beloved and only Son,?Who did on him our nature take,?Were these exceeding favors done?
As we by him have honored been,?Let us to him due honors give;?Let us uprightness hide our sin,?And let us worth from him receive.?Yea, so let us by grace improve?What thou by nature doth bestow,?That to thy dwelling-place above?We may be raised from below.
GEORGE WITHER.

HYMN
BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star?In his steep course? So long he seems to pause?On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!?The Arve and Arveiron at thy base?Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form,?Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines?How silently! Around thee and above,?Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black--?An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it,?As with a wedge! But when I look again,?It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,?Thy habitation from eternity!?O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,?Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,?Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer?I worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,?So sweet we know not we are listening to it,?Thou, the mean while, wast blending with my thought,--?Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy,--?Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,?Into the mighty vision passing, there,?As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise?Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,?Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,?Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!?Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!?O, struggling with the darkness all the night,?And visited all night by troops of stars,?Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,?Companion of the morning-star at dawn,?Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn?Co-herald,--wake, O, wake, and utter praise!?Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth??Who filled thy countenance with rosy light??Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!?Who called you forth from night and utter death,?From dark and icy caverns called you forth,?Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,?Forever shattered and the same forever??Who gave you your invulnerable life,?Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,?Unceasing thunder and eternal foam??And who commanded (and the silence came),?Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?
Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow?Adown enormous ravines slope amain,--?Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,?And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!?Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!?Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven?Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun?Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers?Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet??God!--let the torrents, like a shout of nations,?Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!?God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!?Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!?And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,?And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!
Ye living