Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air,
His watchword at the gates of death—
He enters heaven by prayer.
Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, "Behold, he prays!"
The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind;
While with the Father and the Son,
Sweet fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made on earth alone.
The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus on the eternal throne
For sinners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God!
The Life, the Truth, the Way;
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod :
Lord, teach us how to pray.
106. THE VILLAGE ALEHOUSE.
[From THE DESERTED VILLAGE.]
TEAR yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where greybeard mirth and smiling toil retired;
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place;
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;
The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers and fennel, gay;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row.
107. HENRY V.'s SPEECH BEFORE THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT.
HO's he that wishes for more men from England? My cousin Westmoreland?—No, my fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and, if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
No, no, my lord; wish not a man from England!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, throughout my
host,
That he who hath no stomach to this fight,
May straight depart: his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man's company!
This day is called the Feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian!
He that outlives this day and sees old age,
Will, yearly on the vigil, feast his neighbours,
And say-To-morrow is Saint Crispian !
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget, yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remember, with advantages,
What feats they did this day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household-words, -
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glo'ster,-
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the goodman teach his son;
And Crispian's day shall ne'er go by,
From this time to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!
For he, to-day, that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother-be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And, gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day.
108. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
WHEN marshall'd on the nightly plain,
The glitt'ring host bestud the sky,
One star alone, of all the train,
Can fix the sinner's wand'ring eye.
Hark! hark! To God the chorus breaks,
From every host, from every gem:
But one alone the Saviour speaks;
It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud, the night was dark;
The ocean yawn'd, and rudely blow'd
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze;
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem;
When suddenly a star arose,-
It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all,
It bade my dark forebodings cease:
And through the storm and dangers' thrall,
It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moor'd, my perils o'er,
I'll sing, first in night's diadem,
For ever and for evermore,
The Star!-the Star of Bethlehem!
109. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON
VE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade*;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights, the expanse below,
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among,
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way!
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields beloved in vain !
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.
King Henry VI. founded Eton College.
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