In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths,
Thy goodness I'll adore;

And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.

My life-if Thou preserve my life-
Thy sacrifice shall be;

And death-if death must be my doom
Shall join my soul to Thee.

ADDISON.

62. THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,

And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery!

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven!
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven !
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery!

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly!

'Tis morn-but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy!

The combat deepens-On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's cemetery !

CAMPBELL

63. THOSE EVENING BELLS.

HOSE evening bells, those evening bells,
How many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours have pass'd away,
And many a heart that then was gay
Within the tomb now darkly dwells.
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 't will be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on ;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

MOORE.

64. BLIND BARTIMEUS.

BLIND Bartimeus at the gates

Of Jericho in darkness waits;

He hears the crowd; -he hears a breath
Say, "It is Christ of Nazareth !”
And calls, in tones of agony,
Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με

The thronging multitude increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace!
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar's cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, "He calleth thee;
Θάρσει, ἔγειραι· φωνεῖ σε!

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands

The crowd, "What wilt thou at my hands?"

And he replies, "O give me light!

Rabbi, restore the blind man's sight!"
And Jesus answers: Ὕπαγε

Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε !

Ye that have eyes, and cannot see,

In darkness and in misery,

Recall these mighty voices three;

Ἰησοῦ, ἐλέησόν με !

Θάρσει, ἔγειραι, ὕπαγε !

Ἡ πίστις σου σέσωκέ σε !

LONGFELLOW.

65. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world-to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead-but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

H