The Young Gentleman and Lady's Monitor, and English Teacher's Assistant Part 40

Adam was form'd of equal clay, The sov'reign of the rest; Design'd for n.o.bler ends than they, With G.o.d's own image blest.

Thus glorious in the Maker's eye, The young Creation stood; He saw the building from on high, His word p.r.o.nounc'd it good.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

Father of all! we bow to thee, Who dwells in heav'n ador'd; But present still thro' all thy works, The universal Lord.

All hallow'd be thy sacred name, O'er all the nations known; Advance the kingdom of thy grace, And let thy glory come.

A grateful homage may we yield, With hearts resigned to thee; And as in heav'n thy will is done, On earth so let it be.

From day to day we humbly own The hand that feeds us still; Give us our bread, and we may rest Contented in thy will.

Our sins and trespa.s.ses we own; O may they be forgiv'n!

That mercy we to others shew, We pray the like from Heav'n.

Our life let still thy grace direct, From evil guard our way, And in temptation's fatal path Permit us not to stray.

For thine the pow'r, the kingdom thine, All glory's due to thee: Thine from eternity they were, And thine shall ever be.

THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER.--_BY MR. POPE_.

Father of all, in ev'ry age, In ev'ry clime ador'd; By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

Thou great First Cause, least understood; Who all my sense confin'd, To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind: Yet gave me in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And binding Nature fast in fate, Left free the human Will.

What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than h.e.l.l to shun, That, more than heav'n pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives; Let me not cast away; For G.o.d is paid when man receives, T' enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think thee Lord alone of Man, When thousand worlds are round: Let not this weak unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal d.a.m.nation round the land, On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right, thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O teach my heart To find that better way.

Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has deny'd, Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others shew, That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so, Since quicken'd by thy breath; Oh 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 knowst if best bestow'd or not, And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all s.p.a.ce, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies!

One chorus let all being raise!

All nature's incense rise!

CHARACTER OF MAN.

Know then thyself; presume not G.o.d to scan The proper study of mankind, is man.

Plac'd on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise, and rudely great; With too much knowledge for the sceptic side, With too much weakness for the stoic's pride, He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest; In doubt, to deem himself a G.o.d, or beast; In doubt, his mind or body to prefer; Born, but to die; and reas'ning, but to err: Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much: Chaos of thought and pa.s.sion, all confus'd; Still by himself abus'd, or disabus'd: Created, half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all: Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd; The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

WINTER.

See! Winter comes, to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme; These, that exalt the soul to solemn thought, And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms!

Congenial horrors, hail! With frequent foot, Pleas'd, have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When, nurs'd by careless solitude, I liv'd, And sung of nature with unceasing joy.

Pleas'd, have I wand'red through your rough domain; Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst; Or seen the deep fermenting tempest brew'd In the grim evening sky. Thus pa.s.s the time, Till, through the lucid chambers of the south, Look'd out the joyous spring, look'd out, and smil'd.

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain, Whose constant cares were to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home.

For I had heard of battles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord: And heav'n soon granted what my sire deny'd.

This moon, which rose last night, round as my s.h.i.+eld, Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills Rush'd, like a torrent, down upon the vale, Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety and for succour. I alone, With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd The road he took; then hasted to my friends; Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil enc.u.mber'd foe.

We fought--and conquer'd. Ere a sword was drawn, An arrow, from my bow, had pierc'd their chief, Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.

Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd The shepherd's slothful life: and having heard That our good king had summon'd his bold peers, To lead their warriors to the Carron side, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps-- Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.

Journeying with this intent, I pa.s.s'd these towers; And, heaven directed, came this day, to do The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE MANNER IN WHICH HE LEARNED THE ART OF WAR.

Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible by shepherds trod, In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand, A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man, Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains, Austere and lonely, cruel to himself, Did they report him; the cold earth his bed, Water his drink, his food the shepherd's alms.

I went to see him, and my heart was touch'd With rev'rence and with pity. Mild he spake, And, entering on discourse, such stories told, As made me oft revisit his sad cell.

For he had been a soldier in his youth, And fought in famous battles, when the peers Of Europe, by the bold G.o.dfredo led, Against th' usurping infidel display'd The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land.

Pleas'd with my admiration, and the fire His speech struck from me; the old man would shake His years away, and act his young encounters.

Then having shewn his wounds; he'd sit him down.

And all the live long day, discourse of war.

To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf He cut the figures of the marshall'd hosts: Describ'd the motions, and explain'd the use Of the deep column and lengthen'd line, The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm; For, all that Saracen or Christian knew Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known.

Unhappy man!

Returning homeward by Messina's port, Loaded with wealth and honours bravely won, A rude and boist'rous captain of the sea Fasten'd a quarrel on him. Fierce they fought; The stranger fell, and with his dying breath, Declar'd his name and lineage! Mighty G.o.d!

The soldier cry'd, my brother! Oh! my brother!

They exchanged forgiveness: And happy, in my mind, was he that died; For many deaths has the survivor suffer'd, In the wild desart on a rock he sits, Or on some nameless stream's untrodden banks, And ruminates all day his dreadful fate.

At times, alas! not in his perfect mind!

Hold's dialogues with his lov'd brother's ghost; And oft each night forsakes his sullen couch, To make sad orisons for him he slew.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about; but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.

It happened, on a winter night, As authors on the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade; Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguis'd in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the stroller's canting strain, They begg'd from door to door, in-vain; Tri'd every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woeful state, Treated at this unG.o.dly rate, Having through all the village pa.s.s'd, To a small cottage came at last, Where dwelt a good old honest yoeman, Call'd in the neighbourhood, Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pa.s.s the night; And, then, the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he, from out the chimney, took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And, freely from the fattest side, Cut out large slices to be fry'd: Then stept aside, to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink; Then saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful) they found, 'Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they had not touch'd a drop.

The good old couple were amaz'd, And often on each other gaz'd; For both were frighten'd to the heart, And just began to cry--What art!

Then softly turn'd aside to view, Whether the lights were turning blue, The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling and their errand; "Good folks you need not be afraid; "We are but saints," the hermit said; "No hurt shall come to you or yours; "But for that pack of churlish boors, "Not fit to live on Christian ground, "They, and their houses shall be drown'd; "While you see your cottage rise, "And grow a church before your eyes."

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, The roof began to move aloft; Aloft rose every beam and rafter; The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist; With upside down, doom'd there to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost Lost, by disuse, the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increas'd by new intestine wheels; And strait against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adher'd; And, now, in love to household cares, By a shrill voice the hour declares, Warning the housemaid not to burn The roast-meat which it cannot turn.

The easy chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail along the wall; There, stuck aloft in public view, And, with small change, a pulpit grew.

A bed-stead of the antique mode, Made up of timber many a load, Such as our ancestors did use, Was metamorphos'd into pews: Which still their ancient nature keep, By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.