THE HOUR OF PRAYER. O many-toned and chainless wind, Tell me if thou its place canst find, And the wind murmur'd in reply: Ye clouds that gorgeously repose The bright clouds answer'd: "we depart, Ask what is deathless in thy heart, For that which cannot die." Speak, then, thou voice of God within, Answer me through life's restless din-- And the voice answer'd: "be thou still, Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil; THE HOUR OF PRAYER. CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, 133 Traveller, in the stranger's land, Warrior, that from battle won, Woman, o'er the lowly slain, Heaven's first star alike ye see- LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE. METHINKS it is good to be here, If thou wilt let us build,--but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear; But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to ambition? Ah! no: Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see, they would pin him below To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. THE THREE TABERNACLES. To beauty? Ah! no: she forgets The charms that she wielded before; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets 135 The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore, Shall we build to the purple of pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud. To riches? Alas! 'tis in vain: Who hid, in their turns have been hid; The treasures are squander'd again; And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid, To the pleasures which mirth can afford, Ah! here is a plentiful board, But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, Shall we build to affection and love? Ah! no: they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve; Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve: Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; Unto death, to whom Monarchs must bow? And here there are trophies enow; Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies. O THOU! Who sitt'st enthroned on high, Hope thou wilt listen whilst they sing! We raise our songs, but oh! to thee, Then, infant warblings in thine ear, Oh! teach us some celestial song, Then, time shall hear, while time is ours, THE ORPHAN. II. O THOU! Who mak'st the sun to rise, And guide me through this world of care; Listen to an infant's prayer! O Thou! whose blood was spilt to save To share in whose redeeming care, Oh! thou wilt deign from Heaven to lean, Listen to an infant's prayer! O Thou! who wilt from monarchs part, Listen to an infant's prayer! LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. BORN, 1802; DIED, 1838. THE ORPHAN. ALONE, alone!-no other face Wears kindred smile, or kindred line; And yet they say my mother's eyes, They say my father's brow, is mine; 137 |