ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE A ANGEL BOU BEN ADHEM-may his tribe increase Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moon light in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said: "What writest thou?" The vision raised his head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered: "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Adhem. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still, and said: "I pray thee then, Write me as one who loves his fellow men. The angel wrote and vanished. The next night He came again with a great awakening light And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. -Leigh Hunt. ON HIS BLINDNESS W HEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide: "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." -John Milton. TO MARY IN HEAVEN T day HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget- Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every sprayTill soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? -Robert Burns. |