XXII.

THE PASTOR.

JOE be to the priest, y-born,
That will not cleanly weed his corn,
And preach his charge among ;
Woe be to that fhepherd, I fay,
That will not watch his foes away,

As to his office doth belong;

Woe be to him that doth not keep,
From Romish wolves his sheep,
With ftaff and weapon ftrong.

The Welsh Bard TALIESSYN.*

XXIII.

THE PASTOR.

IGH thoughts at firft, and vifions high,
Are ours of eafy victory;

The Word we bear feems fo divine,
So framed for Adam's guilty line,—
That none, unto ourselves we fay,

Of all his finning, fuffering race
Will hear that Word, fo full of grace,
And coldly turn away.

* From Ufher's Religion of the Ancient Irish, c. x.

But foon a fadder mood comes round,
High hopes have fallen to the ground,
And the Ambaffadors of Peace

Go weeping that men will not cease

To ftrive with Heaven; they inly mourn, That fuffering men will not be bleft,

That weary men refuse to rest,

And wanderers to return.

TRENCH.

XXIV.

THE PASTOR.

O aid the fatherless,

Comfort the fick, and be the poor man's friend,

And in the wounded heart pour Gospel

balm.

SOUTHEY.

XXV.

THE DEPARTED.

H! it is fweet to die-to part from earth, And win all heaven for things of little worth

Then fure thou wouldst not, though
thou couldft, awake

The little flumberer for its mother's fake.
It is when those we love in death depart,
That earth has flightest hold upon the heart.

EDMESTON.

XXVI.

THE DEPARTED.

JORGIVE, bleft fhade, the tributary tear That mourns thy exit from a world like this;

Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,

And stayed thy progrefs to the realms of blifs.

No more confined by grovelling scenes of night,
No more a tenant pent in mortal clay;
Now fhould we rather hail thy glorious flight,
And trace thy journey to the realms of day.
LYTTLETON.

XXVII.

THE DEPARTED.

HAT hallows ground where heroes fleep?

"Tis not the sculptured pile we heap; In dews that heavens far diftant weep, Their turf may bloom,

Or genii twine beneath the deep

Their coral tomb.

But ftrew his afhes to the wind,

Whose word or voice has ferved mankind.

And is he dead whofe glorious mind,

Lifts thine on high?

To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die.

XXVIII.

THE DEPARTED.

ERVANT of God, well done!
Reft from thy loved employ ;
The battle o'er, the victory won,
Enter thy Master's joy.

The cry at midnight came,

He started up to hear;

A mortal arrow pierced his frame,—
He fell, but felt no fear.

His spirit with a bound

Left its encumbering clay;
His tent at funrise on the ground
A darkened ruin lay.

XXIX.

THE DEPARTED.

HEN let us be content to leave behind

So much, which yet we leave not quite behind;

For the bright memories of the holy dead,

The bleffed ones departed, fhine on us

Like the pure splendours of fome large ftar,
Which pilgrims, travelling onward, at their back
Leave, and at every moment fee not now;
Yet, whenfoever they lift, may pause and turn,
And with their glories hide their faces ftill.
Or, as beneath a northern sky is seen
The funken funset living in the Weft,
A tender radiance there furviving long,
Which has not faded all away, before
The flaming banners of the morn advance
Over the fummits of the Orient Hills.

TRENCH.