A POET'S PRAYER.

To gratitude proportion'd to their worth:

Teach me to feel that all that thou hast made Upon this mighty globe's gigantic girth,

Though meant with filial love to be survey'd, Is nothing to thyself—the shadow of a shade.

If thou hast given me, more than unto some,

A feeling sense of nature's beauties fair, Which sometimes renders admiration dumb,

From consciousness that words cannot declare The beauty thou hast scatter'd everywhere;

O grant that this may lead me still, through all Thy works, to thee! nor prove a treacherous snare

Adapted those affections to enthrall Which should be thine alone, and waken at thy call.

I would not merely dream my life away

In fancied rapture, or imagined joy ;
Nor that a perfumed flower, a dew-gemm'd spray,

A murmuring brook, or any prouder toy,
Should, for its own sake, thought or song employ;

So far alone as nature's charms can lead
To thee who framed them all, and can destroy,

Or innocent enjoyment serve to feed,
Grant me to gaze and love, and thus thy works to read.

But while from one extreme thy power may keep

My erring frailty, O preserve me still
From dulness! nor let cold indifference steep

My senses in oblivion : if the thrill
Of early bliss must sober, as it will,

On Lutzen's morn, ere heaven's red flame the drooping clouds had kissid,
Or break of day had rollid away the morning's heaving mist,
The word was pass'd along the line, and all our men array'd
Stood front and rear, each musketeer, in silence and in shade.

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оо

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No trumpet swell’d its rallying blast, no clarion's pealing breath,
No beaten drum proclaim'd “they come,” across the field of death;
But shrouded in the wreathing mist, with steadfast tread and slow,
With hearts prepared and weapons bared, we march'd upon the foe.

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“Halt, halt!" the cry rang through the host, “their ranks are all in view,
Yon murky sun, that rose so dun, the mantling gray breaks through;
Let fools down battle's gory paths rush headlong on to death,
We own the Power that rules the hour, the Lord of life and breath !"

And full before the Leaguers' host we seek, on bended knee,
With listed face, His sovereign grace, whose word is fate's decree.
To Him uprose in chorus deep each squadron's lofty psalm,
And swell'd in air our heartfelt prayer on Nature's breathless calm.

The king was there,—with burning hope his manly visage glow'd,
As oft before, at battle's hour, along our front he rode;
“Now, soldiers, now," and answer'd well each heart the kingly tone,
“For holy faith, for life or death, Lord Jesus, aid thine own!"

oo ooo oo ooo ooo