“The night breeze that at random sweeps

Across some long neglected lute

May chance to wake one lonely chord

While every string beside is mute.

And tones that oft unheeded fall

On those whom they were meant to bless

May from some faithful bosom call,

One mournful thrill of tenderness.”

                                    Emily

                                    Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best—

They also serve who only stand and wait.

                                    Milton

1871

 [complete original:

When 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-labour, 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

                                                      On His Blindness]

“The Sabbath, like Time’s angel, smiles,

And hushed is earthly care;

And labor now may leave its toils,

And tread the courts of prayer;

No sound in festive hall is heard,

Nor song in lady’s bower;

Peace and her sister silence guard—

Sure ‘tis the hallowed hour.

There’s naught can hallow time, but when

‘Tis hallowed in the breast;

Thou’st blest—but thou must feel e’en then

That Heaven hath made the blest

Or say, though grief’s deep floods rush on,

And clouds of sorrow lower,

‘O God! thy will, not mine be done’—

Then is the hallowed hour.”

                                    A L W

No: I can ne’er forget those days,

That joy and hope did blend,

O then preserve these simple lays—

The off’ring of a friend.

Mary, farewell if we must part,

Not, I hope, for ever;

The friendship that enwraps my heart,

Distance ne’er can sever.

                                    Aurelia

Colchester   August 16^th, 1830

“I’ve seen a drop of morning dew,

Like some fair gem serene,

That sparkled on a verdant bough,

All clad in summer green.

The rising sun absorbed the tear

And drank it as it shown,

The winds of winter cleft the bough,

It mouldered and was gone.

The drop of dew is like the bloom

And morning of our span

The bough that withered in the blast

Is like the life of man.

New London          Feb 20^th 1830    Guy

Home     Next Page