PREFACE.

THE love of poetry is widely diffused; and although in its more refined aspirations, it may not be understood and enjoyed by the uncultivated mind, still the taste of every one is susceptible of improvement, by being brought into contact with pure models. The poetry of description is enjoyed by all whose external senses can appreciate the beauties of surrounding nature; but the poetry of sentiment is relished only by those whose mental and moral faculties have been improved under careful cultivation. The latter, therefore, may be regarded as the higher style of the divine art. It is not necessary to be a poet, in order to relish its finest efforts; for the relish may exist where the faculty for producing is wanting. That the art itself is held in low estimation by many, may be attributed to the fact, that there are so many vapid pretenders who mistake the facility for making rhymes for the true inspiration of the muse; and that good men often regard it as a useless, if not a pernicious art, may be attributed to the frequent prostitution of exalted genius in portraying scenes and passions which are corrupt in themselves, and corrupting to those who are brought within their influence. Vice has no natural alliance with true poetry. To attempt to adorn immorality with the charms of poetical imagery, is like the attempt to beautify a putrid corpse by investing it with a mantle of golden tissue. The character of poetry is never sustained with dignity but when it expatiates amidst the glorious works of the Creator, or when its

homage is paid to virtue. To assert that sacred themes are unsuited to its nature is, to say the least of it, to speak ignorantly. If the displays of Divine wisdom, power and goodness in external nature, be a fruitful source of its inspiration, much more the revelation of mercy, grace and truth in the plan of salvation. Who can deny that the Bible furnishes poetry of the highest order, unequalled in dignity, pathos, and sublimity? From its rich streams even a Milton drew his inspiration.

The present collection may possibly furnish some evidence that true poetry may be allied to the purest moral and religious feelings and sentiments. We have endeavoured to collect the scattered gems around us; and the only merit we claim, is that we have gathered them into a casket as a suitable offering to those who can appreciate their value. They are not equal in richness, but it is hoped that a pearl will not be despised because it is not a diamond.

It did not accord with the design of the collection to embrace long poems, but those minor pieces, which often evince the impulses of genius more strikingly than prolonged efforts. Not a few true poets have only been known in what some would style fugitive pieces; and in most elaborate poems, it is generally admitted, the purely poetical portions are sadly disproportioned to what is common place and of inferior merit.

Perhaps justice might require the amplification of the volume, so as to comprehend many pieces whose merits entitle them to a place in such a collection; but other motives suggested the propriety of the limit which has been adopted.

Should the collection, as it is, tend to soothe the troubled mind, or inspire with seriousness the thoughtless; repress vice and give energy to virtue; improve the heart and promote religion, its design will be accomplished.

W. M. ENGLES, Editor.

THE BOOK OF POETRY.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

MILTON.

THESE are Thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair; thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these Heavens
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou, Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.

Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fli'st
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies,
And ye five other wandering fires that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.
Air, and ye Elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform; and mix

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers,
Rising or falling still advance his praise.

His praise, ye Winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye Pines,
With every plant in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living Souls; ye Birds,
That singing up to Heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark.

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

BARBAULD.

GOD of my life, and Author of my days,
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallowed name, to harps of seraphs sung.
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere,
Are equal all; for all are nothing here.

All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul;
As by a charm the waves of grief subside;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide;
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace,
Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,

And one vast object fills my aching sight.

But soon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again.
But He, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust:
His Spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame: