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The beacon light, like a quiet star,
Its ray on the waves has shed.
And o'er our hill the harvest moon
Is risen broad and clear;
That the haunts of men are near.
But many a boat at its moorings lies,
Dark in the flood of ligbt;
Not a ripple seems stirred to-night.
The voice of the sea was never hushed !
It comes with measured sound, Steadily booming on the shore,
And the rocks stand listening round.
Through its ancient woods the abbey* shews
A dim and silvery gleam-
For the morning's brightest beam.
The God of Peace round His sleeping world
His wings has folded nigh;
* Tor Abbey ;-the seat of the ancient Devonshire family, Cary of Tor Abbey. Vide Burke's History of the Commoners, and Prince's Worthies of Devon. A rude engraving of the original edifice may be found in Dugdale's Monasticon, portions of which, both habitable and in ruins, adjoin the manor house, a building itself some two centuries old.-ED.
As a father mourns o'er an erring child,
Who dreams not he is by ;
And thinks of all that once he was,
Ere the work of sin was wrought; And yearns for the day when home once more
The strayed one shall be brought.
J. A. W.
The Day of Wrath! the day of gloom,
How awful then must be the dread,
The trumpet, sending forth its sound,
* “ David testâ cum Sybillâ.”—It is said that, according to Sybilline prophecy, there was a belief among the ancient Romans that the world should be destroyed by fire.
Through the wide earth, and to the throne Call myriads, wakened by its tone.
Then Death and Nature, in amaze,
Then, too, the Books shall open lie,
Seated aloft on His high throne,
How wretched then must I appear!
0, King of Majesty divine,
Remember, 0, my Saviour-God, For me Thou hast in anguish trod This world of sin, which scorned thy sway0, , spurn me not in that great day!
Weary, Thou hast thy suppliant sought-
Just Judge of vengeance, ere too late,
Guilty, I groan with culprit fear;
appear; Spare me, O God ! O, spare awhile The wretch that supplicates thy smile.
Thou who hast Mary's sins absolved,
All worthless though my prayers may be,
Among the sheep at thy right hand,
While to accursed fires of woe
With voice of blessing, cheer and call
Suppliant and prostrate, lo! I pray:
The Day of Wrath !—that day of gloom,
STANZAS WRITTEN ON BRENT-TOR
CHURCH, DARTMOOR, DEVON.
July 7, 1837.
J. A. W.
It stands alone,—that olden fane,
High raised to meet the moorland storm, And dark above the lonely plain,
Uprears its venerable form.
Of lurid red, dispelled the night,
Its towers detain the stranger's sight.
As dim tradition tells the tale,