The beacon light, like a quiet star, And o'er our hill the harvest moon There is not a passing sound to tell But many a boat at its moorings lies, So deep round the bay the shadows fall, The voice of the sea was never hushed! And the rocks stand listening round. Through its ancient woods the abbey* shews I would not change an hour like this The God of Peace round His sleeping world * 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, And thinks of all that once he was, Ere the work of sin was wrought; And yearns for the day when home once more DIES IRE. (Imitated.) J. A. W. THE Day of Wrath! the day of gloom, With Rome's pale prophetess of yore.* How awful then must be the dread, -Or present, or of days of old. The trumpet, sending forth its sound, "David testâ cum Sybilla."-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, With whom we, trembling, have to do. Seated aloft on His high throne, Each secret shall the Judge make known; While sins, long shrouded in the night, Vainly elude His piercing sight. How wretched then must I appear! O, King of Majesty divine, Who savest those thou callest thine, Remember, O, my Saviour-God, Weary, Thou hast thy suppliant soughtHis ransom with thy Cross hast wrought: O, let not this, thy labour, prove In vain, Thou mighty God of love! Just Judge of vengeance, ere too late, Ere thy dread Day of Wrath begin! Guilty, I groan with culprit fear; Thou who hast Mary's sins absolved, All worthless though my prayers may be, Consume thy child, who owns his shame. 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, When from the dust, and from the tomb, Frail men to judgment shall arise,— Spare him, good Lord of earth and skies! 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, Where erst the beacon-fire, with blaze As dim tradition tells the tale, In days of eld,-forgotten now, D D |