JANUARY 28.

THE POET'S PRAYER.

TO APOLLO ON THE PALATINE.

WHAT is it that the Poet implores
The shrined Apollo, when he pours
The first-fruits of the grape with prayer?
Not broad Sardinia's wealth of corn,
Nor herds from lush Calabria borne,
Nor gold of Ind, nor ivory rare,
Nor orchards silent as the grave
Where Liris pours her greedy wave.
Let others wield the pruning-knife,
And render lavish Fortune thanks
Who cast their lot on Cales' banks;

And let the merchant owe his life
To Heaven itself, who boldly dares
To cross the ocean with his wares

Some three or four times every year; From golden goblets though he drain The precious vintage of his gain,

For me the price were all too dear.
Light olives feed me, and such fare
As my own garden-plot will bear;

My present goods are my desire,
While strength remains, and I would find,
Latona's son, with stable mind,

An honour'd eld and trusty lyre.

HORACE (Trs. Editors).

JANUARY 29.

MERCY PRAYETH FOR MANKIND IN
HEAVEN.

He was but dust, why fear'd he not to fall? And being fall'n, how can he hope to live? Cannot the hand destroy him, that made all? Could He not take away, as well as give? Should man deprave, and shall not God deprive? Was it not all the world's deceiving spirit, (That puffed up with pride of his own merit, Fell in his rise) that him of heav'n did disinherit ?

He was but dust: how could he stand before him? And being fall'n, why should he fear to die? Cannot the hand that made him first, restore him? Depraved by sin, should he deprived lie

Of grace

?Can he not hide infirmity,

Who gave him strength? Unworthy the forsaking He is, who ever weighs, without mistaking, Or maker of the man, or manner of his making.

Who shall bring incense to Thy temple more?
Or on Thy altar crown the sacrifice;

Or strew with idle flow'rs the hallow'd floor?
Or why should prayer deck with herbs and spice
Her vials, breathing orisons of price?

If all must pay, that which all cannot pay,
Oh! first begin with me, and Mercy flay.

And Thy thrice-honoured Son, who now beneath doth stray.

But if or He or I may live and speak,

And heav'n rejoice to see a sinner weep, Oh! let not Justice' iron sceptre break

A heart already broke; that low doth creep,
And with humility her feet's dust doth sweep.
Must all go by desert? is nothing free?
Ah! if but chose, who only worthy be,

None should Thee ever see, none should Thee ever see!

What hath man done, that man shall not undo,
Since God to him is grown so near akin?

Did his foe slay him?

Hath he lost all?
Is sin his master?

He shall slay his foe:
He all again shall win:

He shall master sin;

Too hardy soul, with sin the field to try;
The only way to conquer, was to fly:

But thus long death hath liv'd, and now death's self shall die.

Christ is a path,—if any be misled;

If

He is a robe, if any naked be;

any chance to hunger,—He is bread;

If any be a bondman, he is free;

If any be but weak, how strong is He?

To dead men, life He is; to sick men health; To blind men, sight; and to the needy, wealth; A pleasure without loss;—a treasure without stealth. GILES FLETCHER.

JANUARY 30.

[Execution of Charles I., 1649.]

THE VANITY OF KINGS.

Of comfort no man speak ;

Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;
Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes
Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.

Let's choose executors, and make our wills:
And yet not so,—for what have we to bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground?
Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's,
And nothing can we call our own but death,
And that small model of the barren earth
Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.
For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings,—
How some have been deposed, some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed,
Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping killed,—
All murdered.-For within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state, and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh, which walls our mortal life,
Were brass impregnable, and, humour'd thus,
Comes at the last, and with a little pin

Bores through his castle walls, and farewell, king!
Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence; throw away respect,
Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty,

For you

have but mistook me all this while; I live with bread like you, feel want, taste grief, Need friends;-subjected thus,

How can you say to me—I am a king?

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

JANUARY 31.

PARAPHRASE. ISAIAH XII.

O LIVING LORD, I still will laud Thy name,
For though Thou wert offended once with me,
Thy heavy wrath is turned from me again,
And graciously Thou now dost comfort me.

Behold, the Lord is my salvation,

I trust in Him, and fear not any power: He is my song, the strength I lean upon, The Lord God is my loving Saviour.

Therefore with joy out of the Well of Life

Draw forth sweet water which it doth afford;

And in the day of trouble and of strife

Call on the name of God, the living Lord.

Extol His works and wonders to the sun;
Unto all people let His praise be shown:
Record in song the marvels He hath done,
And let His glory through the world be blown.

Cry out aloud, and shout on Zion's hill,

I give thee charge that this proclaimèd be: The great and mighty King of Israel

Now only dwelleth in the midst of thee.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

с