Dread was the hour, but short as dread, when from the guarded down,

Fierce Cromwell's rebel soldiery kept watch o'er Wykeham's town:

Beneath their pointed cannon all Itchen's valley lay, St. Catharine's breezy side, and the woodlands far

away,

The huge cathedral sleeping in venerable gloom,

The modest college tower, and the bedesman's Norman home.

They spoiled the graves of valiant men, warrior, and saint, and sage,

But at the grave of Wykeham good angels quenched their rage.

Good angels still were there, when the base-hearted son Of Charles, the royal martyr, his course of shame did

run :

Then in those cloisters holy Ken strengthened with deeper prayer

His own and his dear scholar's souls, to what pure souls should dare ;

Bold to rebuke enthroned sin, with calm undazzled

Whether amid the pomp of courts, or on the bed of

death;

Firm against kingly terrors in his free country's cause, Faithful to God's anointed against a world's ap

plause.

Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has Europe seen!

But never since, in Itchen's vale, has war or tumult

been;

God's mercies have been with us, His favor still has

blest

The memories sweet, and glorious deeds, of the good men at rest:

The many prayers, the daily praise, the nurture in the

Word,

Have not in vain ascended up before the gracious Lord:

Nations, and thrones, and reverend laws have melted like a dream;

Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh beside the crystal stream.

Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have

sped

Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet

was led ;

And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presumptuous days,

Learn the old truths, speak the old words, tread in the ancient ways:

Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime; Still linked in bands of brotherhood, St. Catharine's steep they climb;

Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wykeham's tomb;

Still in the summer twilight sing their sweet song of home.

And at th' appointed seasons, when Wykeham's bounties claim

The full heart's solemn tribute from those who love his

name,

Still shall his white-robed children, as age on age rolls

by,

At Oxford, and at Winchester, give thanks to God Most High:

And amid kings, and martyrs shedding down glorious light,

While the deep-echoing organ swells to the vaulted height,

With grateful thoughts o'erflowing at the mercies they

behold,

They shall praise their sainted fathers, the famous men of old.

CXXVII

TRUST IN GOD, AND DO THE RIGHT

OURAGE, brother, do not stumble,

Co

Though thy path be dark as night;

;

There's a star to guide the humble; -
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Let the road be rough and dreary,
And its end far out of sight,
Foot it bravely! strong, or weary,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Perish policy and cunning!

Perish all that fears the light!
Whether losing, whether winning,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Trust no party, sect, or faction;

Trust no leaders in the fight;

But in every word and action,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Trust no lovely forms of passion:
Fiends may look like angels bright;
Trust no custom, school, or fashion,
"Trust in God, and do the right."

Simple rule, and safest guiding,
Inward peace, and inward might,
Star upon our path abiding,

"Trust in God, and do the right."

Some will hate thee, some will love thee,
Some will flatter, some will slight:
Cease from man, and look above thee,
"Trust in God, and do the right."
Norman Macleod

V

DEATH

L

CXXVIII

MAN'S MORTALITY

IKE as the damask rose you see,
Or as the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,

E'en such is man; — whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,

The gourd consumes - and man, he dies.
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan,

E'en such is man;· - who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life, and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dews ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan's near death, - man's life is done.
S. Wastell