Contented now upon my thigh
  I halt, till life’s short journey end;
  All helplessness, all weakness, I
  On Thee alone for strength depend;
  Nor have I power from Thee to move;
  Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love.

  Lame as I am, I take the prey,
  Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o’ercome;
  I leap for joy, pursue my way,
  And as a bounding hart fly home! 
  Through all eternity to prove,
  Thy nature, and Thy name, is Love!

ROBERT BLAIR

  FROM THE GRAVE

  See yonder hallowed fane;—­the pious work
  Of names once famed, now dubious or forgot,
  And buried midst the wreck of things which were;
  There lie interred the more illustrious dead. 
  The wind is up:  hark! how it howls!  Methinks
  Till now I never heard a sound so dreary: 
  Doors creak, and windows clap, and night’s foul bird,
  Rooked in the spire, screams loud:  the gloomy aisles,
  Black—­plastered, and hung round with shreds of ’scutcheons
  And tattered coats of arms, send back the sound
  Laden with heavier airs, from the low vaults,
  The mansions of the dead.—­Roused from their slumbers,
  In grim array the grisly spectres rise,
  Grin horrible, and, obstinately sullen,
  Pass and repass, hushed as the foot of night. 
  Again the screech-owl shrieks:  ungracious sound! 
  I’ll hear no more; it makes one’s blood run chill.

* * * * *

Oft in the lone churchyard at night I’ve seen
By glimpse of moonshine chequering through the trees,
The school-boy, with his satchel in his hand,
Whistling aloud to bear his courage up,
And lightly tripping o’er the long flat stones,
(With nettles skirted, and with moss o’ergrown,)
That tell in homely phrase who lie below. 
Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,
The sound of something purring at his heels;
Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,
Till out of breath he overtakes his fellows;
Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O’er some new-opened grave; and (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

  The new-made widow, too, I’ve sometimes spied,
  Sad sight! slow moving o’er the prostrate dead: 
  Listless, she crawls along in doleful black,
  Whilst bursts of sorrow gush from either eye,
  Fast falling down her now untasted cheek: 
  Prone on the lowly grave of the dear man
  She drops; whilst busy, meddling memory,
  In barbarous succession musters up
  The past endearments of their softer hours,
  Tenacious of its theme.  Still, still she thinks
  She sees him, and indulging the fond thought,
  Clings yet more closely to the senseless turf,
  Nor heeds the passenger who looks that way.