JAMES MONTGOMERY.
BORN, 1771; DIED, 1854.

Principal Works.—Wanderer of Switzerland, Songs of Zion, The
Pelican Island, Lectures on Poetry, Poets' Portfolio.

NIGHT.

NIGHT is the time for rest;

How sweet! when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose;

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are.

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;

Till all is ours that sages taught,

That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Night is the time to weep,
To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth.

Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Startled by Cæsar's stalworth ghost.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew

To desert mountains far away;
So will his followers do:

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And hold communion there with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease;

Think of heaven's bliss and give the sign
To parting friends-such death be mine!

H

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98

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

WHAT IS PRAYER?

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire,
Uttered or unexpress'd;

The motion of a hidden fire,

That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,

The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;
His watchword at the gates of death-
He enters heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice,
Returning from his ways;
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, "Behold, he prays!"

The saints in prayer appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind;
While with the Father and the Son,

Sweet fellowship they find.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Nor prayer is made on earth alone;
The Holy Spirit pleads;

And Jesus on the eternal throne
For mourners intercedes.

O Thou! by whom we come to God,
The life, the truth, the way;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod:
Lord, teach us how to pray.

As fail the waters from the deep,
As summer brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep,
His life is vanity.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Till yonder arching sphere
Shall with a roll of thunder break,
And nature disappear.

Oh! hide me till thy wrath be past,
Thou, who canst slay or save!
Hide me where hope may anchor fast,
In my Redeemer's grave!

99

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
BORN, 1772; DIED, 1834.

Principal Works.-The Statesman's Manual, Sybilline Leaves,
The Friend, Aids to Reflection, The Ancient Mariner.

HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF
CHAMOUNY.

HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc !
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth the silent sea of pines,
How silently! Around thee and above
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent mount! I gaz'd upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranc'd in prayer,
I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are list'ning to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
Yea, with
my life and life's own secret joy;

Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfus'd
Into the mighty vision passing-then,

As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven.
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,