Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss

Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.

Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.

The Saviour who flitted before the patriarchs through the fog of the old dispensation, and who spake in time past to the fathers by the prophets, articulate but unseen, is the same Saviour who, on the open heights of the Gospel, and in the abundant daylight of this New Testament, speaks to us. Still all along it is the same Jesus, and that Bible is from beginning to end all of it, the word of Christ.

Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Sweet bird, that shun the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy!