"--
_Jer_. vii. 32.
WHO IS THE MAID?
ST. JEROME'S LOVE.
(AIR.--BEETHOVEN.)
Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has _she_ Love's roses on her cheeks?
Is _hers_ an eye of this world's light?
No--wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if at times a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.
I chose not her, my heart's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly decked,
As if themselves were things divine.
No--Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broidered veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.
Not so the faded form I prize
And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
Is all the grace _her_ brow puts on.
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,
So touching as that form's decay,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,
In holy lustre wastes away.
THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.
(AIR.--STEVENSON.)
This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow--
There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;
And love and hope, and beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gathered for the tomb--
There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven,
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way--
There's nothing calm but Heaven!
OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.
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