A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations / Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

by Unknown

SOUL.

And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.—Genesis, ii. 7.

Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.—Psalm ciii. 1.

I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.

My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they than watch for the morning.—Psalm cxxx. 5, 6.

For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?—Matthew, xvi. 26.

Though life, since finite, has so ill excuse

For being but in finite objects learned,

Yet sure the soul was made for little use,

Unless it be in infinites concerned.

Sir William Davenant.

But Thou which didst man’s soul of nothing make,

And when to nothing it was fallen again,

To make it new, the form of man didst take,

And, God with God, becam’st a man with men:

Thou that hast fashioned twice this soul of ours,

So that she is by double title thine;

Thou only know’st her nature and her powers,

Her subtile form Thou only canst define.

We that acquaint ourselves with every zone,

And pass the tropics and behold each pole;

When we come home are to ourselves unknown,

And unacquainted still with our own soul.

Davies.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array,

Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

Why so large cost, having so short a leese,

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end?

Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,

And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

Within be fed, without be rich no more;

So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men;

And, death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

Shakspere.

The soul which doth with God unite,

Those gaieties how doth she slight,

Which o’er opinion sway!

Like sacred virgin wax, which shines

On altars or on Martyrs’ shrines,

How doth she burn away!

How violent are her throes till she

From envious earth deliver’d be,

Which doth her flight restrain!

How doth she doat on whips and racks,

On fires, and the so dreaded axe,

And every murdering pain!

How soon she leaves the pride of wealth,

The flatteries of youth and health,

And fame’s more precious breath;

And every gaudy circumstance

That doth the pomp of life advance

At the approach of death.

W. Habington.

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright!

The bridal of the earth and sky:

The dew shall weep thy fall to-night,

For Thou must die.

Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:

Thy root is ever in the grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie:

My music shows you have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season’d timber never gives,

But, though the whole world turns to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

Herbert.

The soul of man (let man in homage bow

Who names his soul) a native of the skies!

High-born and free, her freedom should maintain,

Unsold, unmortgaged for earth’s little bribes.

Young.

Dearly pays the soul

For lodging ill; too dearly rents her day.

Young.

The soul, secure in her existence, smiles

At the drawn dagger, and defies its point:

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself

Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years:

But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,

Unhurt amidst the war of elements,

The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds!

Addison.

For from the birth

Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said,

That not in humble, nor in brief delight,

Not in the fading echoes of renown,

Power’s purple robe, nor pleasure’s flowery lap,

The Soul should find enjoyment: but from these

Turning, disdainful, to an equal good,

Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view,

Till every bound at length should disappear,

And infinite perfection close the scene.

Akenside.

The soul on earth is an immortal guest,

Condemned to starve at an unreal feast:

A spark, which upwards tends by nature’s force;

A stream, diverted from its parent source;

A drop dissevered from the boundless sea;

A moment, parted from eternity;

A pilgrim panting for the rest to come;

An exile, anxious for his native home.

Hannah More.

Since soul decays not; freed from earth,

And earthly coils, it bursts away;

Receiving a celestial birth,

And spurning off its bonds of clay,

It soars and seeks another sphere,

And blooms through heaven’s eternal year.

Moir.

O Lady! we receive but what we give,

And in our life alone does nature live:

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!

And would we aught behold, of higher worth

Than that inanimate cold world allowed

To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,

Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,

A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the earth,

And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,

Of all sweet sounds the life and element.

Coleridge.

The spirit leaves the body’s wondrous frame,

That frame itself a world of strength and skill;

The nobler inmate new abodes will claim,

In every change to Thee aspiring still.

Although from darkness born, to darkness fled,

We know that light beyond surrounds the whole;

The man survives, though the weird corpse be dead,

And He who dooms the flesh, redeems the soul.

John Sterling.

Lord! we sit and cry to Thee,

Like the blind beside the way:

Make our darkened souls to see

The glory of Thy perfect day!

Lord! rebuke our sullen night,

And give Thyself unto our sight!

H. H. Milman.

The Soul!—the Soul!—with its eye of fire,

Thus, thus shall it soar when its foes expire;

It shall spread its wings o’er the ills that pained,

The evils that shadowed, the sins that stained;

It shall dwell where no rushing cloud hath sway,

And the pageants of earth shall have melted away.

Mrs. Sigourney.

That mysterious thing,

Which hath no limit from the walls of sense,—

No chill from hoary time,—with pale decay

No fellowship,—but shall stand forth unchanged,

Unscorched amid the resurrection fires,

To bear its boundless lot of good or ill.

Mrs. Sigourney.