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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 132 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Serious poetry Fry, Caroline, 1787-1846. by Caroline Fry Baker and Fletcher London 1826

This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler I Suppl:984. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I Suppl:984mf.

All poems, line groups, and lines are represented. All material originally typeset has been preserved, with the exception of running heads, the original prose line breaks, signature markings and decorative typographical elements. Page numbers and page breaks have been preserved. Pencilled annotations and other damage to the text have not been preserved.

 July 30, 2007 Charlotte Payne ed. Proofed and entered final corrections. SERIOUS POETRY.

[Title Page]

SERIOUS POETRY. BY CAROLINE FRY, AUTHOR OF DEATH AND OTHER POEMS; A POETICALCATECHISM FOR THE USE OF YOUNG PERSONS, &c. WITHA SUPPLEMENT,CONTAINING A SELECTION OF PIECES FROM THE ASSISTANT OFEDUCATION, BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THIRD EDITION. LONDON: PRINTED FOR BAKER AND FLETCHER,18, FINSBURY PLACE. 1826. BAKER AND SON, PRINTERS, SOUTHAMPTON PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

OF this small collection of Poems, none were written for publication but those that have reference to the Jewish Prophecies, which have been added at the request of a friend. Of the rest, some few were composed by the desire of friends whose partiality valued them. The greater part were but the amusement of sleepless or solitary hours, with no motive for the composition but the feelings of the moment. But they are feelings to which every Christian is alike subjected; and this may give them an interest which otherwise they could not have.In our agitated passage through the world, it is sometimes good to know what others have felt, what others have thought; and though the Author of these Poems is aware that they have no claim to notice as poetry, she trusts they may be received as the serious reflections of a Christian who only wrote because she felt.

 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE THIRD EDITION.

IT has been deemed adviseable in the present edition to add a Selection of the most esteemed pieces from the "Assistant of Education,'' by the same Author; which it is hoped will be considered a valuable addition to the original work.

 CONTENTS. EVENING 1 To a Friend, who expressed a fear that the Bible was a sealed Book to her 5 The Lily 8 On the Love of God 12 Lines written under a Sketch of Oare Church 21 The Gale 25 The Dawn 28 Lines written on hearing it said, we ought not to pray for our Saviour's Second Coming upon Earth 30 On hearing the Song of a Bird one cold Sabbath Evening in February 35 To a Friend who complained that she had not a Home 37 The Setting Sun 39 Midnight Thoughts 42 The Wild Flower 46 When shall I flee away, and be at rest? 50 The Sabbath 52 Poll Peg, Leicestershire: a Sketch 57 Faith 63 Patience 66 On parting from a Friend 74 Lines written in time of Sickness, on hearing it asked if I was resigned to die 78 The Calm 82 To a Friend, on taking leave of Oare 85 On being asked the necessity of Prayer to those who believe in the Immutability of the Divine Decrees 88 From the Thirty-sixth Chapter of Ezekiel 94 Reflections on the Close of the Year, December 31st, 1821; being also my Birth-Day 97 Humility 102 To a Friend 107 The Harp of Judah 110 Night 112 On parting from a Friend, under particular Circumstances 114 The Complaint 119 The Consolation 123 To an absent Friend, who complained of being forgotten 127 The Rejected Prayer 129 The Winter Moon 132 The Barren Rock 136 The Anchor 141 A Thought on Beachy-Head 143 A Borrowed Thought 145 The Night-blowing Cerus 149 Easter Thoughts 152 The Vine-branch 157 The Sea-bird 159 A Hymn in Sickness 162 The Violet 165 The Twin Roses 168 The Mediator 171 On being asked to paint a Flower in the Winter 175 Reply to the above, with a Forget-me-not 177 On hearing it said, there is no Satisfactory Happiness on Earth 180 In Answer to a Remark 186 POEMS,ETC. [EVENING.] WE walk'd by the side Of the tranquil stream, That the sun had tinged With his parting beam; The water was still, And so crystal clear, That every spray Had its image there. And every reed That o'er it bow'd, And the crimson streak, And the silvery cloud, And all that was bright, And all that was fair, And all that was gay, Was reflected there. And they said it was like To the chasten'd breast, That religion soothes To a holy rest; When sorrow has tam'd The impassion'd eye, And the bosom reflects Its expected sky. But I took a stone That lay beside, And I cast it far On the glassy tide; And gone was the charm Of the pictur'd scene, And the sky so bright, And the landscape green. And I bade them mark How an idle word, Too lightly said, And too deeply heard, Or a harsh reproof, Or a look unkind, May spoil the peace Of the heavenly mind. Though sweet be the peace, And holy the calm, And the heavenly beam Be bright and warm; The heart that it gilds Is all as weak As the wave that reflects The crimson streak. You cannot impede The celestial ray, That lights the dawn Of eternal day; But so may you trouble The bosom it cheers, 'Twill cease to be true To the image it bears. TOA FRIENDWHO EXPRESSED A FEAR THAT THEBIBLE WAS A SEALED BOOK TO HER. SEAL'D is it? Where then did you learn the sigh That speaks a knowledge which your lips deny? If its rich treasures never were reveal'd, Where did you learn to wish the Book unseal'd? The Esquimaux, to other climes unknown, Can never sorrow for a milder zone. So, had you never tasted of the fruit, You had not sought with tears the hidden root. Seal'd is it? wherefore should you think so? No! 'Twas never seal'd to one who fear'd it so. The troubled dreamer, in the midnight gloom, Wrapt in deep slumber, glides from room to room, Fearless of ill, unconscious of the night, His bold, unfaltering footstep asks no light; Onward he passes, with untroubled mind, To seek some spot he waking could not find; But if the dream be broken, and again Suspended reason should assume her reign, Strange to the path he knew so well before, He sees the darkness, and he sees no more: And does not so the soul? She too is bold, Ere yet the dangers of the way are told. No fearful mysteries her thoughts engage, She sees no seal upon the hallow'd page; The awful bar, invisible as strong, Hides all the doubtings that to faith belong. Time has been, and not very much remote, When all was hidden, and you knew it not; How thought you then of mysteries conceal'd? Did you sigh then to have the Book unseal'd? No; when, in faintest accents, in your ear The Spirit whisper'd, "There are secrets there," In that same hour the curtain was undrawn, The Book was open'd, and the seal was gone: The ray that lights you may be faint indeed, And scarcely seen the sunbeam that you need; Even as when we watch the opening day, To catch the glimmering and uncertain ray, At first it seems so loitering, so slow, We almost doubt if it be morn or no; But sure as twilight brings the perfect day, A brighter sun shall light your future way, Till mercy perfected your soul dismiss To boundless knowledge and unmeasured bliss. THE LILY. Look down from heaven, and behold and visit this vine. PSALM lxxx. 14. THE spot where I loiter'd was lonely and wild, The bleak winds of heaven were blowing, When I look'd on a lily of loveliest hue, That alone and unshelter'd was growing. What once was a garden, deserted and waste, Was now but the wild nettle's bed; The hedge-row, neglected and scatter'd to earth, Forbade not the passenger's tread. The thorn and the thistle disputed the soil Where fairest of flowers had blown; The hand that had planted them left them to die, And the lily was blooming alone. Sweet flower, I whisper'd, so frail as thou art, This waste is no garden for thee, That form which the rude wind so ruthless has torn, Some eye once delighted to see. It watch'd thee at morning, it watch'd thee at eve, And wept when it saw thee decline, And sought for the insect that rankles the bud; And forbade it to nestle in thine. But now it forgets thee, and leaves thee alone, To dwell with the poisonous weed; The thorn is thy fellow, the thistle thy mate, Thou wilt perish, and no one will heed. And one there is like thee—the cherish'd, the lov'd— Ah! have we no tear for her fate? The foot of the stranger has pass'd o'er her soil, And the infidel sits in her gate. The eye that had watch'd her, the hand that had rear'd, In bitter displeasure averted, Has left her the meanest, the vilest of earth, An alien, alone and deserted. Disown'd in her birth-place, disown'd where she dwells, A stranger where'er she appears, The heart that can melt for all sorrow beside, Refuses its pity to hers. Great Father of Mercies! remember thy word; O hasten, and visit this vine! The scorn of the Gentile has crush'd it to earth, 'Twas unfruitful,— but still it is thine! 'Tis that thou hadst planted, 'tis that thou hadst rear'd; Have pity, and hasten the hour, When the dews of thy love shall be fresh on her leaf, And thy sunbeam be bright on her flow'r: The hour when they, who pass over her now With careless and pitiless foot, Shall come with delight to repose in her shade, And gratefully take of her fruit. ON THELOVE OF GOD. We love Him because He first loved us. I JOHN, iv. 19. THERE was a slave, who, born to days unbless'd, Drew from his parent blood the hard decree Of ceaseless and unwilling servitude. His fathers, many an age, had worn the yoke Of an incens'd and much offended Lord, Whom ancient wrong, and ire inherited, Had made the object of their ceaseless dread. Just was he, and yet merciless to these, The subjects of his well deserved wrath. "Do this, and live—neglect it, and thou diest!" This was his high, irrevocable word. The slave, unknowing of a better state, And early taught that to obey was life, Repin'd not at his destiny, but sought To ease the servitude he could not shun, And to evade the penalty he fear'd. Much was he learned to digest the law, And well he knew, by artful sophistry, To bend the rigid letter to his will. Here to excuse by outward circumstance, There by the native feebleness within; This by temptation, that by ignorance; It seem'd his only effort was to find How little he might do and be secure; And where he could not soften, or pervert, He served with slavish and mistrustful zeal. He served, indeed, but did he love that Lord? Would he not leave his service, if he could? Would he not disobey him, if he dar'd? This is not love—he did not, could not love him. But it befell, that in a kinder hour,— For much of kindness was there in his breast,— The Lord, contemplating this race condemn'd, Fixed his paternal fondness on the slave, And, paying of his own the ransom due, Took him to be his favour'd, foster'd child. Gone was the bitter menace of the law, The natal curse, and judgment's dreaded hour; For he, his master once, his father now, Nurtur'd and led him with a father's care, Chastis'd his errors, but as fathers do, Ev'n while they chasten longing to forgive; And law or service none did he require, But such as children to a parent owe, The law of gratitude, the zeal of love. Lov'd he his master now? How should he not? And if you deem the portraiture I draw Of what a Christian to his Maker owes, And strives to render, be too highly drawn, Judge ye between the master and his slave. For were I bade to tell what earthly spirit Best loves his great Creator and his God, His Lord, his Master, I would say 'tis he Who best believes himself belov'd of him. One who errs not has answer'd the demand, And says, "Herein is love;" but mark him where; "Not you lov'd me, but I have loved you." But many a proud pretender's lofty boast Of zeal and service in the cause of heaven, Must fall before this high and holy test; And many an erring saint might thence be taught, That with a faithless and mistrustful fear, Seeming to doubt himself, he doubts his God. Oh! would you be assur'd you love your God, Make him a God that must be lov'd of need, A God you cannot otherwise than love. Throw off that yoke of joyless servitude, That niggard balancing of right and wrong, Which fears to give too little or too much. Doubt is not love—suspicion is not love! Believe that He has known you, pitied you, Taken you from prison and from death, Sought and pursu'd you through a world of ill— Restrain'd you, taught you, rear'd you for his own. Believe that he forgives you every sin, Pays every debt, and cancels every claim— Watches beside your pillow while you sleep, Supports you, leads you, guards you when you wake, And bids his angels know no better task Than to administer to you, his child. And while in heaven's high mansion he prepares The seat of royalty he bids you claim, Arrays you in a vesture so divine, Of holiness and virtue not your own, That when the hour of just adjudgment comes, All may confess in you the heir of heaven. Believe the Lord your God is such an one,. And you must love him, even to your soul. And if your heart, mistrustful, still will ask, "But is it so?" It is, if you believe it— If you will have it, if you wish it so. He says it—He who never yet has fail'd, Since time began, to do the thing he says— And shall He falsely change his purpose now, False in his love, though true in all beside? Believe him, trust him, doubt not what he says— Believe that he is this, and this to you; And if your heart be as the marble cold, And hard of nature as the stubborn rock, 'Twill melt at contemplation of such love. Then will you serve him with a heart so free, So light, so confident, your Lord himself Will glory in the service you can pay. The wrong corrupted nature still will do Towards such a God, will seem but doubly wrong; But, if the sense of new-discover'd guilt Tempt you to doubt his mercy and his love, Asham'd to have mistrusted one so kind, You'll shed more tears of sorrow for that doubt, Than for the sin itself that urg'd you to it. Assur'd that one who loves you as his child, Feels all your griefs, and joys when you are glad, You will hear nothing in his high decrees, E'en when they wound you, but the voice of love; You'll read a lesson that he wills you learn, And not a dispensation of his wrath. When heaven's severer judgments are abroad, And awe and terror overhang the world, A sentiment sublime will fill your soul, And whisper in you, " 'Tis my Father's hand— All may be lost, the world itself may fall, But I shall be uninjured—I am His." The good he gives you will be doubly dear, Because he gives it; and this nether world Will gain a charm it never had before— And even its disorders and its ills Will shed a pleasing wonder o'er your soul, To see how blindly they advance his will. His services, his altars, and his house, Will be the scenes of your intensest joys, The things on earth you last would sacrifice. His people you will love with such a love As that your heavenly Master feels for you— Something distinct from what their merit claims, A love that is not lessen'd by the faults Their Lord himself is pleas'd to overlook. 'Tis they will be your counsellors and friends, In grief your solace, partners in your bliss. No measurement of service or of zeal Will wake your fears; no calculation cold Of what you may, or what you may not do; Your joy will be to give him all you can; Your greatest grief, that you can give no more: Your business in life will then be none In which you cannot ask his helping hand; Your pleasures none but those himself has given, And none for which you cannot give him thanks. In grief your first sensation will be prayer, In joy your strongest impulse will be praise. You will expect from him your utmost wish, Because you wish not, if he wish not too. Thus will you serve Him with a holy calm, Love what He loves, and fear what he condemns; And feeling that in Him is all your joy, And in his presence your most pure delight, You will await His coming in such mind, As we await the thing we most desire. Let nature answer, if this be not love. WRITTEN UNDER A SKETCHOFOARE CHURCH. WHERE, amid tumultuous waters, Sickening with a hope repress'd, Far from all his soul desires, Loves the sailor's eye to rest? Is it not on that far beacon Faintly beaming through the gloom, Which some friendly hand has lighted To mark the path that leads him home? Methinks a hand as kind has rear'd On yonder hill the simple pile, That, 'mid the world's distasteful travel, The aspect might our path beguile. Hardly press'd by earthly sorrow, Often have I turn'd my eye, And caught the outline of its tower, Trac'd upon the azure sky. Emblem of the peace it proffers, It has checked the anxious tear; Though the world should do its worst, There is peace and comfort there. Yes—and when the maddening draught Of earthly pleasure ran too high, The distant form has seem'd to say "Remember," when it met my eye. Memento of a Saviour's love, Oft forgotten, oft denied, However far my footsteps wander, Be thou ever at my side. Tell me, when the world allures me, 'Twas not such the bliss I knew, When beneath thy hallow'd ceiling Draughts of holy joy I drew. Tell me, when that world betrays me, Where its sorrows cease to harm, Where I learn'd to brave its dangers, Resting on a Saviour's arm. Tell, O tell me, when my folly Treads the path of sin too near, How many pangs of bitter anguish Sense of sin has cost me there. Bring to memory every feeling Thou hast witness'd in my breast; Be the beacon that shall guide me To realms of everlasting rest. THE GALE. MY seat was the strand of the southern shore, The salt wave bath'd my feet, I lov'd to list to the ocean's roar, In its fitful, slow retreat. And many a veering sail was there, Impell'd by the south wind's force; And changeful e'en as the waves that bare, Was the vessel's troubled course. Now white and full the sails were spread, And shone in the bright sun-beam; A moment—all was dark and dead, And gone was the partial gleam. Sometimes she rode like a monarch proud, On the subject waves uprear'd; Then far o'er the fluid steep she bow'd, And a moment disappear'd. She never rose so blithe and brave, But she sunk in the deep anon; She never sunk so far in the wave, But she rose again as soon. And many a thought came o'er my mind, As I watch'd her changeful mood, With many a feeling deep combin'd, That my bosom understood. But there was one above the rest That linger'd on the thought; It found a welcome in a breast That lov'd the truth it taught. For I saw that, howe'er the vessel toss'd, Still a homeward course it bore, And the wave that seem'd to distract it most, But impell'd it towards the shore. And thus, I said, may each storm that blow'd Have shorten'd the way I come; And shall I complain that the wave is rude, If it bear me the sooner home? THE DAWN. PENSIVE as I watch'd the night, Many a star was glitt'ring bright, While their gay, but warmthless rays, Wak'd the thoughts of other days: Like the joys I knew of old, They were bright, but they were cold; Parting with the parting shade, One by one I saw them fade— Duly as the morning clear'd, One by one they disappear'd. So, before celestial light, Sink the joys of nature's night; 'Twas but folly made them dear, 'Twas but darkness made them fair. As the dawn of grace increases, Earth's delusion sinks and ceases; Joys that once were all my bliss, Fading into nothingness, Take them wings, and pass away, Lost in everlasting day. WRITTEN ON HEARING IT SAID, WE OUGHT NOTTO PRAY FOR OUR SAVIOUR'S SECOND COMINGUPON EARTH. AND is it so? Look at creation round! See you how fair, how beautiful it is, How form'd to bless, how exquisite to please? We tread its wonders e'en beneath our feet, We revel in its luxuries every hour, And feast our every sense upon its charms. Fit dwelling was it for a sinless race, Form'd in the image of their parent God; And 'twas for such he made it. Sad reverse! What passes now in this so lovely scene? What purpose serves this world so beautiful? A vale of death, a prison-house of crime! The sun that lightens, burns it—and the rain That sheds luxuriant verdure o'er the soil, Swells the wild torrent till its ruthless force Buries whole regions in resistless ruin. There's not a gift of Providence, whose use, Excessive or perverted, does not prove A fruitful source of misery or death; There's scarce a worm but preys upon its fellow, And man on all—but most upon himself. Sorrow and pain have so possess'd the world, That he who knows them not is deem'd unwise, If he forget t' expect them. All agree, However differing else, or sad, or gay, All join to say it is an evil world, Though He who made it once pronounc'd it good. Can you contemplate such magnificence, So fallen, so perverted, and not pray That He who form'd it would renew his work, And give it back to innocence and peace? Can you? Then look at something still more sad, More fallen, more perverted, more debas'd: Look at the heart that throbs within your bosom! Not e'en the power of celestial grace Has stay'd its wand'rings, or repress'd its pride. What holy resolutions, heav'n-inspir'd, Ending in disappointment and remorse! Mark how each prayer you breathe is deeply ting'd With some impatient, unsubmitting wish, While e'en the tear of penitence you shed Falls hard by that which flows from wounded pride. How bitter, yet how fruitless, is the hour That sinks the soul beneath its weight of sin, And leaves it scarce less sinful than before! How short the days of spiritual joy, How long the nights of cold and careless distance! What heaven-aspiring energies borne down, And stifled in a perishable frame! Is this the portrait of a heart you know? I never learn'd the secrets of but one— If yours be like it, you have need to pray That time may be when sin shall be no more. Death may rid you of this your cumbrous load, But think how many will be left to bear it. Can we reflect that every child of God Bears the same struggle, and not wish it done? Well may we tremble for the sinner's doom, But little boots it to delay the hour. See how they heap the measure of their guilt, Crime upon crime, to aggravate their fate! Each hour adds something to the sum of ill— The punishment must fill an equal measure. Hasten, O Lord, to close the fearful scene! Hasten to claim the kingdom thou hast won! Restore thy fair creation to itself, To what it was before it learn'd to sin, To what its gracious Master died to make it! How long, how long, must we behold thy laws Broken, insulted, trampled under foot? How long—O worse affliction! must we feel That we, who love thee, help to break them too? While sin remains, we are but half redeem'd. Yes, had I but one other prayer to breathe, But one small remnant of exhausted breath, I'd spend it thus, and this should be my prayer, "So come, Lord Jesus, quickly, quickly come!" ON HEARING THE SONG OF A BIRD ONE COLDSABBATH EVENING IN FEBRUARY. WHAT novel song, sweet Bird, has tun'd thy throat? Thou art not wont to find so sweet a note, When scarce a sunbeam cheers the wintry day, And not a leaf is green upon the spray. Now I could fancy that thy bosom knows Something of that which o'er my spirit flows, When, tun'd to joys more pure than earth can give, I watch the closing of the Sabbath eve. They are not sunshine joys, for they are staid And sober, as the twilight's closing shade; They are not things of earth, for they abide When grief has claim to ev'ry thought beside; And, like thy winter song, poor Bird, they sound More sweet, when all is desolate around. Yes, I have felt it, when the morning hour Confess'd some earthly care's distracting pow'r, And, with a step that spoke the bosom's load, I joyless loiter'd to the house of God. Oh! I have felt, when evening's tranquil hour Bade me retrace the path I trod before, A calm so heavenly o'er my bosom reign, It seem'd no care might enter there again; As if some magic touch had chang'd the scene, And planted flowers where only thorns had been. And thou, sweet Bird, could'st find a song for me, When not a leaf was here to shelter thee: And I will sing through winters long as thine, Where sun of earthly bliss can never shine; But, where returning Sabbaths will renew Flowers that from earthly sunshine never grew; Till songs of purer happiness employ Eternal Sabbaths of eternal joy. TOA FRIENDWHO COMPLAINED THAT SHE HAD NOT A HOME. SAD and slow was the wanderer's tread, As o'er the lengthen'd way she sped; And often she cast a wishful eye On the summer bower as she loiter'd by; Or stopp'd to gather the brilliant flow'r That open'd its bud to the mid-day hour, But the flower died when she touch'd it near, And the summer bower was not for her. The lamb is hous'd when his game is play'd, And the sparrow knows where her nest is made, But the wanderer's toil is never done, All else have a home, but she has none. On whatever spot might her limbs recline, She sigh'd and whisper'd, "It is not mine." She sigh'd till she heard the warning word, "Shall it profit thee, when it slew thy Lord? Earth bare the thorns that pierc'd his brow, Should it yield thee unfading flowers now? Thou wilt find, some fleeting seasons gone, A spot of earth that is all thine own; And none will contend for thy dark abode, When thy spirit is gone to rejoin its God. 'Tis dark—but thy Saviour has shared it too, 'Twas the only home he could find below; And his home in heav'n is for thee to share; Pass lightly on till thou join him there." THE SETTING SUN. THAT sun which is yonder so brightly declining, That you look at with careless delight, Full many a lesson of wisdom might teach, Were you skilful to read them aright. You have seen him envelop'd in dark-boding clouds, When the rain and the tempest appears, When the mists of the evening compass'd him round, And shadow'd his beauty in tears. But knew you that this was an emblem of one Whose bosom is clouded with sin, Whom sorrow has veil'd with the tears of contrition, And darken'd by tempests within. The world, all mistaking for what it beholds, With pity insulting looks on, And esteems that the hope of the saint is destroy'd, That the seal of salvation is gone. But as yonder fair sun, o'er the fast fleeting clouds That menacing gather below, Proceeds on his course, and, though darken'd to us, No change in his brightness can know: So the Spirit of God in the child of His love, Unalter'd by sin or by sorrow, If obscur'd by the vapours of passion to-night, Will shine the more brightly to-morrow. And oft you have seen when the morning has lower'd, And the noon-day been chilling and drear, And the evening threaten'd for wind and for rain, A last gleam of sunshine appear; Appear with a brightness so pure, so serene, Dispelling the mists that infold, That the clouds it is leaving, so awful before, Themselves are all turned to gold. So the saint who has finish'd his day upon earth, Serenely and brightly declining, Sheds a lustre unearthly on all things around, In future beatitude shining: His morning of life may be cheerless and dull, His manhood embarrass'd with ill, His evening comfortless, friendless, and sad, And his death-bed be glorious still! MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS. WHY is my soul with weariness oppress'd, Whence is this load so heavy on my breast? Why is the tear so often on my cheek, When scarce my fortunes may a tear bespeak? Unsatisfied desire it cannot be, For earth has nothing now to promise me; Nor can it be regret for joy bereft, For I want nothing while my God is left; And were it fear, I still might wonder why It should be here when danger is not nigh. But it is none of these—a pang more strong, More deep, more keen, than ever sorrow wrung. O Thou! to whom my inmost thoughts reveal'd Betray a secret from all else conceal'd, Be witness with me, that, from sorrow free, I mourn for nothing but my guilt to thee! When nightly as I rest me on my bed, I trace in memory how the day has sped, Recall each erring thought, each idle word, Each gift misus'd, and warning voice unheard; The world conciliated, the cross denied, Th' impatient wish, the swelling bosom's pride; My spirit shrinks in terror from the view, And mourns to think my God must see it too. Tremendous thought! and must that holy eye Look through my bosom's close obscurity, And to all-judging excellence reveal What I, a mortal, am asham'd to feel? Search every thought, and—no, it must not be, I cannot, dare not, meet the scrutiny! Hide me, my Saviour, in that darkness hide, That veil'd creation when its Maker died! Cast o'er my soul the mantle of thy love, And veil its blackness from the spirits above; Or surely they will doubt if it can be That heaven has a place reserv'd for me. Would I could know, to all but God unknown, If other hearts are evil as my own! For much it seems with folly doubly fraught, So often tutor'd, and so little taught; With bitter penitence so often bow'd, So often humbled, and yet still so proud; The seat of passion's never-ceasing war, This heart must be more hard than others are. My Saviour, yes; I know the guilt I prove Is more than cancell'd by thy dying love; I know the bitterness my bosom bears Is part of that which wrung thy sacred tears. Full well I know the penalty is borne, The sin is pardon'd, but it is not gone. It rather seems that every hour upheaps The guilty measure that my conscience keeps; And as the promis'd heaven comes more near, Methinks I grow less fit to enter there. Must it be always so? Forbid it, Heav'n! For sin is hell, e'en though it be forgiv'n; And that blest mansion whither we repair, Would be no heaven if sin might enter there. Speed then, ye lagging hours, and bear away All that remains of weak mortality; Take all of earthly good I have possess'd— Take but my sins, and I resign the rest. THE WILD FLOWER. [As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.∗] Psalm ciii. 15. WHO heeds thee, poor flower? No fragrance is thine, No sunbeam has dress'd thee with hues of delight, Thou hast found not a branch to o'ershade thee by day, Or shelter thy form from the blast of the night. Thou bloom'st in the morning, but no one regards, Thou diest at eve, unregretted, unseen; No eye would have miss'd thee, no bosom have felt One pleasure the less if thou never hadst been.

[Text in Hebrew in original print edition.]

 Conceal'd in the herbage, thy delicate stem Is hourly crush'd by the passenger's tread, And the brute, as he carelessly grazes the herb, Still presses his foot on thy impotent head. None seek thee, none know thee, none cull thee with care, To bloom on the bosom in life's festive hour; E'en the bee, as he flutters from blossom to blossom, Ne'er settles his wing on thy honeyless flower. Sweet emblem of mercy! the tear of emotion Will fall when I see thee, but falls not for thee; The ills that my fancy would picture as thine, Are the ills that another has suffer'd for me. Yes, Jesus, my Saviour, they tell me of thine, Neglected, despised, like the weed thou hast made; Thy people or saw not, or saw thee with scorn, In a robe of unloveliness meekly array'd. The deep shades of sorrow went over thy brow, But none mark'd the tear that thy innocence shed; The clouds of affliction assembled their thunders, But none felt the shock when it burst on thy head. E'en the flower of the garden is nurtur'd and rear'd, And guarded from evil with delicate care; But thou, like the wild weed, despised of all, Wert known but to Him who implanted thee here. The vilest of mortals might crush thee to earth, Cold insult might wound thee, and no one was mov'd; All beside thee had something to cherish, to soothe, And Thou, only Thou, wert unsought, unbelov'd! But sweet was the incense that flow'd from thy lips, In mercy for those who regarded thee not; Each tear-drop that fell on thy bosom contain'd A balm for our sorrows when thine were forgot. And as yonder fair flower, unvalued, unclaim'd, Thus freely in paths unforbidden has grown, So free is thy mercy, so priceless thy love, Whoever will take thee, may call thee his own. WHEN SHALL I FLEE AWAY, AND BE AT REST! WHITHER wouldst thou, restless Spirit? Why so ill content to stay? Ne'er was night so long and gloomy, But it yielded to the day. Many a flower, yet unbudding, On the winter stem will blow; Many a myrtle wreath shall blossom Yet to circle round thy brow. Close the curtain that envelopes Futurity's untravell'd sphere; Days of love and peace untroubled May be treasur'd for thee there. Wherefore should I wish to linger Till returning joy be given? Life can never know a morning Bright as that which shines in heaven. Earthly love is all too feeble For the immortal spirit's stay; Friends the fondest should not keep me,— Jesus loves me more than they! Flowers of earth, the best and fairest, Bloom upon a dying root; Were my hopes e'en now in blossom, I would not loiter for the fruit. I would go where Jesus waits me, I would be where Jesus is; All too long have we been parted; Let my spirit speed to his! THE SABBATH. YOU would that I write on the Sabbath of God, But know you the meaning contain'd in that word? You would that I write on the season of rest, But know you by whom is that season possess'd? And think you 'tis then, when the far-sounding bell Is heard through the village, the city, and dell; When the poor leave their labour, the wealthy their play, And with hearts unrepenting assemble to pray? When they who so thoughtlessly revell'd last night In the temples of pleasure and godless delight, Bring their tribute to-day to the house of the Lord, All stain'd with their recent contempt of his word? Or think you 'tis then, when, o'erwearied with toil, The grave and industrious rest them awhile,— Dismiss from their bosoms their earthly affairs, Which to-morrow again are the whole of their cares? Not such is the Sabbath our Father has given To the child of His love and the heir of His heaven Not such is His rest, nor so little its worth, Whose pleasures immortal are budding on earth. But where is the Sabbath of God and of heaven? In the breast of the saint, of the sinner forgiven. And where is the rest of enjoyment divine? In the heart of the Christian—And is it in thine? And hast thou e'er felt on the Sabbath-day morn, That the love of thy God in thy bosom is borne? Has thy heart been more light, and thy spirit more gay, When thou wak'st at the dawn of the hallowed day? And hast thou e'er learn'd that the earth and its joys Are treasures all worthless as infantile toys, Compar'd with the pleasures a Christian may prove, As he hastes to the banquet of peace and of love? Hast thou felt that with joy from all else thou could'st sever, Might this feeling celestial but last thee for ever? That the pleasure unearthly, so transiently given, Needs only duration to make it a heaven? If thou hast, it is well;—this earnest of love, This taste of the banquet preparing above, Comes commission'd from God with a message divine, To tell thee a share in that banquet is thine! Be steadfast, be faithful;—the righteous below Have almost exhausted their chalice of woe; The wicked have fill'd up their measure of crime, And God's awful judgments are marking the time. Be steadfast, be faithful; —the hour is nigh; Th' omnipotent arm is uplifted on high; The doom of the world even now is impending; The last blow of wrath is prepar'd for descending. No season is this to be wand'ring abroad, 'Twixt the camp of the foe and the standard of God; No season is this, when the battle is near, To leave it yet doubtful whose colours you wear. The hour is coming—is coming e'en now,— When the children of men must be parted below; When the friend from the friend of his bosom must sever, And the child and the parent be parted for ever. When they whom affection and duty unite, Must draw on each other, oppos'd in the fight: And the righteous must loathe the companion he chose, To rejoice in the vengeance of God on his foes. Thy place at that hour needs no question but one,— Has thy Sabbath eternal on earth been begun? Hast thou, living, accepted the Spirit divine? If thou know'st it not here, it can never be thine! POLL PEG,∗ LEICESTERSHIRE. A SKETCH. So wretched was the hovel where she dwelt, It might be thought that poverty itself Had left the world to dwell alone with her. The air, that found a passage through the creeks Of the ill-fitted beams that form'd her wall, Might chill, but could not purify the air, Thick with a cloud of suffocating smoke.

Poll Peg is not, as seems to have been supposed, a fictitious name, but the real appellation of the person to whom the Poem refers; whose interesting history may be found in the fifth number of the Assistant of Education, and has since been republished in a separate form, with additions, by the publishers of this volume.

 The window, curtain'd only with its dust, And dark with long-accumulating dirt, Refus'd a passage to the light of heaven. Her bed,—if bed indeed it might be call'd, Where the torn coverlet could ill conceal That all beneath it was but scatter'd straw,— Claim'd half the space her dwelling-house could boast. And there her dog, companion of her toil, When on the waste she kept her master's sheep, Now partner in infirmity and years, Shar'd the last resting-place she knew on earth. Nor serv'd it less as way and stepping-place To a suspended ladder, whence they reach'd The hole of entrance to a wretched loft, Where dwelt a widow'd daughter and her child. In this poor habitation, hour from hour, Day after day, the aged woman sat. It seem'd her only object was to save Her scanty garments from the falling fire. Scanty, indeed, they were—scarcely enough For covering to her shrunk and wither'd limbs; While her bare arms, and half uncover'd neck, Shrivell'd with age, and stain'd with constant smoke, Show'd like to parched leather o'er her bones. Her hair was grey, and scatter'd loose behind, But left uncover'd her deep-furrow'd brow, To tell that she had number'd fourscore years. Her form was bent—and oft she laid her head Upon the hard bare stone beside her grate, Long satisfied to find no softer pillow. And now the hand close press'd upon the side, Now on the back, sufficiently betray'd The alternate pang no groan had else reveal'd. Nor wanted there the less apparent ills That have embitter'd many a better state— The harsh reproof, the bitter imprecation, Unfeeling mockery, insult, and neglect. Such was she,—and the foot that sought her dwelling Would stop, as if by impulse, at the door, Doubting to enter on so sad a scene; And there the ear spontaneously would listen To catch th' expected groan of misery. But not a groan, but not a sigh was heard; And not a want, and not a wish was breath'd!— For in this vile, this miserable hut, There dwelt a saint, already half in heaven: And in that gaunt, emaciated form, Abode the Spirit of the living God! "O happy, happy!" was her ceaseless cry; "O, how delightful!" was her only plaint. "What is delightful?' said the eager lip, While the eye turn'd on the revolting scene. "My God, my Saviour, and the life I lead." Hear it, all ye who in a better state Have sought for happiness, and found it not; Hear where it habits when it flies from you; Hear who has found it. It is even she, Who, through a life of poverty and toil, Has reach'd an age of want, and found her God. Wrapt in bright visions of celestial bliss, She cannot feel the miseries of a lot She would not change for any thing but heaven. Tell her she's poor and wretched—she will say There has been one afflicted more than she; Talk of her suff'rings—she will tell you His, Who, by the agony and death He bore, Purchas'd for her this boasted happiness, Her present peace, and her expected heaven. Behold her, you, whose cup of life is fill'd With a large draught of sublunary woe. Her nights are sleepless—and they are not long; Her days are painful—and they are not sad; For day and night her spirit is with God, And his with her—holding sweet converse with her, Of that approaching hour when this poor hut, These days of pain, these nights of banish'd rest, Will be exchang'd for everlasting bliss— A bliss so near she tastes it even now! Do thou, my spirit, contemplate the scene; And, while the clouds of sorrow gather round, Learn to look calmly on the coming storm: For here is one who nothing knows but ill,— Nothing enjoys or has, except her God,— And she is happy! Wherefore should we fear? FAITH. FAITH, like a simple, unsuspecting child, Serenely resting on its mother's arm, Reposing every care upon her God, Sleeps on his bosom, and expects no harm: Receives with joy the promises he makes, Nor questions of his purpose or his power; She does not doubting ask, "Can this be so?" The Lord has said it, and there needs no more. However deep be the mysterious word, However dark, she disbelieves it not; Where Reason would examine, Faith obeys, And "It is written," answers every doubt. Faith, with a keen and realizing glance, Revels in things yet distant and unseen, And tastes a joy as exquisite, as true, As if no veil of darkness hung between. It is no cold, reversionary bliss,— No distant hope the trusting bosom proves; Faith has already wing'd the soul to heaven, In search of Him whom seeing not she loves. If clouds and darkness rest upon the soul, Darkness is welcome, since it is His will; In nature's saddest moments Faith can say, "Though he should slay me, I will trust him still!" In vain, with rude and overwhelming force, Conscience repeats her tale of misery; And powers infernal, wakeful to destroy, Urge the worn spirit to despair and die. As evening's pale and solitary star But brightens while the darkness gathers round, So Faith, unmov'd amid surrounding storms, Is fairest seen in darkness most profound! PATIENCE. PATIENCE, when heathen darkness veil'd the world, Was that high spirit of unbending pride, That dar'd to err, but was asham'd to suffer. When man, unknowing of the God that made him, Unknowing of himself, indignant saw He could not turn aside the bitter shafts Of pain and sorrow that beset him round, Helpless to shun, and impotent to change His fortunes, he determin'd not to feel. God pitying saw—but man undaunted stood, With stubborn courage arm'd, and call'd it Patience. Not such was His, upon whose sacred brow The bloody drops of agony intense Attest the writhing anguish of his soul; When, sinking low and heavy unto death, He wish'd it might be that the cup might pass. Not such was His, who, on the burthen'd cross, That bare the sins and sorrows of a world, With eyes uplifted to his native skies, Bewail'd himself forsaken of his God! His was no bosom obdurately bold, That brav'd Omnipotence itself to wound,— The heathen's boast. And what is Patience now? A spirit alive to every touch of woe, And willing to endure it;—a spirit sublime, That feels and fears not, mourns and is content,— That scorns to ask an antidote of pride, And what the world calls firmness, to defeat The purpose, all terrific as it is, For which the bitter cup of wrath was mix'd. "Strike me, O Lord, I am content to suffer!— Strike, and I'll fall!"—is all a Christian's boast. No hero he, with cool defiance arm'd, To try his strength against an adverse fate; But a chastis'd, submitting, contrite child, Who trembles at an angry Father's frown. A Christian's patience never is asham'd To shed the tear her God is pleas'd to draw, Nor blushes though a world should hear the groan With which she sinks beneath his chastening hand. But she disclaims the anticipating fear, The doubt mistrustful, and the faithless eye, Whose gloomy vision nothing sees but ill, Regrets all past, and fears for all to come, Patience gives thanks for all that is gone by, Or sorrow borne, or pleasure past away: Patience hopes good in all that is unseen, The present feels, and suffers and submits; Or, if the sense of wrath, deserving guilt Compel her to expect the judgment due, She waits, as the consenting patient waits The knife that is to part the canker'd limb. Such is a Christian's patience tow'rds his God. Patience tow'rds others is that holy calm That grows not warm at sight of others' wrong, Too eager to correct what Heav'n permits. She ventures not with a presuming hand To pluck the tares from the unripen'd corn That God has said must stand and grow together; But, seeing evil, marks it with a frown, Avoids its touch, and leaves the rest to Heaven. If insincerity and trust betray'd Have check'd the glow of artless confidence,— If black ingratitude the service pay Of generous and disinterested zeal,— Patience exclaims not, with indignant haste, Against the world, and all that habit it— Shuns not their face with misanthropic hate, Nor selfishly withdraws her from their claims; But feeling, some small circumstance apart, The nature that has wrong'd her is her own, She wishes it were other than it is, But as it is, she loves, and serves it still. If jealous misconstruction watch her looks, Injustice sit in judgment on her deeds, And falsehood be reporter of her words; Not too much anxious to excuse herself, Not eager to be thought for ever right, Patience beholds the impotent attempt, And smiles to think they never can detect A thousandth part of all the guilt she feels. When Patience sits upon the higher seat, Without resentment she receives the shafts That envious littleness, with erring aim, Shoots upwards from its lowness, but to prove Its own impatience of superior powers. She sees in Jealousy's reflective glass The value of the talent she enjoys, And thence prepares her reckoning with her Lord. Or if her seat be low, Patience feels not Herself despis'd when others are esteem'd; But, with an even and untroubled step, Lowly, but not asham'd, pursues her way,— Renders to all, without a jealous pang, The honour that she blushes not to want— And proves, all unpretending as she is, She is too great to wish that she were greater. But Patience, tow'rds each other and to God, Leaves yet unperfected her harder task. "Possess your souls in patience," were the words Of One who better knew the human heart Than he whose darken'd bosom it inhabits: He knew that man, as proud as he is weak, Abhors his weakness for his honour's sake, Feeling less sorrowful that ill be done, Than that himself must bear its obloquy; For many a tear of seeming penitence Has fallen disregarded of the Lord, And many a cry of bitter self-reproach Has been dispers'd before it reach'd to heav'n: For the false tear was wrung from wounded pride— And self-esteem, impatient of disgrace, Breath'd the impetuous, unapprov'd confession. But patience, such as pious bosoms feel, Is calm in contemplation of herself; Sees with a sad, but not impassion'd eye, The sin she hates because her Father hates it, But bears because her gracious Master bears. If some besetting sin her bosom sear, More sorry for the wrong it does her God Than for the shame it brings upon herself, More anxious that repentance be sincere, Than wroth to have occasion to repent; No high resolves of self-subduing force Solace her pride with thought of generous effort; She calmly lays it at her Maker's feet, And cries, "O Lord, do thou perform the cure, And let me pay the cost!—and if it be The utmost sum of all that I possess, Yet spare it not—take what I cannot give!" No idle dreamer of perfection here, Patience looks forward with intense delight, But with submission, to that happier hour When death shall purify the erring soul, And rid her of the guilt that wearies her. She bears it as the culprit wears his chain, The badge of infamy that marks his fall, With calm, submissive penitence and shame; Not as the maniac, impotently raging, To burst the bonds he knows not why he wears. Such is a Christian's patience. Would you ask What may be his who dares not boast that name, Whose sins are yet unpardon'd, unsubdued, And unrepented? I would answer, None!— None to the wicked, none to the condemn'd. Patience, the child of Heav'n, inhabits not That seat of desolation and despair, That earthly hell, an unregenerate bosom! Some decent counterfeit, some self-command, Some lordly passion, bow'd to interest, Or prudent calculation of the gain, May wear the semblance of the thing it is not; But pure and holy Patience blossoms never, Unless implanted by celestial grace! ONPARTING FROM A FRIEND. FAREWELL!—and if for ever!—what a doubt Strikes through the soul at that tremendous thought! 'Tis not the world's for ever; that will pass Brief as the dew-drop on the morning grass. And I shall lose thee, even as a dream That flies before the day's unwelcome beam. Such dreams as those that deck the weary night With many a fairy phantom of delight— Phantoms so true, so real while they stay— We love not to exchange them for the day; We feel that they are going, and we try To hold them yet a moment ere they fly. 'Tis but a dream—but yet a little one— 'Tis but a dream—we wake, and it is gone! And we may sleep, and we may dream again, But we would find the broken thread in vain. So pass the joys of earth—and so, I deem, The thread is broken of our friendship's dream. And thou art gone!—and never more the tide Of fate will cast us at each other's side. But is this all?—There is a distant sphere Where partings are not; shall I meet thee there? The path is strait, the passengers are few; You look'd, and did not like it, and withdrew. Wilt thou forget it, and though now refus'd, Not once look back to see if it is clos'd? Affection's anxious voice, to silence driven, Suppress'd on earth, perhaps was heard in heaven; For they whose adverse pleadings triumph'd here, And gain'd their suit, forgot to plead it there. Though truth's unwelcome whispers now be still'd, Though life's exhausted chalice be refill'd With yet another and another draught, Each more insipid than the last you quaff'd, 'Twill ill suffice thee. There will come an hour When life, exhausted, will supply no more; And pleasure, urg'd, solicited in vain, Refuse to fill the golden bowl again. 'Tis then, suspended between earth and heaven, Disclaim'd of both, the last, dead pause is given. And there will come, amid the shadowy train Of things that were, but cannot be again, The thought of one fair spot on memory's waste, Whose bright but slighted promise is not past; One only flower, that, plac'd upon thy breast, Would not have died and left thee like the rest. And then, perhaps, thy spirit's lorn estate Will faintly whisper, "Is it yet too late?" "Is it too late?"—Ten thousand voices round The vaults of heaven will repeat the sound. Is it too late for mercy to forgive? Too late for folly to repent and live? Oh grant it be not! May the Father hear From his high throne the long-expected prayer; That prayer at which his mercy has decreed Love should prevail, and justice should recede; The prayer for which his yearning pity waits To draw the bar of heaven's eternal gates, Before rejoicing angels to avow The child he loves and pardons even now! WRITTEN IN TIME OF SICKNESS, ON HEARINGIT ASKED IF I WAS RESIGNED TO DIE. To live is Christ, and to die is gain, RESlGN'D!—I am resign'd, if Heaven so will, To tread awhile the sublunary path That leads me to my Father and my home— To do his bidding until all be done For which he cloth'd my spirit in its clay, And bade my dust become a living soul. I am resign'd, a little longer while To watch the dawn, and wish that it were day; To see the mists of error slowly wasting, And the faint sun-beam struggling with the gloom "To live is Christ."—I am resign'd to live Where Christ is with me, leads me by the hand, Follows my footsteps, sits beside my bed, Bids the warm tear of grateful exultation Wash every stain the tear of sorrow leaves, And makes e'en evil seem so like to good, I scarce may call it by another name. I hope I am resign'd—the harder task— To bear the plague of a rebellious heart; To bear to wrong the Being I adore; To love, and yet forget him: to desire His presence more than all the things of earth, And yet neglect and lose it for their sake; To seek for holiness, and find but sin; To war against myself; and long to be, Yet feel I am not, what my Father bids. "To die is gain,"—Am I resign'd to die? The husbandman goes gaily to his toil, Sings o'er his task, nor heeds the mid-day sun;— But 'tis not resignation that he feels When the late twilight calls him to enjoy The rest he thought of as he toil'd by day. Ask him who comes from exile on the strand Of some remote but not unfriendly shore, Where gentle hospitality, perhaps, Lighten'd his banishment, and sped his hours; He will not tell you that he feels resign'd, When bidden back to find the home he loves. If far and long on the Atlantic wave The bold adventurer securely rides, Weathers uninjur'd many a stormy night, And grateful smiles in many a cloudless day,— Some too on board, companions of his toil, Whom elsewhere he might deem it hard to leave— With his far-gotten treasure all on board,— Safe and triumphant as he hails the port, Does he feel nothing but resign'd to greet His kindred and his country once again? It is not so. That cannot be the word That speaks a Christian's feeling, when she hears The distant sound of her Redeemer's tread, Hasting to fetch her to his Father's arms.— When the first beam from heav'n's unclosing gates Falls on her path, to light her to her God, And angel voices vibrate on her ear, Preparing songs to greet her coming there! THE CALM. NOT a sound wak'd the air, not a leaf was in motion; As a mirror of glass was the bosom of ocean; The vessel slid carelessly over the wave,— No cares for the timid, no toil for the brave. I listen'd—but not a faint murmur arose,— The rocks and the water no longer were foes; They met unresisting, and stilly embrac'd; It seem'd that the struggle of nature had ceas'd; While the light pebble slumber'd unmov'd on the shore, And the slow-coming tide crept insensibly o'er. I thought ne'er was sunshine so brilliant, so gay, As the beam that embellish'd the landscape that day; And yet I beheld, where the vessel was mooring, The seaman was busied his light bark securing. I wonder'd to see, but they told me, e'er now They perceiv'd where the storm was preparing to blow; That a calm so continued, so silent, so still, Was an omen of danger, a presage of ill; For 'tis thus that the south-winds their forces convene, In fury to burst on this beautiful scene. I sigh'd as they spake—but the lesson was learn'd; They prepar'd for the dangers their wisdom discern'd; They mistrusted the sunshine, they doubted the calm,— In the fairest of seasons they thought of the storm. But I—I forgot when the danger was past, How hard was the struggle, how bitter the blast: I thought that my bosom no more would be rent By the ills that had wasted, the cares that were spent; While a beam of tranquillity lighten'd my breast, While each wish was subdued, and each passion at rest, I believ'd that the trials of earth were expended, That the struggles of feeling for ever were ended, And my bark would glide peaceably over the wave, Till at anchor for ever, it rest in the grave! And is it then so? Am I destin'd to learn That the calm is portentous of danger's return? O Lord, let my spirit be refug'd in thee, Ere the coming of dangers thou bidst me foresee. Ah! let me not trust this delusive repose: Too blithely, too bravely my spirit arose; And leaving the shelter to which it had flown, Was renouncing thy strength to rely on its own. TOA FRIEND,ON TAKING LEAVE OF OARE. LET US loiter awhile on this beautiful hill,— The last time, perhaps, we shall meet on its brow; The days that so often have pass'd and return'd, Returning no longer, escape from us now. Let them go!—Could we stay them, by social delight, By friendship enliven'd, endear'd as they are, They were like to the pleasures a pilgrim enjoys, When his hopes and the home that he loves are afar. Let them go!—there are fairer and better to come; Each joy seems to whisper, in passing away, "We haste but to bear thee to purer delights,— Our speed is thy blessing—why bid us delay?" We sigh when the spring flower falls from the bough, And regret that such beauty so quickly should fly; But forget that the summer fruit could not be ours, Did the blossom that bears it not wither and die. But of days that are passing shall nothing be found To bring them to mind when they come not again? Of the joys we have tasted shall nothing be left, But a painful remembrance that once they have been? Not so—we have sat at a banquet whose board Of all that it offers leaves something in store; We have tasted a cup whence the nectarine draught Is sweet on the lip when we drink it no more. The friendship that lightens our heavenward course Is a treasure the richest that Fortune has given; But the sweetest affection our bosom can know Is that which is seal'd with the blessing of Heaven. And such be the blessing that rests on our love, When the lips that have ask'd it no more can unite; So the scene where our hearts were devoted to God Shall be fresh on the conscience when pass'd from the sight: And the thought of to-day shall rebuke ev'ry tear, And bid ev'ry wish of impatience be still; And each heart shall be pledg'd to the other, to know No hope but his mercy, no choice but his will. ON BEING ASKED THE NECESSITY OF PRAYERTO THOSE WHO BELIEVE IN THE IMMUTABI-LITY OF THE DIVINE DECREES. YOU ask me why I bend the knee In attitude of prayer, If I believe myself ordain'd Eternal glory's heir? List, and I'll tell thee.—What am I?— A child of sin and sorrow, Produc'd without my will to-day, And doom'd to die to-morrow. And I am born, as others are, The willing slave of sin; Lur'd by a treacherous world without, Betray'd by guilt within. And if in Scripture's hallow'd page I read of pard'ning love, And mercy for the ransom'd saints, Whose names are written above; And if upon the sacred palm Of the Redeemer's hand, 'Mid saints and holy martyrs rang'd My name engraven stand; I have not seen it written there, Nor read in deeds of heaven My title to partake the bliss For which his blood was given. And though of all the Father gave The Saviour loses none, I cannot search the heav'nly roll To learn if I am one. No earthly mirror can reflect The seal upon my brow; And in my soul's corrupted soil No fruits of merit grow. But I have read, and read it there Where falsehood never spake, That they who come in lowly guise To ask for Jesus' sake; And they who bring a heart with guilt And deep contrition sear'd, With knee and spirit bending low, To wait till they be heard; Sure I have read that these are they, And others are there none, For whom their Saviour and their God The palm of glory won. And these are they the Father chose With fond and partial love; For whom salvation is proclaim'd By angel hosts above. And shall I, then, despise the mark That proves me heir of bliss? I know me his, because I pray, And pray because I'm his. And there was one on earth, I ween, Had little need to pray; And all that was, was his to give,— Lord of a boundless sway. He pray'd not with intent to change His Father's high decree; Nor had he need to ask in prayer The thing he meant should be. Yet Jesus pray'd—and earth receiv'd Her Maker's bended knee; Gethsemane resounds the cry, The groan of agony! First tell me why a suppliant's breath Pour'd from a spirit divine; And I will tell thee why I ask A bliss I trust is mine. My humbled spirit is content To know that I am bid; Nor dares to ask why I should need To do what Jesus did. And whilst I rest in tranquil hope To share my Saviour's bliss, Know that if e'er I cease to pray, I'll cease to think me his. FROM THETHIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER OF EZEKIEL. STAY, Gentile, stay thy sacrilegious hand! Pass not thy furrows o'er my cherish'd land. Think you I heeded not to hear you swell The shout of triumph, when my people fell? When I had left them, helpless and forlorn, The Heathen's wonder, and the Gentile's scorn, Was't little that your words profan'd my name, And mock'd the Father for his children's shame? Was't little that ye crush'd my bruised reed, And rais'd your triumphs on my people's need? It was my cherish'd one—my eldest birth— The vine I planted on a desert earth— The spot where I delighted to abide, Disown'd, disclaim'd, on all the earth beside. The vine I planted wither'd to the root, Belied its promise, and produc'd no fruit. The spot that I delighted in was stain'd With lawless blood, with idol rites profan'd. My child—my cherish'd one—my best belov'd,— Unwon by kindness, and by wrath unmov'd, Wearied to listen to a Father's word, Preferr'd the service of a baser lord, Have I forgotten them! Feel I no more One pitying thought of what I lov'd before? I will repent me of the wrath I spake; And save my people, for my glory's sake. I see them, where they wander from my fold; The world has wrong'd them—let the world behold! And far as day's meridian splendours shine, Astonish'd know this scatter'd flock is mine! Mine, though on earth despis'd and disesteem'd— Mine that I chose me—mine that I redeem'd. I will return to thee, poor banish'd one; Surely thy dole of bitterness is done! I'll plant thy deserts with the blushing rose, And scatter harvests where the wormwood grows. I'll chase the proud oppressor from thy home, And bid the stranger give my people room. And then, when Israel shall behold again A Father's smile, expected long in vain, The blush of shame shall deepen on his cheek; The neck shall bow, the stubborn heart shall break; And mercy triumphing where terrors fail, A Father's fond caresses shall prevail. Through distant worlds the warning voice is heard— "These are mine own, and I will be their Lord!" REFLECTIONSON THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR, DEC. 31, 1821;BEING ALSO MY BIRTH-DAY. 'Tis past—and the recording angel bears To heaven the record of another year— Another year of nature's and of mine! Nature has known no change.—The spring bloom'd, The autumn has fulfill'd the summer's promise, And winter's mantle wraps her in repose. Nature has known no wrong. The simple flower Liv'd but to do the purpose of its being, And, uncorrupted, died when it was done. The summer-fly has play'd its little hour, Grateful, perhaps, and surely innocent. The very dust we tread upon has been All that its God ordain'd it—all he wish'd it. Omniscient Lord! If wonder be in heaven, Angels indeed will wonder, when they hear That while all nature has fulfill'd thy law, I, who have call'd thee Father—I have broke it. Worse than the most despised thing of earth— Worse than the very dust of which thou mad'st me; They do thy will, but I have done my own. My soul misgives me as I backward trace The year that even now is gone its way, To witness of the things that it has seen. Which are the days devoted to my God, By sin unstain'd, and by the world unshar'd? Which are the hours—speak, Conscience! for knowest— That no impetuous, no resentful thought, No proud contempt, no haughty self-esteem, No bold impatience against Heaven's decree, No restless wish for what my God denies, No selfishness, no vanity has stain'd? Where shall I date the deed that can disown All other motive but my Maker's will? Alas! I cannot find them! Lord, thou knowest Why I have still forsaken what I love, And madly have pursued the thing I hate: Judge if I hate it! Thou hast seen the tear That fell when every eye but thine was clos'd; Thou hast beheld the blush suffuse my cheeks At thought of sins which only thou hadst known! And thou hast mark'd when sleep forsook my pillow, Scar'd by the recollection of the wrong That had been offer'd to my Saviour's name. Judge if I hate it! Yes, the year has clos'd, And if the sum of all it can bequeath Be sense of sin on every deed of mine, How sweet a record does it leave of thee? How often, when my vacillating foot Has rashly trod the path of sin too near, Some quick reproof, unknown to those who gave it, Has timely whisper'd, "And canst thou do this? How often, when, forgetful of the past, Guilty mistrust, and sullen discontent, Have mark'd their sable shadows on my brow, Has some sweet pledge and earnest of thy love— Some flower unwonted blooming on my path— E'en as a father woos a captious child, Recall'd the smile of grateful exultation! And often when my lips could frame no prayer, Thou hast said, "Fear not, Jesus pleads for thee!" And when the bitterness of conscious guilt Urg'd my impatient spirit to despair, How many times redeeming love has spoken, "Is it beyond the price that I have paid?" Yes, I remember, when the swelling bosom Told that the pang it suffer'd was too much. How sweet a voice celestial spake within me, "Didst thou not say, e'en now, Thy will be done? "This is my will.—Wouldst thou not have it so?" And I could date the hour when friends withdrew, Malice was pleas'd; and they whom I had lov'd Disclaim'd the friend that whisper'd them of heaven; And tell how sweetly thou couldst make me feel The wrong was thine, and I but too much honour'd In that thou suffer'dst me to share it with thee. Thy love was tender, when my own was cold— Thou couldst remember, e'en when I forgot; When I provok'd thee, thou forbar'st to punish; When I forsook thee, thou upheld'st me still; When I denied thee, thou didst own me thine. Bear off the record—bear it e'en to heaven! I am content to blush while it is read; Since he who reads will blot it with his tears; And they who hear, with feeling voice will utter Shame upon me, but glory to my God! HUMILITY. "HUMILITY," said Lena, as she drew A well-worn glove upon her sun-burnt hand, "Is the best ornament a Christian knows. "I think not well of one whose ready speech "Can talk of self-abasement, and the need "She hourly feels of pardon from above. "Yet is array'd in all the pride of life, "Studies the body's ease, the graceful mien, "And all the luxuries of refining taste. "I judge our piety is better shown "By self-denying lowliness of mind; "By abstinence from all the joys of sense, "And disregard of what the world esteems." And whilst she spoke, the look of harsh reproof Was follow'd by a self-complacent smile, As her eye fell upon the homely garb And ill-adjusted ornaments she wore. Serena, gifted with a milder mood, Not prone to censure, diffident and meek, In gentle accents urg'd the favourite theme. "I envy not the beauty's flatter'd form, "And all the attractions of exterior grace, "If I must with them take the pride of heart, "The vanity that follows where they are; "For sure I am that lowliness of mind, "Self-disesteem, and meek humility, "Are ornaments more lovely far than they: "And while I feel these better gifts are mine, "I covet not what others prize so much." And here Lucinda gently clos'd the book That she had tried in vain to understand And "Surely it is strange," she said, "that some, "Professing to renounce this passing world, "Should be at so much pains to store their mind "With varied knowledge and mere human lore. "The strait, still path that leads us to our God, "Is all a humble Christian needs to know; "And this, if I mistake not, best is learn'd, "And best pursued, by one who knows no more. "Not in the warmth of intellectual fire, "The elevation of the letter'd mind, "Or the gay flights of genius and of taste, "Should I expect that meek humility "Jesus, our lowly Master, bade us learn. "Humility may rather dwell with us, "Who, in a sphere of simple usefulness, "Can better serve and glorify our God, "Than they whom learning lifts so much above us." There was a fourth—I marvel what she thought, For she said nothing—yet she felt, perhaps. It may be she had lov'd the world too well, Had too refin'd and delicate a taste; And while she felt the grace of God within, Had cause to mourn her yet unconquer'd pride. Perhaps she lov'd too well the letter'd page, The force of intellect, and the mental fire; Was fond to see the holy cause she lov'd Adorn'd with all that learning can impart, And thought too meanly of the homely garb That simple poverty so often wears. Or if of beauty she had something known, She might remember when her folly priz'd Above its worth the transitory good. 'Tis certain, that the rising blush betray'd, Her self-convicted bosom could not boast The virtue each had challeng'd as her own. I heard no more, nor know what pass'd within— I may not judge whose heart was proudest there. He to whose eyes all bosoms are unbarr'd Might judge that she who blush'd that she was proud, Was humbler yet than they who knew it not. I cannot tell—but when they parted thence To meet their God that night in secret prayer, I think I know who breath'd the deepest groan, Who sunk the lowest at her Maker's feet, And with most tears of bitter penitence Besought an interest in her Saviour's blood. Humility! the sweetest, loveliest flower That bloom'd in Paradise, and the first that died, Has rarely blossom'd since on mortal soil. It is so frail, so delicate a thing, 'Tis gone if it but look upon itself; And she who ventures to esteem it hers, Proves by that single thought she has it not. TOA FRIEND. BEHOLD you the beam On yonder tide, As it gently plays On the vessel's side? The white sails are spread, And the anchor heaves, And the mariner looks Towards the home he leaves. Now swiftly she flies Through the evening gale, And the bright moon-beam Is on her sail; Like some tall spectre, Unstable and light, She silently steals Through the shadows of night. And they are gone To some distant sphere; But the bright moon-beam Will still be there, To light their steps On a foreign shore, While it shines on the home They must see no more. So the self-same beam Of celestial light Shall gild the shades Of our distant night; And our spirits shall meet, When forbidden here, Above yon pale moon's Silvery sphere. There our hearts, asunder So harshly riven, Shall unite their prayers Ere they reach to heaven; And a beam from mercy's Exhaustless store Be bright on us both When we meet no more. THEHARP OF JUDAH. FOR whom is the harp of Judah strung, That silent erst on the willows hung? Whence are the stranger sounds that crept O'er the tuneful chords that so long have slept? Methinks 'twas a sound that the breezes bore, On joyful wings, from a distant shore; And the harp of Judah gently rings, As the whisper creeps o'er the slumbering strings. 'Twas the voice of pity, that asks a tear For the mournful weeds her children wear; That asks of Compassion's hand to wrest The poignant thorn from Israel's breast. It tells of a faint and feeble light, That breaks on the captive's weary night; The dawn of a glorious day to come, When mercy shall lead the wanderer home. Ah! far may the voice be whisper'd round, Till each heart be glad at the joyful sound; And many a bosom learn to feel An anxious throb for Israel's weal! And many a lip be taught to share, With holy warmth, the expectant prayer; The prayer that He, whose prophetic eye Once softly wept o'er her ruin nigh, By the voice of imploring nations mov'd, May smile again on the land he lov'd; And wipe from her brow the spot of shame, Replac'd by the seal of her Saviour's name! NIGHT. STILL as I watch'd the evening close, In azure blue the pale moon rose; No sullen mist obscur'd her ray, No e'en a light cloud cross'd her way. I smil'd a welcome to the beam First playing on the silver stream, And vainly thought to watch her light, Still kindling on the darkening night. At first 'twas but a breadthless seam, A sable streak, that cross'd her beam; But now it thickens fast—and now It closes on her pallid brow; And still by moments she appears, A bright smile kindling through her tears. Another and another ray Fell faintly ere she pass'd away. I watch'd the clouds fast fleeting o'er, But watch'd in vain—she came no more. Ah! would 'twere this the only light That closes in unbroken night! The only hope that scarce may last Till the smile that welcom'd it be past! But 'tis even so life's early dream, Fair rising with unclouded beam, With promise bright of blissful years, Must briefly quench that beam in tears. At first his but a passing fear, That makes returning hope more dear; But the shades of sorrow gather thick, And the spirit faints, and the heart is sick;— We look that some hope should pierce the gloom, But the faithless moon-beam does not come! And we must wait till a surer light Dispel the shades of our bosom's night. ONPARTING FROM A FRIEND,UNDER PARTICULAR CIRCUMSTANCES, SAY, can they part us, Love, whose hard decree Forbids my heart to breathe one thought to thee? Will chilling absence leave affection cold— No longer cherish'd when no longer told— And time's swift footsteps, as they onward move, Wear out the sacred impress of our love? Day after day, month after month will close, And none will whisper of the friend we lose: The form that memory paints will disappear, And e'en the name grow strange upon the ear. But can they part us? No, my friend belov'd! Chosen in sunshine, but in darkness prov'd, They cannot part us.—There will be an hour When time and distance must forego their power: Those blissful moments when our spirits stray Beyond this cold world's transitory sway: When life's low interests to oblivion fall, When earth is nothing, and when heav'n is all! 'Tis then our spirits, now to distance driv'n, United midway betwixt earth and heav'n, Mov'd by one impulse, kindled by one flame, The same our feelings, and our hopes the same; Unmindful of the space that time has run, Mingled in prayer, shall feel that we are one. They cannot part us, while our footsteps tread One path to glory, by one spirit led. But should it be! Yet I forbear the thought; Thy heart divines it, though I speak it not. Then we indeed were parted, and our feet Must traverse paths that would not, could not meet. Attun'd to other hopes, no thought of mine Could meet in heav'n a kindred thought of thine; And when I urg'd my lowly suit for thee, No prayer of thine would echo back the plea. The tie that time and distance parted never, Hopes disunited might dissolve for ever! APPENDIX. APPENDIX. THE COMPLAINT. O YOU who at lighter afflictions repine, Arrest your complainings and list ye to mine— And you who can sorrow for every toy, Hear a mother's lament for her poor idiot boy. Still memory tells of that moment of bliss, When I press'd on his forehead a mother's first kiss, When committing the gift to the hand that had given, A mother's first prayer sought acceptance in heaven. I ask'd not for beauty, I ask'd not for wealth— The prayer was for reason, contentment, and health— That reflection might temper the fervour of youth, And his heart be the seat of religion and truth. My babe he was lovely in infantine charms, And often, as sweetly he slept on my arms; O God! I exclaimed, what delight it will be To rear him to virtue, to truth, and to thee! And fondly I waited the moment so dear, When my baby should part from my arms with a tear, When his sweet voice should greet me with of joy— But none were reserved for my poor idiot boy. When the glittering trinket was held in his sight, My infant would utter no scream of delight; When gently compelled from my bosom to part, No cry of unwillingness gladdened my heart. His lovely blue eyes never wander'd around, To seek for his mother, or greet her when found: These promised delights were not mine to enjoy— All arms were alike to my poor idiot boy. His accent was plaintive, distressful, and weak— No tear of emotion e'er stole on his cheek— Nor frown ever sate on his forehead of snow, Nor flush of desire was traced on his brow. The first year, the second, my grief was beguil'd With the fond hope that reason would dawn on my child: But hope is no longer—for seven sad years He has lain on my bosom, bedewed with my tears. In vain I caress him and lure him to speak— He feels not the warm tear that falls on his cheek: No look of intelligence lightens his eye— A wild, vacant stare is his only reply. Then grant me, O God! 'tis a mother's last prayer— The solace of death with my infant to share; No pause of affliction is mine to enjoy, Till I sleep in the grave of my poor idiot boy. THE CONSOLATION. POOR child of affliction! I heard thee repine, And my heart beat with sorrow responsive to thine; And one who has long been a stranger to joy, Has a tear yet remaining for thee and thy boy. Yet say, can reflection no comfort bestow? Is no blessing mixed in thy chalice of woe? Has justice unerring the balance resign'd Or the Father of Mercy forgot to be kind? Perhaps when you offered a mother's first prayer, Omnipotence listened, and mercy was near— You asked for contentment, religion, and truth, For reason to temper the passions of youth. But think of the storms that must break o'er his head, Of the snares that encompass the path he must tread— Of the joys that seduce, of the wrongs that assail, Thy guidance is feeble, thy efforts might fail. Ah think! had the reason by heaven denied, Been the parent of error, rebellion, and pride— Would an infidel's wisdom have cost thee no sigh, More bitter than that thou hast breathed o'er thy boy? And look on that visage, that forehead of snow— Those eyes where no beams of intelligence glow— Contemplate those lips never severed to speak, The unvarying hue of that colourless cheek. Has wrath or revenge e'er contracted that brow? Can guilt and remorse teach that forehead to glow? These sweet lips can never be taught to complain, No oath can pollute them, no falsehood can stain. No rose on that cheek will be withered by care— Those soft eyes will never grow wild with despair— No restless desire can break his repose— No hope disappointed his lids can unclose. Ah! think of the day, when at heaven's high nod, We tremblingly fall at the feet of our God — Where surrounded by saints and by angels he stands, And of justice omniscient the reck'ning demands. While errors unnumbered we cast at his feet, While each head shall be bowed and each bosom shall beat: Unabashed, unconfounded, thy poor idiot boy Shall ask of his Saviour his portion of joy. Thy child needs no pardon for talents misused, For reason perverted or blessings abused— No duty neglected, or service unpaid, No precept unheeded, no law disobeyed. What page in the heavenly record is soil'd With the folly or vice of thy poor idiot child? Though free to accuse him, what voice in the throng, Can say that thy infant has offered him wrong? Oh! rather be this then a mother's last prayer, Her infant's blest portion hereafter to share, And recognize, Oh! with what rapture of joy, In an Angel of Heaven, her poor idiot boy! TO AN ABSENT FRIEND,WHO COMPLAINED OF BEING FORGOTTEN. LAST evening I walked by the clear water's side, And marked a lone Star as it shone in the tide: 'Twas very inconstant—for sometimes the gleam Was bright as the dew in the sun's gayest beam; And then it was faint, like the half-lighted ray Of the moon, when she shrinks from the coming of day; And often my eye dwelt in vain on the spot, Where late I had seen it, but now it was not. And to what did I liken it? Might it not be That the Star of the evening whispered of thee? For had'st thou been there, I had bidden thee learn That the absence but presaged a brighter return; And even when absent had taught thee to own The brilliant reflection was hidden, not gone; And nothing could lose of the lustre it wore, Though, wrapt in thick vapour, we saw it no more. And thou had'st confessed that the love that has been, Will be, though in absence, unspoken—unseen. The bosom is warmed with a varying flame— The feelings are changeful, the heart is the same. THE REJECTED PRAYER. Is it not thine, O God, this passing world? Is it not thine to give it at thy will? But now thou mad'st it—it was all thine own— Hast thou not power to bestow it still? And if thou hast, for whom is it reserved? Father Eternal! is it not for us? Was it an empty promise, when thou said'st All things are yours, since I have loved you thus? I thought 'twas thine to give me, and I craved One blessing more than all on earth beside; I asked it often, and I asked it long— It was not sin, and yet it was denied. Did'st thou not hear the still-repeated prayer? Pray'd I amiss, as if the due were mine? Nor simply resting on thy love, exclaimed, Fulfil thy promise, Lord, for I am thine? Ah, foolish! He, who from the ocean's depth, Through roaring waters heard the prophet's prayer; Who marks the first, faint breathings of desire, Can never deafen his paternal ear. He heard me—yes, he listened and he heard, And held the blessing in his own right hand: Whatever barred me from the good I sought, Had sunk to nothing at his sole command. He heard and might have granted—but he marked The secret reservation of the soul— The wish, that almost to itself unknown, Forbade the prayer that on the accents stole. He marked the feeling that himself inspired— He knew the heart he moulded—and he knew That while my lips the warm petition breathed, I did not wish it if he wished not too. 'Twas so, most Merciful! I do not say I loved thy will more than the thing I sought— I asked an earthly good, but thou perceiv'dst Something was dearer, though I said it not. Thou knew'st I would not have it, might it mar The better bliss to which my hopes aspire; And mercy yielding what thy wisdom knew, Denied the prayer, to grant me the desire. THE WINTER MOON. AH! where, lovely Planet, Ah! where dost thou stray; Thy path it is lonely, And trackless thy way. It seems thou art gentle, It seems thou art fair; Ah! why without guide Dost thou wander in air? Child of Earth, dost thou ask me Why thus without guide, Through the cold nights of Winter I fearlessly ride? 'Twas wisdom Omnipotent Placed me on high, And Infinite power Marks my track in the sky. But why, lovely Planet, Thus restlessly roam? And hast thou no shelter? And hast thou no home? With me dost thou suffer Fate's hardest decree? Are wanderings unceasing Thy portion to be? Child of Earth, if unresting I toil through the skies, 'Tis Heaven that wills it, And Heaven is wise. If nor haven, nor shelter, Nor refuge I find, 'Tis Heaven that wills it, And Heaven is kind. But why, lovely Planet, Then tell me I pray, Do clouds of affliction O'ershadow thy way? And whence are the tears That envelope thy form, As, palid and weeping, Thou look'st through the storm? Child of Earth, thy perception Is erring and weak; My bosom is calm While the tear's on my cheek: Though the deep shades of darkness Obscure me to thee, My passage above them Is tranquil and free. THE BARREN ROCK. A LONELY Rock On the sea-shore stood, Its head to heaven, Its base in the flood— The dews of morning Bath'd its brow, And the moon-beam play'd On its breast of snow— The summer breezes Kiss'd it lightly, And the sun shone on it Brightly, brightly; But there came not forth Of its cold, cold breast, So much as to shelter The sea-mew's nest— There came not a leaf, There came not a spray, Nor the heather brown, Nor the besom gay— The simpler came not To pick with care The healing buds Of the balsam there. What ails thee, thou Rock, That still in vain The spring returns With his jocund train, So richly dight, So gaily sped, And finds no wreath On thy sullen head? I look'd again, And the waters grew— They reach'd its base, They reached its brow— Again and again, With fearful shock, The billows broke O'er the lonely Rock. But it trembled not As it pass'd them through— And it rose in smiles As the waves withdrew— And its brow was deck'd With gems so bright, They seem'd like drops Of the rainbow's light. 'Tis well—and so O'er some beside, Adversity flows With as rough a tide— It rifles the heart Of the joys it bore, And it comes so oft They will grow no more— But it leaves it firm, It leaves it bright, It leaves it deck'd With unearthly light— In hallow'd tears Serene to stand, As the lonely Rock On the cold sea-strand. THE ANCHOR. A MARINER at eventide Pushed his light boat from the land— I saw him pass the boiling surge And fix his anchor in the sand. Then blithe returning to the shore, As if his every care was past, Nor casting e'en a look behind, He hied him homeward to his rest. How could he trust so frail a thing Upon the dark and troubled main? How did he know but yonder waves Would rend his feeble bark in twain? Because through many a rougher night He had seen it safely ride— Because he knew the anchor sure To which his trusted bark was tied. So in darkness and in light, Prov'd so often and so long, Prov'd in sorrow and in joy, Christians know their anchor strong. So with hearts to heaven devoted, Sins repented and confess'd, All they have to heaven committed, Christians get them to their rest. A THOUGHT ON BEACHY HEAD. ENOUGH for feeling, though too brief for words A moment on the lofty cliff I stood, And from the fearful precipice above, Look'd many a fathom down upon the flood. The moon-beam slept upon the snow-white cliff, The chasm frown'd more darkly than by day; No sound of living thing was on the air, And ocean's self in seeming slumber lay. Swiftly my spirit rose above the world, Far as that tow'ring cliff above the tide, And soaring high o'er all created things, Tasted a freedom in the world denied In fancy walking nearer to the skies, It rose to Him with whom I was alone— Life and its narrow interests pass'd away, Its cares forgotten and its wishes gone. It was a blissful moment—God was all, And earth was nothing—'twas a bliss more true, And for the one brief moment that it stay'd, More sweet than e'er from earthly feeling grew. 'Tis even so, O God, the soul must rise Above the world or ere it can be free— 'Tis even thus thy wisdom has decreed, Farthest from earth shall still be nearest thee. A BORROWED THOUGHT. SISTER of Faith and Charity, Where there are only three; Fit habitant of heaven, yet content, On pity's errand bent, To ply upon the earth, and steer The bark of every helpless passenger: Whether in lofty and well laden keel, With gilded prow and purple sail, Fame in the breeze and honour in the gale; Or on the raft of poverty, unknown, He stem the tide, unfreighted and alone. There is a Power—celestial, yet begot Of earth—in heaven they need her not: Our joy's companion and our sorrow's friend, Her errand is to tend Our earthly voyage, and amid the storm, Whene'er it come, To show the beacon of our distant home. Sometimes within her gentle hand she'll bring The youngest blossoms of the unblown Spring; So beautiful in promise as they grow, Desire scarce consents that they should blow. And sometimes, sparkling clear, Her hand will bear In amber cup a draught that scarce may seem Other than those that ancient fablers dream; Of which the first small sip That wets the lip, Wins the enchanted spirit to forego The sense of present or remembered woe; And see, instead of things that are, or were, Or may be, foul or fair, Nought save the rainbow colours of the drop, That hangs upon the margin of that cup. Wrapt in a veil opaque that seems to hide The secrets of futurity—denied To read the things that lie In fate's obscurity; She bears withal behind that veil an eye, So piercing, so intent on what may be, That more and brighter things than truth has told, Or love may pledge, or faith itself behold, Of shape indefinite she seems to see— More fair for their obscurity: And seeing them, she smiles; and with those smiles, Man's fearful, dark uncertainty beguiles; And bids him, on the half-told secret, wait The nameless promise of his coming fate. Yon brilliant lamps of heaven, that love to pour Their brightest stream at their meridian hour, As towards the dull horizon they decline, More dimly shine; Deadened and dull, the waning light decreases; Grown weary of their task before it ceases. But truer far than they, the Power divine, Coldly and darkly as our days decline, Trims to a chaster and a purer gleam The lustre of her lamp's expiring beam; Brighter and brighter as the shadows fall— The latest beam the brightest of them all. While Charity and Faith their Sister claim, Will grateful mortals question of her name? THE NIGHT-BLOWING CERUS. 'TIS surely strange, thou lovely flower, That thou should'st choose so dark an hour To put thy beauties forth— Why not amid the noon-day blaze, When many an eye might come to gaze, And wait upon thy birth? Why dost thou choose to bloom alone, Unseen, unnoticed, and unknown, The midnight's only flower? When every bud has closed its head, And all beside thyself have fled From night's unwelcom'd hour. I do not love the noon-day blaze, I do not love the idle gaze Of every careless eye. It is not mine to spread my flowers O'er sunny beds or pleasant bowers, Where thousand beauties vie. I cannot deck your summer ways. I cannot share your golden days, With all the rich parade Of things that with the morning come, And gaily in the sunshine bloom, But cannot 'bide the shade. But seek me when they all are gone, And seek me when thy sun goes down, And then I will be thine— And then I'll spread my sweetest flowers, To cheer the melancholy hours, When none beside me shine. Nay then, I'll choose thee, lovely flower, Before the fairest of the bower— And if there be for me A friend whose kindness can abide The gloom that chases all beside, I'll liken him to thee. EASTER THOUGHTS. IS'T joy to me that Jesus lives? That he, Whom mortals buried, burst the riven tomb, And came again to prove that he was God? What joy? Men slay their enemies—and I Was one that slew him—for my guilt was there, To bind a thorn the more upon his brow? My faithless, cold ingratitude was there, To add a burden to his bosom's sadness; And I was party to that fearful burst Of agony that swelled his sinless heart; And brake it, ere the murderous sword had smitten. What joy? Men do not love to see again The being they have injured and have slain! 'Twere safer for them, that the grave they closed, Should hold him in its iron grasp for ever. Is't joy to me that Jesus lives? That he Who suffered and was buried, comes again In character of Heaven's eternal King, To be the arbiter of weal or woe? What joy? If Jesus lives, he lives to judge And to decide between the soul that loves him, Or loves him not—and surely as he brings To one the eternal purchase of his anguish, Pardon, and joy, and holiness, and love, Peace upon earth, in heav'n immortality; So surely to the other is he bearer Of that unsparing justice that has fallen Once on himself, but now must fall on all Who have not known him, lov'd him, and been pardon'd. Jesus is risen. Yes; but ere I join The pæan of joyful gratitude, that hails The day of his returning, let me think If he who has arisen is my friend. If he is not my friend, he is my foe, Most injured, most insulted, most provoked— Men do not sing a welcome to their foes. Still the loud musick, doff the gay attire, Till, wrapt in deep and silent communing, My spirit first has questioned of itself If it be so, that I have cause for joy. If I have lov'd him—aye, but then to love Is to desire, to follow, to obey: It is to bind the object on the heart So close, so near, that nought may come between, Nor ought be held of value, or be deem'd Too much to part from, or too much to leave, Or suffer, for the sake of him we love. With him—it is to listen to his words, And drink them in as eagerly, as gladly, As does the parched and thirsty soil drink in The first small droppings of the summer shower. Away from him—it is to remember When all beside forget him; and recall His name, his character, his words, his wishes, Where nothing whispers of them but our love, And all around us and about us sounds, Amid the turmoil of a restless world, Oblivion to his honour and his name. It is to have his will so deeply written Upon our hearts, that running we may read it: And, 'mid the hurry of existence, never Forego it or forget it, or let pass Affection's wakeful, monitory whisper, That says, " 'Tis so he would"—" 'tis so he would not." If I am pardon'd—am I pardon'd then! The prodigal, who chose his luckless portion So far at distance from his father's house, And for a season liked it, and expended All that he had in careless revelry, So long as he was happy, was not pardon'd. Nay, nor was he pardoned, when, bereaved, Or wearied, or forsaken of his pleasures, He sate him down in sadness to abide The miserable portion he had earned— Distant in sorrow then, as erst in joy. From sorrow, or from joy, or from him, Whatever or where'er, apart from the things, That made me blest or wretched, have I risen, And gat me back again to ask a pardon? Vain, vain had been to him the dance, the song, The voice of mirth, and noise of revelry, That day that sounded through his father's halls, Had he not been the pardon'd, the accepted— At once the willing and the welcom'd guest. And vainer far than this, and worse than vain, A senseless mockery and a bold derision, It were to me to sing a joyful welcome To one I have forgotten and forsaken; And idly come to celebrate a day That is not joy to me, unless, indeed, There something be within me to attest That I have lov'd him, and am lov'd of Him. THE VINE-BRANCH. I saw beneath its native stem The sever'd Vine-branch layed— The dews were fresh upon its cheek— The sun-beam on its head. The new-blown flower did not droop, The leaf was green and fair— Vigour and life were in its veins, As if it flourish'd there. A little while the Vine-branch liv'd, The smiles of heaven sharing— A little while it seemed as blest As those the stem was bearing. But still the sun-beam shone in vain, The Vine-branch felt it not— The summer grew, the winter came, And the Vine-branch bore no fruit. So fades and falls the promise fair Of poor mortality— So perishes the boast of earth, When parted, Lord, from thee. There seems a bud, there seems a flower, Our wisdom's specious dress— The brilliant, but unlasting guise Of nature's helplessness. But ill shall the rootless virtue stand Temptation's trying hour— And soon shall the feeble spirit bend To earth's delusive power. Brief as the bloom of the rootless branch The boast of earth shall be— Nor truth, nor peace in the bosom bloom, Till united, Lord, to thee. THE SEA-BIRD. LOUD broke the surge upon the sullen rock, The startled valleys echoed back the shock; Hard blew the wind, and far as eye could strain, No living thing was left upon the main, Save one poor, feeble, solitary bird, With plaintive scream upon the breezes heard: Chas'd from his nest by man's encroaching hand, He winged his flight too rashly from the land; And toiling now to get his distant home, With worn and wearied limb and ruffled plume, Disabled on his native gale to ride, He scarcely floats upon the troubled tide; And up and down, and down, and up again, Rising as oft, and rising still in vain, Each effort brings him nearer to the shore, But each becomes more feeble than before. Will he not reach it? Will not one kind wave Bear him to land and snatch him from a grave? He would have reach'd it, had not some rash hand Cast forth an idle pebble from the land— With aim too sure the fatal missile sped, And sunk the victim in the ocean's bed. Blame you the hand that did the wanton deed, And struck the spent bird in his hour of need! Pause then—for wounded oft and hard bestead, On path more troubled than the ocean's bed, Constrain'd to voyage on too rough a day, Bound for the skies but wounded by the way, Far from its aim by sin and sorrow borne, With strength subdued and courage overworn, Each growing hope by some new sorrow riven, From each advance to harder effort driven, Full many a spirit, struggling with its doom, Is toiling hard for shelter and a home— Vainly essaying to put forth its wings, And rise superior to earth's feeble stings. Pause then and think, or ere ye idly wound What sorrow bears already to the ground; Think, lest the whisper'd wrong, the heartless jest, The ill-tim'd censure on a heart depress'd, The hard construction and the trust betray'd, Cast over sorrow's night a deeper shade. Too often smitten to resist the shock, One stroke too much will cleave the solid rock— And hearts surcharged with bitterness before, Need but a drop to make the cup run o'er. Spare e'en the rigid and unfeeling word— 'Twas but a pebble sunk the wounded bird. A HYMN IN SICKNESS. THROUGH the long night of watchfulness and pain, Where shall the worn and wearied spirit rest? Who listens in the midnight's lonely hour To the low hearings of the aching breast? Still, silent, dark—in vain the ear would catch A note of comfort whispered on the air— Helpless, alone—the eye looks out in vain For one to wipe the solitary tear. 'Tis then, O Lord, the spirit turns to thee, Its ever-present, ever-mindful Friend— Nearest, when all beside thee is afar, And kindest where all other comforts end. Then what delight to know that thou art there, Tending in love the lonely sufferer's bed— In words of peace, still felt though all unheard, Shedding soft balm upon the restless head. Lulling th' impatient spirit to repose With holy confidence that all is good— So gently chastening, even nature's self Would not escape the lesson if she could. Yes, gracious Lord! not all the flowers that deck The bosom of the healthy and the gay — Not all the mirth and carelessness that gild The sunshine moments of life's golden day— Can bear so rich a harvest to the soul Of holy peace and chaste tranquillity, As does the pain, that, weaning us from earth, Persuades the heart to yield itself to thee. My spirit, grateful even for the ill, Asks of thy love this only blessing more— Never to lose, in joy and health's return, The thought of sickness' solitary hour. THE VIOLET. CLOSE in the hedge a Violet bloom'd Upon its native stem, Deck'd with a dewy drop more bright Than India's brightest gem. But ill was this fair flower content To blossom in the shade, And droop'd with envy of the flowers That deck'd the sunny glade. "Why am I here, unseen, unknown, 'Mid weeds and nettles planted— While still to bloom on sunny banks To other flowers is granted? Would I were yonder Cowslip bright, In open fields to bide— Or e'en the pretty Pimpernel That decks the path-way side." 'Twas so the Violet complained, And mourn'd her lot obscure, And look'd with envy all the day On each surrounding flower. But so it was at even-tide, That some one came that road, Pick'd the poor Cowslip from its stem, And scatter'd it abroad. And 'twas not long ere one in haste, With rude and careless bound, Passed o'er the pretty Pimpernel, And crush'd it to the ground. The Violet saw, and haply learn'd, Not her's the sadder lot, Whom fortune destines to abide Where others mark her not. Distinction's path is hard beset With danger and with wrong— More blessed to whom obscurity And gentle peace belong. She is too bold who fondly sighs To try the sunny glade— Others beside the Violet Are safest in the shade. THE TWIN ROSES. TWINS of one morning, on a single stem, Two Roses side by side were growing, On each alike there hung a diamond drop, Fresh on its balmy bosom glowing. I gathered one, the fairest as I thought, And on my bosom fondly plac'd it— But ere the rapid hour had twice been told, Gone was the brilliant blush that grac'd it— My Rose was dead—and then I vainly wished I had not cull'd the fresh-blown flower— Yet many a sunny day it might have lived, With its loved Sister in the bower. She flourished there as long as Roses may, By no rude hand untimely gather'd— She lived—but Oh! 'twas but a little while Ere she too on her stem was wither'd. I saw the rain fall cold upon her breast, I saw the worm her leaf consuming— I saw her shrink before the northern blast, From day to day more palely blooming. They who had grown with her had left her there, The summer's last and lonely flower— Methought there grew a sadness in her look, As if she chid each loit'ring hour. Nay, then, I did not wrong thee, my poor Rose, That from the stem I early took thee, Ere yet the worm had nestled in thy heart, Or coldness chill'd, or friends forsook thee. And may we say our Father does not well Briefly to gather what he planted? Early to lay his hand upon his own, And take again the life he granted? Why drop a tear of sorrow on the grave Of youthful hope untimely blighted? They do but reach their home when it is day, While others here are left benighted. They do not stay to feed upon the dross Of pleasure's draught so sweetly tasted— Time will not bid them mourn their pleasant home, Into a friendless desert wasted. Care will not wash one bright blush from their cheeks, With tears of trust and hope misgiven— Sin will no more upon their bosom shed Its painful venom—They are gone to Heaven. THE MEDIATOR. I WILL arise and go unto my Father— Alas! and when I throw me at his feet, What can I say?—The Prodigal left once, And gather'd of the fruit his folly planted, Ate it, and did not like it, and returned— He once returned, and he was once forgiven. It is not so with me—I was forgiven And sinned again, and was forgiven again— The penitential vow upon my lips, The kiss paternal warm upon my cheek, And still about my neck the golden chain With which he pledged and bound me to his love— A second, and a third time, and a fourth—O God! I dare not come to thee—It is impossible! I dare not even lift mine eye to Heaven, Lest there be something in it that offend thee— I dare not offer thee a wish, a vow, Lest that thy awful wisdom should discover Sin in the wish and falsehood in the vow. If I should say I fear thee—that is false— For if I feared thee, could I madly brave The awful threat'nings of thy broken law, For every empty bauble of the earth? If I should say I love thee—that, alas! Is falser still—for love is dutiful, Patient, submissive, fearful to offend, Obedient, grateful—I am none of this. And if I plead the penitential tear, The firm resolve to go and sin no more— Dost thou not know that ere the false tear dries, I do again the very sin I wept, And even while the vow is on the lip, The heart is with the idol it renounces. I come to THEE! There's something in the thought So strange, so fearful—something in the distance So awful, so impassable—I cannot. But still to thee, my Saviour!—Thee, my God And yet my Brother!—Thee, who thyself hast trod The very soil we tread on—who hast shared Our needs, and felt our sorrows, and been tempted, Even as we are—whose in-earthed spirit Made proof of all things in us, save our sin— Aye, and that too—for it was that which brake By its dread weight the only heart that knew none! Still I can come to thee, my Saviour, Friend! For I have something yet to say to thee. I tell thee not of fear, or love, or duty, Or penitence, or tears, or ought of mine; But something would I whisper of thine own. The tender pity, that moved thee e'en to Heaven— The love that thou hast promised and hast proved As never love was pledged or proved till then— Not for thy friends, for friends on earth thou hadst none— But for thy foes; for false ones such as I am. Oh! go thou for me to my Father's house And tell him one who cannot come herself For very shame—who has no more to say But that thy door be closed on her for ever, Has been with thee to plead on her behalf The pardon that she dares not ask again. Say, for thou know'st, how bitter are the husks On which this false world feeds her—how her heart Sorrows in secret for her Father's house And still is torn and tempted from his door. Nay, my Redeemer, say not ought of me, But only that thou know'st me, lov'st me, died'st for me— Lost as I am, that thou would'st have me saved, False as I am, that thou wilt make me true, Weak as I am, that thou canst give me strength, And find me prayers when I can pray no more— If only for thy sake he will forbear, Nor cast away his Prodigal for ever. ON BEING ASKED TO PAINT A FLOWERIN THE WINTER. A FLOWER! Full many a day has gone, And many an hour has loitered on, Since I have gathered one: It seems in idle mockery Thou bidst my pencil draw for thee A flower, when there are none. I've been where flowers used to grow, To find if there be any now, But all is bleak and bare: I found the briers they grew among, I found the thorns they rested on, But the flowers are not there. I asked of those who used to twine Their brightest summer wreath with mine, If they could find a flower; But, alas! they sighed, and told me true, The season's passed when flowers grew In border, bed, and bower. If thou hast one, that has out-stay'd The blighting time, when others fade, Then bring it, for mine are gone; If thou hast one, that did not die When Summer's sunny day went by, O bring it, for I have none. REPLY TO THE ABOVE, WITH AFORGET-ME-NOT. WHERE the cowslip and primrose grew, But now they were growing no more, All wet with the drops of the morning, I look'd on a small single flower. 'Twas alter'd, and yet it was like To some that in Summer had blown; It was sadder and paler, methought, Than those that I sometime had known. I paus'd, and remember'd its name, And it seem'd that it whisper'd to me, "Of all that was beautiful once, I alone am remaining to thee— The image of joys that are pass'd, The shadow of hopes that are faded. The memory that bids thee look back On a prospect that sorrow has shaded." "Then grow there, and die there," I said, "Poor flower, I'll gather thee not; Since the Summer returns not again, Be its pleasures for ever forgot; For altered and sad as thy form, And faded and pale as thy flower, Is the image that memory paints Of joys that are coming no more." But methought that it whispered again, And said, "There is something beside, That is like to the flower that stays When all flowers beside it have died. Remember the tear-drop of love, That fell on the grave of the dead, Who seem'd to have perished forgotten Of Him, who his coming delayed. How gently he smiled upon her Who seemed for a moment neglected; How sweetly he whisper'd of peace To them whom the world had rejected." "Nay, then thou art welcome," I said— "All dreary and cold though it be, E'en the Winter can bear me a flower—" I picked it, and brought it to thee. ON HEARING IT SAID THERE IS NO SA-TISFACTORY HAPPINESS ON EARTH. NAY, Sister, nay—but say not so— For o'er my memory even now There comes, as if it were a dream— A train indeed of things that seem But shadows now, but they were erst Realities the best, the first. Say, if thou wilt, this morning's rose, That died before the evening's close, Was never sweet—or say the sun, That yesternight in clouds went down, Was never bright and never shone— I could believe thee rather so, Than this strange thing thou tell'st me now. If never bliss on earth were given, Then Sister, I have been in Heaven. For there were days, and days to those, When every morning sun arose Upon a scene more brilliant yet Than that on which the last had set. If joys went by, they made but room For those that were in haste to come— I missed them not—the full stream flowing, Grew not more shallow for their going. When day-light came, the first-waked thought Was welcome to whate'er it brought; And when it went, I bade it make All speed to bring my pleasures back; And if I slept, it was but then To dream those pleasures o'er again, And, waking, find that what I dreamed Was not the shadow it had seemed. The bird that warbled from the tree Seemed as it only sung for me— The rose amid the foliage blushing, Through shadow'd glades the streamlet rushing, In Heaven the moon serene and clear, On earth the landscape wide and fair— O they were but the wreathed flowers, The fretwork of those golden hours. Was it not bliss, when erst I trod From day to day that thornless road; Where all I loved were treading too, And joy and peace were all I knew? And the eye that beamed in revelry, Kept e'en the brightest beam for me— And brows where smiles for ever glowed, On me the sweetest smile bestowed? What could I deem it else but bliss, When chaste affection's fondest kiss Smother'd each tear-drop at its birth, Or ever it had stolen forth; And every thought that fancy wreathed, And every note that feeling breathed, In kindred bosom e'er was heard Without the aid of voice or word? Yon ivy that the oak entwines Seems happy, Sister, while it winds Its trusting branches round the stock That guards it from the tempest's shock— Yon pretty lambs that lightly bound And play the daisied meadow round— And yonder bird with golden wings, From morn to night that blithely sings, Through sunny glades and shady groves, To cheer the toil of her he loves— Things such as these may taste of bliss: And, Sister, is there none for us? And can it be, of all that Heaven From its creative hand has given, Of things in air, or earth, or sea, That man, the first of all, should be The only thing the world amidst That never, never can be blest? Nay—memory tells far other tale, And tells it all, alas! too well: For if those moments were not bliss, Whence are the fearful agonies, That still the troubled spirit rack When memory brings those moments back No aching void had ever chilled A bosom that had ne'er been filled; Nor heart, with hopeless sorrow wasted, Broke for a bliss it never tasted. No, Sister—had there e'er been none, I had not now to say " 'Tis gone." "Gone!" Thou art answered—If 'tis so, The boasted bliss of earth must go, What though it held enchantment's powers, It is not meet for hearts like ours. They do not go—the silent tread Of moments stealing o'er our head, Leaves the immortal spirit's growth Still rising in eternal youth; Destin'd for ever to survive The waste of all that earth can give. Say, is it bliss to-day to feed, And starve to-morrow on our need? To have at morn and lose at night, And grasp to-day the fond delight Our eager spirits doat upon, And then, to-morrow, say 'tis gone? The wish, the hope, the feelings stay, While the joys they live on pass away— The hunger stays when the feast is done, The love remains when the lov'd are gone; And, Sister, can it satisfy, To see our treasur'd joys go by, And know their hard bequest but this— A pang proportion'd to our bliss. IN ANSWER TO A REMARK. I KNEW a stream—'twas yonder, where, Now bleak and bare, There was a covert once of such fair green Upon its margin seen, The wandering Nightingale was fond to come, And summer birds would choose it for their home. And then it was a wild and wayward stream; The brightest beam Of summer, when it played upon its cheek, Painting its waters with a golden streak, Did but betray The hidden rocks that on its bosom lay: And many a rugged mound, and many a steep, And many a frowning chasm dark and deep, Were on its path—and many a sigh, As it pass'd them by, I've heard those waters whisper—I have known The sleepy midnight startled at the groan With which they dashed upon the rustick bridge, Or on the edge Of some sharp precipice, or fallen tree Bath'd in its foam and water'd with its spray. But there came a night—'twas such a night As starlets bright Fear to look out upon; and the sick moon If she appears, will hide herself anon, As if she did not like that men should see The dimness of her eye: Small light was there except the lightning's flame— Fresh from the hills the sweeping torrent came, And nought could stay its course, Or check the force Of that tremendous flood, whose fearful sweep Bore with it to the deep Whatever could impede it by the way— The rocky mound, the over-hanging tree, The hidden stone that on its bosom lay— All yielded, and all went with it. And now, I'll show thee where those once wild waters flow, Deep, silent, beautiful—the brightest ray Of the mid summer's best and brightest day, The morning's blush, the evening's golden streak, Are brighter on its cheek Than any where beside—upon its breast The Nymphea goes to rest And floats securely—not a ripple now Furrows its silver brow— And not a sound From the broad waters wakes the echo round. The winter snows return, the rains descend, And earth and heaven in mingled fury blend— It matters not—securely sped Within their deepen'd bed, Straight to the main the steady waters flow; For nothing is there now On which to break themselves—nor rise, nor fall, Nor frowning chasm—the tempest swept them all. My Sister, there are hearts on earth, I ween, That erst have been Less tranquil than they are—they once had joys, And hopes, and expectations—gilded toys, That they mistook for treasures: They had pleasures, And prospects and desires—Fortune then Ne'er shot in vain The random arrows of her reckless bow, Barbed with woe, Sure to hit somewhere: earth was peopled then With things that could be loved and loved in vain, Joys that depart, and pleasures that betray— One sorrow came, and swept them all away: And now there are none— They yielded, they are gone. And do you wonder now To see upon that light and careless brow The smiles of pleasure playing? Gaily straying From flower to flower, like the summer bee, That fearlessly Sips from their honied cups the sweets they bear, And is content that they should perish there— What should it want with them? Its stores are laid Where flowers do not fade. There was a struggle once—the rebel heart Refused to part With what it lov'd—the unsubmitted will Opposing still The stronger will of Heaven, met the tide, And laid itself in ruins by its side. Still sleeps the battle when the field is won. The strife is done, And Heaven is conqueror. Flow on, flow on, Straight for eternity, thou welcome tide Of never-resting Time! Let calmly glide With even wave Thy now untroubled waters—they shall lave Bosoms that will not sigh beneath their weight nor mourn Their going—nor bewail them gone. If rainbow colours glitter on thy brow, Or golden blossoms on thy margin grow, The tranquil spirit shall reflect their hue— As pure, as true, As yonder waters to the bright blue skies: And when the stormy vapours rise, Dark but not troubled, clouded yet serene, That spirit shall be seen, Swiftly and lightly as they pass it o'er, To burrow from them but a charm the more. Nay, fill thy tide of sorrow to the full, Throng the encompassed bosom with the swell; O'erflow it, overwhelm it—tranquil still, Still the enlarged heart shall give thee room— There cannot come So much of sorrow on thy brief, brief tide, But it may glide Peacefully over it, and buried lie In yonder ocean of eternity. THE END. BAKER AND SON, PRINTERS, SOUTHAMPTON.