Perhaps on thy soft lap reclined,

In dreams the cruel Fair was kind,
That more intensely he might know
The bitterness of waking woe.

Whate'er those pangs from me conceal'd,
To thee in midnight groans reveal'd ;
They stung remembrance to despair;
"A wounded Spirit who can bear?"
Meanwhile Disease, with slow decay,
Moulder'd his feeble frame away!
And as his evening sun declined,
The shadows deepen'd o'er his mind.
What doubts and terrors then possess'd
The dark dominion of his breast!
How did delirious fancy dwell
On Madness, Suicide and Hell!
There was on earth no Power to save :

-But, as he shudder'd o'er the grave,
He saw from realms of light descend
The friend of him who has no friend,
Religion!Her almighty breath
Rebuked the winds and waves of death;
She bade the storm of frenzy cease,
And smiled a calm, and whisper'd peace;
Amidst that calm of sweet repose,
To Heaven his gentle Spirit rose.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE, OF LOTHERSDALE,

ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,

Who had suffered a long Confinement in the Castle of York, and Loss of all his worldly Property, for Conscience Sake.

"SPIRIT, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath!
Spirit, cast thy chains away;
Dust, be thou dissolved in death!"

Thus thy Guardian Angel spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed;
As the bonds of life he broke,
And the ransom'd captive fled.

"Prisoner, long detain❜d below; Prisoner, now with freedom blest ; Welcome, from a world of woe,

Welcome to a land of rest!"

Thus thy Guardian Angel sang,
As he bore thy soul on high;
While with Hallelujabs rang.
All the region of the sky.

-Ye that mourn a Father's loss, Ye that weep a Friend no more! Call to mind the Christian cross, Which your Friend, your Father bore.

Grief and penury and pain

Still attended on his way,

And Oppression's scourge and chain,

More unmerciful than they.

Yet while travelling in distress, ('Twas the eldest curse of sin,)

Through the world's waste wilderness, He had paradise within.

And along that vale of tears,

Which his humble footsteps trod,

Still a shining path appears,

Where the Mourner walk'd with GOD.

Till his Master, from above,

When the promised hour was come,

Sent the chariot of his love

To convey the Wanderer home

Saw ye not the wheels of fire,

And the steeds that cleft the wind? Saw ye not his soul aspire,

When his mantle droop'd behind?

Ye who caught it as it fell,

Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!

Yet rejoicing in his lot,

Still shall Memory love to weep

O'er the venerable spot

Where his dear cold relicks sleep.

Grave! the guardian of his dust,

Grave the treasury of the skies,

Every atom of thy trust

Rests in hope again to rise.

Hark! the judgement-trumpet calls

66

Soul, rebuild thine house of clay; Immortality thy walls,

And Eternity thy day!"

THE THUNDER STORM.

O FOR evening's brownest shade!
Where the breezes play by stealth
In the forest-cinctured glade,

Round the hermitage of Health:
While the noon-bright mountains blaze
In the sun's tormenting rays.

O'er the sick and sultry plains,
Through the dim delirious air,
Agonizing silence reigns,

And the wanness of despair:

Nature faints with fervent heat,
Ah! her pulse hath ceased to beat !

Now in deep and dreadful gloom,

Clouds on clouds portentous spread, Black as if the day of doom

Hung o'er Nature's shrinking head: Lo the lightning breaks from high, -God is coming !—God is nigh!