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A POET'S GRATITUDE.
ONCE more I see thee, Skiddaw! once again
Behold thee in thy majesty serene,
Alone thou standest, monarch of the scene Thou glorious mountain, on whose ample breast The sunbeams love to play, the vapours love to
Once more, O Derwent! to thy awful shores
I come insatiate of the accustomed sight; And, listening as the eternal torrent roars,
Drink in with eye and ear a fresh delight: For I have wander'd far by land and sea,' In all my wanderings still remembering thee. Twelve years, (how large a part of man's brief
day!) Nor idly, nor ingloriously spent, Of evil and of good have held their way, Since first upon thy banks I pitch'd my tent.
Hither I came in manhood's active prime,
Heaven hath, with goodly increase, bless'd mo
here, Where, childless and oppress'd with grief, I came; With voice of fervent thankfulness sincere
Let me the blessings which are mine proclaim: Here I possess,—what more should I require ? Books, children, leisure,--all my heart's desire.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
By the fame
I THANK THEE, GOD! FOR WEAL
BY ELIZA COOK.
I THANK thee, God! for all I've known
Of kindly fortune, health and joy; And quite as gratefully I own
The bitter drops of life's alloy.
Oh! there was wisdom in the blow
That wrung the sad and scalding tear, That laid my dearest idol low,
And left my bosom lone and drear.
I thank thee, God! for all of smart
That thou hast sent, for not in vain Has been the heavy, aching heart,
The sigh of grief, the throb of pain.
What if my cheek had ever kept
Its healthful colour, glad and bright ? What if my eyes had never wept
Throughout a long and sleepless night?
Then, then, perchance, my soul had not
Remember'd there were paths less fair, And, selfish in my own blest lot,
Ne'er strove to soothe another's care.
But when the weight of sorrow found
My spirit prostrate and resign'd, The anguish of the bleeding wound
Taught me to feel for all mankind.
Even as from the wounded tree
The goodly, precious balm will pour ; So in the rived heart there'll be
Mercy that never flow'd before.
'Tis well to learn that sunny hours
May quickly change to mournful shade; 'Tis well to prize life's scatter'd flowers,
Yet be prepared to see them fade.
I thank thee, God! for weal and woe;
And, whatsoe'er the trial be, "Twill serve to wean me from below,
And bring my spirit nigher thee.
Does the kind root bleed out his livelihood