"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."-Ps. xc. 1.
ARISE, my soul! the burial shroud of night Another year conceals,-for ever gone! Wake to the call of Hope and purpose new, Wrapt in the rising year, from depths unseen That beckon on, and nerve for every toil.
First conscious breath that wakes the still pro
Of thought unstartled, waft to heaven a prayer,
On wings of Faith to Time's Creator borne,—
And thine immortal! future inhabitant
Of that Eternity His presence fills.
Now swift as dawn, and as his shooting rays Far multiplied diffuse, do thoughts return
Of things which have been, and shall be no more, For good or evil fixed or unfulfilled.
Methinks beside an ancient tree I stand;
Wide spread its branches bare, and chill o'erhung,
Where Thames thro' rural meads his stately flood
Rolls on, content to bless these scenes of peace,
Nor court the busier crowded haunts of men.
Here Friendship and Instruction sweet combined
Charms every shade, and sounds in every wave
A second music lovelier than its own,
Part of my being! not forgetful now
As once,―too blest,—to shut these eyes on
This heart on peace-if gratitude most due
To God and man engrossed not all thy joy.
Here let me rest beneath this wintry shade,
As stealing twilight smooths the ruffled tide;
Eve should foretell repose, yet no soft rest
Joyous I hail as all things round me do,
From troublous turmoil free, and losing self
With all its wants, in meditative praise,
Still busy Self distracts the general peace :
So stands amid the forest's quivering pines,
In richest green arrayed, the lifeless tree,
Blest in no season, as they slow revolve,
With garment vernal; and whilst far and near,As thro' their midst aërial breathings creep,
Each other bough its every leaf employs
To swell the gentle harmony of all,
His creaking branches ceaselessly repine,
And spread their melancholy woes abroad.
Swift time rolls on, and welcome changes come,
Of place and scene, yet never strange or new,
Since there the truant eye, with reason fond,
Of watchful mem'ry dwelt when morn and eve,
With light and shadow marked the gliding days.
Oh Hills endear'd! Ye vales of Cambria, hail !
"Twere hard without applause to gaze on thee,
Trembling to meet the earliest glance of spring,
His tenderest voice, and with a blush be won!
There silv'ry Usk, by many a dear retreat
Of humming shade, reluctant holds his way;
Or listens charmed, in some grove-darkened dell,
To lone Seclusion's sigh, where willows weep;
Oh, favoured stream! the music of thy flow
Is soft as recollection born of thee;
As varied all-as full of ling'ring love
Low whispering to the woods its fairy tale ;
For oft thy murmurs melancholy fall,
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