Whatever impulse first conferr'd that name,
Or Fancy's dream, or Superstition's art,
I freely own its spirit-touching claim,

With thoughts and feelings it may well impart:

Not that I would forego the surer chart

Of REVELATION for a mere conceit;

Yet with indulgence may the Christian's heart Each frail memorial of HIS MASTER greet, And chiefly what recals his love's most glorious feat.

Be this the closing tribute of my strain!

Be this, fair flowers! of charms-your last and best!

That when THE SON OF GOD for man was slain,
Circled by you, He sank awhile to rest,—
Not the Grave's captive, but a Garden's guest,
So pure and lovely was his transient tomb!
And He, whose brow the wreath of thorns had

prest,

Not only bore for us Death's cruel doom,

But won the thornless crown of amaranthine

bloom.

IX.

ON VISITING A SCENE OF CHILDHOOD.

LONG years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene, Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of

green;

The spot where, a schoolboy, all thoughtless, I stray'd,

By the side of the stream in the gloom of the shade.

I thought of the friends who had roam'd with me there,

When the sky was so blue and the flowers were so fair;

All scatter'd all sunder'd, by mountain and wave, And some in the cold, silent womb of the grave!

I thought of the green banks that circled around, With wild flowers, with sweet-briar, and eglantine crown'd;

I thought of the river, all stirless and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night;

And I thought of the trees under which we had stray'd,

Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;

And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find Of the names and the carvings impress'd on the rind.

All eager I hasten'd the scene to behold,

Render'd sacred and dear by the feelings of old; And I dream'd that, unalter'd, my eye should explore

This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore!

'T was a dream-not a token or trace could I view Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew ;

Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day, Like a tale that is told, they had vanish'd away!

And methought the low river, that murmur'd along, Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song, Since the birds that had nestled and warbled above Had all fled from its banks at the fall of the grove!

I paused, and the moral came home to my heart— Behold how of earth all the glories depart!

Our visions are baseless, our hopes but a gleam, Our staff but a reed, and our life but a dream!

Then, oh! let us look, let our prospects allure
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure;
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of
Time!

X.

ODE TO CONTENT.

O THOU, the nymph with placid eye;
O seldom found, yet ever nigh,

Receive my temp'rate vow:

Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth, unalter'd brow.

O come in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste, subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell;

Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

The modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity, in attic vest,

And Innocence, with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye;

And Hope, who points to distant years
Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.

There Health, thro' whose kind bosom glide The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;

And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.