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Behold the path he trod,

"A milky way" through midnight skies!
-Behold the grave in which he lies;
Even from the dust thy prophet cries,
"Prepare to meet thy God."


SHALL man, to sordid views confined,

His powers unfold,

And waste his energy of mind

In search of gold?

Rise, rise, my soul, and spurn such low desires,
Nor quench in grovelling dust heaven's noblest fires.

For what are all thy anxious cares,

Thy ceaseless toil?

For what, when roars the wind, thy fears

Lest in the broil

When bursting clouds and furious waves contend,
Thy bark rich freighted all engulf'd descend?

Fraught with disease to-morrow comes,
And bows thy head;

From treasured heaps and splendid domes
Thy thoughts recede:

The dream is o'er: then kiss the chastening rod,
That points the road to virtue and to God.

Seek thou, my soul, a nobler wealth,

And more secure :

Content and peace, the mind's best health,
And thoughts all pure;

And deeds benevolent, and prayer, and praise,
And deep submission to Heaven's righteous ways.


WITH silent awe I hail the sacred morn,

That scarcely wakes when all the fields are stili ;
A soothing calm on every breeze is borne,
A graver murmur gurgles from the rill,
And echo answers softer from the hill;

And softer sings the linnet on the thorn;
The sky-lark warbles in a tone less shrill-
Hail, light serene! hail, sacred Sabbath morn!
The rooks sail silent by in airy droves;

The sky a placid yellow lustre throws;
The gales, that lately sigh'd along the groves,
Have hush'd their downy wings in soft repose?
The hovering rack of clouds forgets to move—
So soft the morning when the Savior rose!


How wither'd, faded, seems the form
Of yon obscure, unsightly root!
Yet from the blight of winter's storm
It hides secure the precious root.

The careless eye can find no grace,
No beauty in the scaly folds;
Nor see, within the dark embrace,
What latent loveliness it holds.

Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales,
The lily wraps her silver vest,
Till vernal suns and vernal gales

Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast.

Yes! hide beneath the mouldering heap
The undelighting, slighted thing;
There, in the cold earth, buried deep,
In silence let it wait the spring.

O! many a stormy night shall close
In gloom upon the barren earth;
While still, in undisturb'd repose,
Uninjured lies the future birth.

And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,

Hope's patient smile shall wondering view, Or mark her fond credulity,

As her soft tears the spot bedew.

Sweet smile of Hope! delicious tear!

The sun, the shower, indeed shall come;

The promis'd verdant shoot appear,

And nature bid her blossom bloom,

And thou, O virgin queen of spring,
Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,
Unveil thy charms, thy perfume shed:

Unfold thy robes of purest white,
Unsullied, from their darksome grave;
And thy soft petals, silvery light,
In the mild breeze unfetter'd wave.

So faith shall seek the lowly dust
Where humble sorrow loves to lie;
And bids her thus her hopes intrust,
And watch with patient, cheerful eye;

And bear the long, cold, wintry night,
And bear her own degraded doom;
And wait till heaven's reviving light,
Eternal spring! shall burst the gloom.



WHEN I have seen thy snowy wing
O'er the blue wave at evening spring,
And give those scales, of silver white,
So gaily to the eye of light,

As if thy frame were form'd to rise
And live amid the glorious skies;
O! it has made me proudly feel
How like thy wing's impatient zeal
Is the pure soul, that scorns to rest
Upon the world's ignoble breast,
But takes the plume that God has given,
And rises into light and heaven!

But when I see that wing so bright
Grow languid with a moment's flight,
Attempt the paths of air in vain,
And sink into the waves again,
Alas! the flattering pride is o'er :
Like thee, awhile, the soul may soar;
But erring man must blush to think,
Like thee, again, the soul may sink!

O virtue! when thy clime I seek,
Let not my spirit's flight be weak;
Let me not, like this feeble thing,
With brine still dropping from its wing,
Just sparkle in the solar glow,

And plunge again to depths below.
But when I leave the grosser throng,
With whom my soul hath dwelt so long,
Let me, in that aspiring day,
Cast every lingering stain away,
And, panting for thy purer air,
Fly up at once and fix me there.


A MOTHER'S Love,-how sweet the name!

What is a Mother's Love?

-A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,

To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a Mother's Love.

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