Weep on, ye childless mothers, weep;
Your babes are hushed in one cold grave;
In Jordan's streams their spirits sleep,
Their blood is mingled with the wave.
PROMPT FORGIVENESS ENJOINED.
WAIT not until prayer be ended,
To forgive thy direst foe;
With thy prayer be pardon blended,
If forgiveness thou wouldst know:
From this precept shouldst thou start,
Thine is not a praying heart.
Praying hearts can never cherish
Thoughts of bitterness, or strife;
In their presence soon must perish
Prayer's true element, and life:
If from faith thy prayer up-springs,
Love must lend it heaven-ward wings.
Shouldst thou, then, in thy devotion,
Feel against thy brother aught,
Instantly, with deep emotion,
Check each unforgiving thought.
While thy heart resentment bears,
God will never hear thy prayers.
Neither think thou of delaying;
Hatred on delay can live;-
Even while thou standest praying,
Freely, heartily forgive;
Or, whate'er thy sins may be,
Hope not God will pardon thee.
Should thy resolution falter,
Hatred has thy heart defil'd;
Leave thy gift before the altar,
First to man be reconcil'd,-
Then, forgiveness having shown,
Pray, that it may be thine own.
WHY gaze ye on my hoary hairs,
Ye children, young and gay?
Your locks, beneath the blast of cares,
Will bleach as white as they.
I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kissed from my cheek the briny dew
And taught my faltering tongue.
She, when the nightly couch was spread,
Would bow my infant knee,
And place her hand upon my head,
And, kneeling, pray for me.
But, then, there came a fearful day;
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead.
I plucked a fair white rose, and stole
To lay it by her side,
And thought strange sleep enchained her soul,
For no fond voice replied.
That eve, I knelt me down in woe,
And said a lonely prayer;
Yet still my temples seemed to glow
As if that hand were there.
Years fled, and left me childhood's joy,
Gay sports and pastimes dear!
I rose a wild and wayward boy,
Who scorned the curb of fear.
Fierce passions shook me like a reed;
Yet ere at night I slept,
That soft hand made my bosom bleed
And down I fell, and wept.
Youth came-the props of virtue reeled;
But oft, at day's decline,
A marble touch my brow congealed-
Blessed mother, was it thine?-
In foreign lands I travelled wide,
My pulse was bounding high,
Vice spread her meshes by my side,
And pleasure lured my eye;
Yet still that hand, so soft and cold,
Maintained its mystic sway,
As when, amid my curls of gold,
With gentle force it lay.
And with it breathed a voice of care,
As from the lowly sod,
"My son-my only one-beware!
Nor sin against thy God."
Ye think, perchance, that age hath stole
My kindly warmth away,
And dimmed the tablet of the soul;
Yet when, with lordly sway,
This brow the plumed helm displayed,
That guides the warrior throng,
Or beauty's thrilling fingers strayed
These manly locks among,-
That hallowed touch was ne'er forgot!
And now, though time hath set
His frosty seal upon my lot,
These temples feel it yet.
And if I e'er in heaven appear,
A mother's holy prayer,
A mother's hand, and gentle tear,
That pointed to a Saviour dear,
Have led the wanderer there.
When danger warns, his weapons to select,
And fit them on. He dares not stop to plead,
When taken by surprise and half o'ercome,
That, now, to venture near the hallowed place
Were but profane; a plea that marks a soul
Glad to impose on conscience with a show
Of humble veneration, to secure
Present indulgence, which, when once enjoyed,
It means to mourn with floods of bitter tears.
The tempter quits his vain pursuit, and flies, When by the mounting suppliant drawn too near The upper world of purity and light.
He loses sight of his intended prey,
In that effulgence beaming from the throne
Radiant with mercy. But devotion fails
To succour and preserve the tempted soul,
Whose time and talents rest or run to waste.
Ne'er will the incense of the morn diffuse
A salutary savour through the day,
With charities and duties not well filled.
These form the links of an electric chain
That join the orisons of morn and eve,
And propagate through all its several parts,
While kept continuous, the ethereal fire;
But if a break be found, the fire is spent.
THROW up the window! "Tis morn for life
In its most subtle luxury. The air
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