(AIR. BEETHOVEN.)

WHO is the Maid my spirit seeks,

Through cold reproof and slander's blight? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No-wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, the light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,

As if themselves were things divine.
No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broider'd veil;
And she who comes in glitt'ring vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Not so the faded form I prize

And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes

Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away.

OH, THOU! WHO DRYST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

(AIR.-HAYDN.)

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii. 3.

OH, Thou! who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.
But thou wilt heal that broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above? Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray; And darkness shows us worlds of light We never saw by day!

GO, LET ME WEEP.

(AIR. STEVENSON.)

Go, let me weep-there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them, inly feels
Some ling'ring stain of early years

Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
Vhile tears that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Go, let me weep.

cave me to sigh o'er hours that flew More idly than the summer's wind, A id, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw, But left no trace of sweets behind.The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves Ja cold, is faint to those that swell The heart, where pure repentance grieves O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well. Leave me to sigh.

When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet
The precious odors pour'd;-

And wiped them with that golden hair,
Where once the diamond shone;
Though now those gems of grief were there
Which shine for GOD alone!

Were not those sweets, so humbly shed-
That hair-those weeping eyes-
And the sunk heart, that inly bled-
Heaven's noblest sacrifice?

Thou, that hast slept in error's sleep,

Oh, wouldst thou wake in Heaven, Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep, "Love much"15 and be forgiven!