Yet, when your strange excuses o'er,
You sit and muse alone,

And seem to look as if you wish'd
Again to hear my tone.

I come; and then with curious glance,
My scanty robe you eye,

And count my curls, and measure where,
Each flowing tress should lie:

And wonder why such tasteless wreaths
Of faded flow'rs I wear,

And chide because I could not stay,
To dress myself with care.

And when you ask to hear my song,
And I begin to play,

You utter, that is out of tune,

And snatch the lyre away.

Now since you have so soon forgot,
My service, and my truth,
My kindness to your childhood shewn,
My friendship for your youth;

Go, seek some other muse, who loves

Your heavy task to bear;

For since your ways so much are chang'd, I cast you from my care."

She spake, and hid her glowing face,
Within the veil of night,

And gazing as the vision fled,
I trembled with affright;

Then rose in sadness from my bed,
And lo! I could not write.

AN EXCUSE FOR NOT FULFILLING AN ENGAGEMENT.

WRITTEN IN SCHOOL.

MY friend, I gave a glad assent

To your request at noon, But now I find I cannot leave My little ones so soon.

I early came, and as my feet
First enter'd at the door,
"Remember" to myself I said,
"You must dismiss at four."

But slates, and books, and maps appear,
And many a dear one cries,

"Oh, tell us where that river runs,

And where those mountains rise;

And where that blind, old monarch reign'd,
And who was king before,

And stay a little after five,

And tell us something more."

And then my little A ****t comes,
And who unmoved can view,
The glance of that imploring eye,
"Oh, teach me something too."

And who would think amid the toil,
(Tho' scarce a toil it be,)

That through the door, the muses coy
Should deign to peep at me.

Their look is somewhat cold and stern,

As if it meant to say,

"We did not know you kept a school, We must have lost our way."

Their visit was but short indeed,

As these light numbers show;

But Oh! they bade me write with speed,
My friend, I cannot go.

† A child deprived of the powers of hearing, and of speech

THE RISING MOON.

BENEATH the soft glance of the slow-rising

moon,

Where the landscape was silent I rov'd, While pleasures departed by memory were shewn, And I thought of the friends I had lov'd.

The mild breeze of eve through the branches that sigh'd,

Let fall its pure dews on my cheek,

And my heart, as it quicken'd its rapturous tide, Felt more than my language could speak.

"I give, Holy Father, my being to thee!
Oh, deign to accept of the boon ;
Most humbly I render this sacrifice free,
As I gaze on the fair, rising moon.

Protect me from folly, preserve me from change,
From darkness, and errors, and cares;
And while thro' this field of temptation I range,
Oh, break thou its charms and its snares.

And soon may I reach that blest mansion afar, Where the toils of this journey are o’er ;

Where the pale rising moon, and the mild evening star

Shall shed their weak lustre no more.

SABBATH MORNING.

CANST thou let thy spirit lie

Cold with inactivity;

Canst thou press thy couch of rest,

Cherish torpor in thy breast,

On the day thy God has chose,

On the day thy Saviour rose ?

Break the seal that binds thine eyes,
Sleeper! from thy sleep arise!

Wake, as morning wakes from night,

Rise, and Christ shall give thee light.