With glance of tearful joy, she view'd
Its promis'd verdure rise;
And oft its drooping buds she rais'd,
To point them to the skies.
But as she cherish'd it, a hand
Remov'd her hence away;
And sick'ning on her lowly tomb
The broken flow'ret lay.
It rose to seek the ray serene,
The star of mercy threw ;
It rose on life's eventful scene,
To feel and tremble too.
Yet some have fenc'd it from the blast,
And from the wintry air,
And deign'd-tho' undeserv'd their smile,
To shelter it with care.
Yes they have cheer'd it :—they have sought To see its branches grow;
And have not scorn'd it, though its stalk
And if the fragrance of the skies
Should to its buds be given,
That fragrance shall to these arise,
To virtue, and to heaven.
OFT, when the morning draws her dewy veil,
Or twilight slumbers on the shrouded dale,
Or moon beams tremble thro' the whisp'ring trees,
Or float on clouds before the western breeze,
Or evening, in her starry mantle bright,
Precedes the slow majestic train of night;
In that still hour the mind excursive roves,
A heavenly voice the listening spirit moves.
Then light wing'd forms appear with brow serene,
And tempt the soul from this terrestrial scene.
Her pow'rs no more can present objects move,
And cold is earthly care, and earthly love;
Memory hangs pausing o'er the unstain'd page,
The prostrate passions all renounce their rage,
Fear shrinks no more, and wrath forgets to frown,
And fluttering fancy shuts her pinions down;
The roving thoughts restrain their wild pursuit,
Ev'n crested vanity sits meek and mute,
And sceptred reason, bowing on her throne,
Yields to a Pow'r acknowledg'd, though unknown,
The world allures-but clouds her glories blot;
The world may call; the spirit hears her not.
A still, small voice arrests th' expanding soul,
The full, strong tides of inspiration roll,
A viewless harp responds-soft tones arise,
And quick within an answering harp replies;
No more
the vague and wild ideas float,
Charm'd into order by that blended note;
But waking genius strives, with fondest care,
To woo the magic music from the air;
The strong, unmeasur'd minstrelsey to bind,
In harmony by mortal pow'rs confin'd,
GOD DISPLAYED IN HIS WORKS.
WHO gave thee clothes to shield thy shrinking form?
Who gave thee shelter from the wintry storm?
Who gave the senseless beasts to be thy food?,
Spread for thy use the pure and limpid flood?
Gave the quick ear to hear,—the mind to know,
The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow?
Who gave the day of health-the night of rest,
Joy at thy call, and comfort in thy breast?
Who deals with kindest care thy chequer'd lot?
Whose arm sustains thee tho' thou see'st it not?
Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways? Who writes the record of thy fleeting days?
Ask of the stream that rolls in torrents by ;
Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky;
Or of the fields array'd in garments fair;
Or of the birds that warble on the air;
Or of the mountain lilies wet with dew;
Or of the brutes, and they will tell thee who.
Then lift thine eye to that unsullied throne,
And raise thy heart to Him-thy God alone.
ROVING spirit-rushing blast,
Whither dost thou speed so fast?
Hurling from night's ebon car,
The spear of elemental war?
Cams't thou from the secret cell,
Where the prison'd whirlwinds dwell?
Hast thou seen the awful court,
Where the armed thunders sport?
Where the deafning tempest sings,
Where the lightning whets its stings?
Didst thou there obtain thine hour
Of wild and temporary pow'r?
Gain the strength that wraps thy breast?
Win the cloud that forms thy crest?
Beg to wield the mighty scourge,
To stir the main-and lash the surge,
And wake the waves whose white heads rest
Lightly on old Ocean's breast?
Speed'st thou now to rouse the gale,
That rends the white and shivering sail?
Speed'st thou now to break the sleep,
Of those that ride the foaming deep?
To shriek like ghosts to those that roam,
"Thou ne'er shalt view thy distant home.”
Then go, thou angry tempest-go,
Speed thee on thy task of woe,
Traverse earth from pole to pole,
Crush the form-but save the soul.
"LIVE well to day"-a spirit cries, To day be good-to day be wise ;
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