But something inward seems to tell,
Another day will do as well.
"Now is the time-the accepted time," Speaks audibly a page sublime;
Another creed is heard to say,
Wait till a more convenient day.
Enquir'st thou which of these is truth?
Which to obey-unwary youth?
Go-ask of nature in thy walk.
The rose-bud, dying on its stalk,
The fading grass-the withering tree,
Are emblems of thy fate and thee.
Ask of the stream or torrent hoarse,
To linger in its wonted course ;
Ask of the bird to stay its flight,
Bid the pale moon prolong her light,
And listen to their answering tone,
"A future day is not our own."
And is it thine? Oh, spurn the cheat,
Resist the smooth-the dire deceit ;
Lest, while thou dream'st of long delay,
Thine hour of action pass away,
Thy prospects fade-thy joys be o'er,
Thy time of hope return no more.
Ask of the Roman-pale with fear,
While judgment thunder'd in his ear,
Who to the warning friend could say
"I'll hear thee on a future day;"
Ask him if Time confirm'd his claim,
Or that good season ever came?
Go, ask of him, whom demons urge
To leap this dark world's dizzy verge,
Who on his thorny pillow pain'd,
Sees no reprieve or pardon gain'd.
Oh! ask that dying man the price
Of one short hour of thoughtless vice ;
What would he pay-what treasure give,
For one brief season more to live,
One hour to spend in anxious care,
In duty, penitence, and prayer!
Ask of the grave; a voice replies-
"No knowledge, wisdom, or device,”
Beauty, or strength possess the gloom
Where thou shalt find thy narrow home.
Delay no longer; lest thy breath
Should quiver in the sigh of death;
But inward turn thy thoughtful view,
And what thy spirit dictates-do.
THE GIVING OF THE BIBLE TO THE ESQUIMAUX.
ROUND that wide bay whose waters sweep,
With slow-sad current, to the deep,
Hoarse billows beat the rugged shore,
Of cold and dismal Labrador.
There as the lonely sailor keeps
His night-watch o'er those awful deeps,
Sighs for his long deserted home
And hails the slowly rising moon,
Lo! icy cliffs of fearful size
Flash death before his startled eyes,
Cleave his frail bark with thund'ring crash,
As lightnings rend the lofty ash.
His frantic shrieks of thrilling pain
Rouse from their beds the helpless train,
Who soon shall sleep nor wake again.
Cold to the raft their limbs congeal,
Their icy hearts forget to feel,
Dim close their eyes in silent sleep
On their last couch-the northern deep.
Perchance upon the flinty beach,
Their dry, unburied bones may bleach,
Where desarts stretch in trackless snow,
And broad lakes rise that never flow,
And rocks of frost, with frightful ledge,
Hang sparkling o'er the water's edge.
There scarce the sun reluctant throws
A faint beam o'er the polar snows;
But wakes to speed his glowing car,
And shuns the icy coast from far;
Pale float his locks on frosted skies,
As in the waste the torch light dies.
There life's frail lamp with livid ray
Burns coldly in its cell of clay,
And lights a weak and dwindled race,
Devoid of science, wit or grace.
For them no spring, with gentle care,
Paints the young bud and scents the air;
Nor autumn bids the loaded stem
Scatter its fruitage fair for them.
No storied page, or learned strife,
Or arts that lend delight to life,
Or lighted dome, or festive song,
Shed lustre o'er their winter long.
But wrapt in skins, by long pursuit
Torn rudely, from the slaughter'd brute,
Close throng'd in hidden vaults they rest,
Within the drear carths' mouldering breast,
Hear the wild storm above them pour,
Or sunk in sleep forget its roar.
The long dark night, with heavy sway,
Hangs frowning o'er their homes of clay;
The twilight dim-the infant moon,
The pale sad stars that break the gloom
Glance coldly on their living tomb.
Ah! what can cheer that lonely spot,
Or bind the sufferer to his lot?
The hand that spread those frigid skies,
And gave the polar star to rise,
The hand that stretch'd that frozen plain,
And shew'd to man his drear domain,
Gave, to enhance the scanty store,
An humble mind that ask'd no more.
And yet a better boon than this
In later times he gave,
A warning voice, a call to bliss,
A hope beyond the grave ;
A page whose lustre shone to bless
The lone retreat of wretchedness.
He reads, he weeps, his prayers arise
To Him who hears a sinner's cries.
Sounds soft as music seem to roll,
Strong light is kindled in his soul,
While deep repentance, earnest prayer,
And grateful love are rising there;
And tears stand trembling in his eye
That for his sins, his Lord should die.
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