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But when their temples long have wore
The silver crown of tresses hoar;
As studious still calm peace to keep,
Beneath a flowery turf they sleep.


Spirit of Love and Sorrow hail!

Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with Erening's dying gale :

Hail with thy sadly pleasing tear! 0! at this still, this lonely hour,

Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charming power

Shall call up Fancy to obey : To paint the wild romantic dream

That meets the Poet's musing eye, As on the bank of shadowy stream

He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

Lead where the pine woods wave on bigh,

Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, As the cold moon with trembling eye

Darts her long beams the leaves between ; Lead to the mountain's dusky head,

Where far below, in shade profound, Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread,

And sad the chimes of vesper sound. Or guide me where the dashing oar

Just breaks the stillness of the vale, As slow it tracks the winding shore,

To meet the Ocean's distant sail ; To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves

With measurid surges loud and decp,' Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,

And wild the winds of Autumn sweep.


Loud, loud blows the wind on the moor,
And chill is my path thro' the snow.
An outcast, unfriended, and poor,
O'er the face of the wide world I go.

Hush, hush, my sweet babe! for thy cry
Is more than my anguish can bear ;
O God! will thy mercisul eye
Not louk on my frantic despair.

At the door of the rich man I knock'd,
For plenty was written thereon,

But the rich man my poverty mock’d,
And tauntingly bade me be gone.

Cold, cold is thy bosom, 0 clay!
But colder the hard heart of pride ;
No tear for the wretched have they
Who sail on prosperity's tide.

The passenger witness'd my grief,
And he told me he pitied niy sigh,
But I spurn'd at his proffer'd relief,
For lew'd was the glance of his eye.

My steps by a banquet-house pass'd,
Where guests enter'd joyous and fiee,
I shrank at the winterly blast,
But there was no entrance for me.

Thro' the night, and the storm, and the cold,
Must I and my little one roam :
But e'er many moments are told
Shall we both reach a last quiet home.

Cease, baby, thy sere aming so wild,
There ! creep to this ball-frozen breast-
And now will the mother and child
Lie down on the deep shows lo rest.


Tremble at death ?-for shame! a christian too!
Unworthy then of gospel light art thou.
Nobler affiance heathens paid that power
Which guards the mortal as the natal hour,
Confess’d his boundless strength and righteous will.
Able and prompt to save existence still.

When Socrates, the humble, wise, and good, Basely condemn'd, resign'd his guiltless blood, “O countrymen 1" he cried, “my heart is calın; * For death, and all its horrors, here's “ Am I all mortal, I unpain'd shall rest; ** Am I imn.ortal, I shall sure be blest. “ The hour is come-Idie :- you live :—'tis well! “ Whose lot is happiest, God o'er all can tell."

my balm:

Thus dy'd an heathen, as an lieathen ought. What! christian thou, and own a meaner thought? A christian thou, to whom the gospel-day

Discovers bliss, and animates the way? Forbid it, honour !_nobly dare be free! And shew, that death retains no ng for thee!


God of my life! and author of my days
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise;
And, trembling, take upon a mortal tongue,
That hallow'd name, to harps of seraphs sung:
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more,
Than hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in ev'ry diff'rent sphere,
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works, thiro' all her parts, proclaim.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts controul,
sud breathe an awful stillness thro' my soul.
As by a charni, the waves of grief subside ;
Impelnous passion stops her headlong tide;
si thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And iny hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace;
Till ev'ry worldly thought within me dies,
And caril's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ;
Till all my sense is lost in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
L'ut soon, alas ! this buly calm is broke;
My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingles with the dross of earth again,

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