The frenzy of O'Connor's child,
Or Linden's dreadful day;

And still in each new form appear
To every Muse and Grace more dear.

Transcendent Masters of the lyre!
Not to your honours I aspire;
Humbler yet higher views
Have touch'd my spirit into flame:
The pomp of fiction I disclaim;
Fair Truth! be thou my muse;
Reveal in splendour deeds obscure,
Abase the proud, exalt the poor.

I sing the men who left their home,
Amidst barbarian hordes to roam,
Who land and ocean cross'd,

Led by a load-star, mark'd on high
By Faith's unseen, all-seeing eye,—
To seek and save the lost;

Where'er the curse on Adam spread,
To call his offspring from the dead.

Strong in the great Redeemer's name,
They bore the cross, despised the shame;
And, like their Master here,

Wrestled with danger, pain, distress,

Hunger, and cold, and nakedness,

And every form of fear;

To feel his love their only joy,

To tell that love their sole employ.

O Thou, who wast in Bethlehem born,
The Man of sorrows and of scorn,
Jesus, the sinners' Friend!

-O Thou, enthroned in filial right,
Above all creature-power and might;
Whose kingdom shall extend,

Till earth, like heaven, thy name shall fill,

And men, like angels, do thy will :

1818.

Thou, whom I love, but cannot see,

My Lord, my

God! look down on me;

My low affections raise;

The spirit of liberty impart,
Enlarge my soul, inflame my heart,
And, while I spread thy praise,
Shine on my path, in mercy shine,
Prosper my work, and make it thine.

NIGHT.

NIGHT is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Down on our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife:

Ah! visions, less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep

The joys of other years;

Hopes, that were Angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch;

O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind
All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours misspent,
To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think;

When, from the eye, the soul

Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole,

Discerns beyond the abyss of night

The dawn of uncreated light.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew
To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do,

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for Death;

When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

From sin and suffering cease,

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends;-such death be mine!

Harrowgate, September, 1821.

ASPIRATIONS OF YOUTH.

HIGHER, higher will we climb

Up the mount of glory,

That our names may live through time

In our country's story; Happy, when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls.

Deeper, deeper let us toil

In the mines of knowledge;
Nature's wealth and learning's spoil
Win from school and college;
Delve we there for richer gems
Than the stars of diadems.

Onward, onward will we press
Through the path of duty;
Virtue is true happiness,

Excellence true beauty;

Minds are of supernal birth,
Let us make a heaven of earth.

Close and closer then we knit
Hearts and hands together,
Where our fire-side comforts sit
In the wildest weather:

Oh! they wander wide, who roam,
For the joys of life, from home.

Nearer, nearer bands of love
Draw our souls in union,
To our Father's house above,

To the saints' communion;
Thither every hope ascend,
There may all our labours end.

A HERMITAGE.

WHOSE is this humble dwelling-place,
The flat turf-roof with flowers o'ergrown?
Ah! here the tenant's name I trace,
Moss-cover'd, on the threshold stone.

Well, he has peace within, and rest,
Though nought of all the world beside;
Yet, stranger, deem not him unblest,
Who knows not avarice, lust, or pride.

Nothing he asks, nothing he cares

For all that tempts or troubles round;
He craves no feast, no finery wears,
Nor once o'ersteps his narrow bound.

No need of light, though all be gloom,
To cheer his
eye,—that eye is blind;
No need of fire in this small room,

He recks not tempest, rain, or wind.

No gay companions here; no wife

To gladden home with true-love smiles; No children,-from the woes of life To win him with their artless wiles.

Nor joy, nor sorrow, enter here,

Nor throbbing heart, nor aching limb;

No sun, no moon, no stars appear,

And man and brute are nought to him.

This dwelling is a hermit's cave,
With space alone for one poor bed
This dwelling is a mortal's grave,
Its sole inhabitant is dead.