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-Whate'er thy lot,-whoe'er thou be,— Confess thy folly,-kiss the rod,

And in thy chastening sorrow see

The hand of God.

"A bruised reed He will not break;
Afflictions all his children feel:
He wounds them for his mercy's sake,
He wounds to heal.

"Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore :

"Tis done!-Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more.

"Now, Traveller in the vale of tears, To realms of everlasting light,

Through Time's dark wilderness of years Pursue thy flight.

"There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary Pilgrims found;
And while the mouldering ashes sleep
Low in the ground.

"The Soul, of origin divine,

God's glorious image, freed from clay,
In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine
A star of day.

"The SUN is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor in the sky; The SOUL, immortal as its Sire,

SHALL NEVER DIE.

BOLEHILL TREES.

A conspicuous plantation, encompassing a school-house and play-ground, on a bleak eminence, at Barlow, in Derbyshire: on the one hand facing the high moors; on the other, overlooking a richly-cultivated, well-wooded, and mountainous country, near the seat of a gentlemen where the writer has spent many happy hours.

Now peace to his ashes who planted yon trees,
That welcome my wandering eye!

In lofty luxuriance they wave with the breeze,
And resemble a grove in the sky;

On the brow of the mountain, uncultured and bleak,
They flourish in grandeur sublime,
Adorning its bald and majestical peak,

Like the lock on the forehead of Time.

A land-mark they rise;―to the stranger forlorn
All night on the wild heath delay'd,

'Tis rapture to spy the young beauties of morn
Unveiling behind their dark shade:

The homeward-bound husbandman joys to behold,
On the line of the gray evening scene,

Their branches yet gleaming with purple and gold,
And the sunset expiring between.

The maidens that gather the fruits of the moor,*
While weary and fainting they roam,

Through the blue dazzling distance of noon-light explore
The trees that remind them of home:

The children that range in the valley suspend

Their sports and in ecstasy gaze,

When they see the broad moon from the summit ascend,
And their school-house and grove in a blaze.

Oh! sweet to my soul is that beautiful grove,
Awakening remembrance most dear ;-

* Bilberries, cluster-berries, and crane-berries.

When lonely in anguish and exile I rove,
Wherever its glories appear,

It gladdens my spirit, it soothes from afar
With tranquil and tender delight,

It shines through my heart, like a hope-beaming star,
Alone in the desert of night.

It tells me of moments of innocent bliss,

For ever and ever gone o'er;

Like the light of a smile, like the balm of a kiss,
They were, but they will be no more :
Yet wherefore of pleasures departed complain,
That leave such endearment behind?

Though the sun of their sweetness be sunk in the main,
Their twilight still rests on the mind.

Then peace to his ashes who planted those trees!
Supreme o'er the landscape they rise,
With simple and lovely magnificence please
All bosoms, and gladden all eyes:

Nor marble, nor brass, could emblazon his fame
Like his own sylvan trophies, that wave
In graceful memorial, and whisper his name,
And scatter their leaves on his grave.

Ah! thus, when I sleep in the desolate tomb,
May the laurels I planted endure,
On the mountain of high immortality bloom,
Midst lightning and tempest secure !

Then ages unborn shall their verdure admire,

And nations sit under their shade,

While my spirit, in secret, shall move o'er my lyre,
Aloft in their branches display'd.

Hence dream of vain glory !—the light drop of dew
That glows in the violet's eye,

In the splendour of morn, to a fugitive view,
May rival a star of the sky;

But the violet is pluck'd, and the dew-drop is flown,
The star unextinguish'd shall shine :
Then mine be the laurels of virtue alone,
And the glories of Paradise mine.

1807.

VOL II.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

SHALL Man of frail fruition boast?
Shall life be counted dear,
Oft but a moment, and at most
A momentary year?

There was a time,-that time is past,―
When, youth! I bloom'd like thee!
A time will come,-'tis coming fast,
When thou shalt fade like me :-

Like me through varying seasons range,
And past enjoyments mourn ;-
The fairest, sweetest spring shall change
To winter in its turn.

In infancy, my vernal prime,

When life itself was new,

Amusement pluck'd the wings of time,
Yet swifter still he flew.

Summer my youth succeeded soon,
My sun ascended high,

And pleasure held the reins till noon,
But grief drove down the sky.

Like Autumn, rich in ripening corn,
Came manhood's sober reign;
My harvest-moon scarce fill'd her horn,
When she began to wane.

Close follow'd age, infirm old

The winter of my year;

32

age,

1804.

When shall I fall before his rage,
To rise beyond the sphere!

I long to cast the chains away,
That hold my soul a slave,
To burst these dungeon walls of clay,
Enfranchised from the grave.

Life lies in embryo,-never free
Till Nature yields her breath,
Till Time becomes Eternity,

And Man is born in Death.

THE GLOW-WORM.

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the female caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train.

WHEN Evening closes Nature's eye,

The Glow-worm lights her little spark,

To captivate her favourite fly,

And tempt the rover through the dark.

Conducted by a sweeter star,

Than all that deck the fields above,

He fondly hastens from afar,

To soothe her solitude with love.

Thus in this wilderness of tears,

Amidst the world's perplexing gloom,
The transient torch of Hymen cheers
The pilgrim journeying to the tomb.

Unhappy he whose hopeless eye
Turns to the light of love in vain ;
Whose cynosure is in the sky,
He on the dark and lonely main.