A PRAYER.

LIKE the low murmur of the secret stream Which through dark alders winds its shaded way, My suppliant voice is heard; ah! do not deem That on vain toys I throw my hours away.

In the recesses of the forest vale,

On the wild mountains, on the verdant sod,
When the fresh breezes of the morn prevail,
I wander lonely communing with God.

When the faint sickness of a wounded heart Creeps in cold shudderings through my panting frame,

I turn to THEE-that holy peace impart,
Which sooths the invokers of Thy awful name.

O! All-pervading Spirit! Sacred Beam,
Parent of life and light, Eternal Power,
Grant me through obvious clouds one transient
beam

Of Thy bright essence in my dying hour.

*These verses are attributed to Mr Beckford, the eccentric author of Caliph Vathek, and the late owner of Fonthill Abbey.

THE END.

Oliver & Boyd, Printers.