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Th’ élite of these, with awe profound,

In mute astonishment drew round,
To hear the great Sir Tracy Walker

Descant on scenes he never saw,
Or learned inferences draw,

In painting, poetry, or law-
And owned him an accomplished-talker.

Then one, whose “Incidents of Travel"

Were gleaned from fifty yards of gravel,
Spoke of wide wastes and flinty ridges,

Where a vast colony of blacks
Bore heavy burdens on their backs,

Ran to and fro', and worked like hacks
At tunnels, tramways, banks, and bridges.

Professor Slogo, from the chair,

Thought they might make a snail-road there, From Dahliastan to Rhubarbania;

But old Wallclimber raised his head,
Coiled his long optic tubes, and said,

From all he saw, and all he read,
The world would die of moveomania.

Wallclimber was a wealthy snail,

The hero of a mossy pale,
Commanding such a range of peaches

As made the younger folk give way
To all that he might do or say,

And think a world of wisdom lay
In all his looks and all his speeches.

'Twas echoed, therefore, far and wide,

The project must be laid aside,
For none could cross those horrid regions;

Toil o'er those thirsty sands, and dare
The black ravines that opened there,

Or face the limber ants that fare
Across the spongy soil in legions.

No! none could cross that path, they said,

So full of danger and of dread :-
When suddenly their faith was shaken:

-A group of ducks the border filled,
-Those quacks that never cured, but killed

And every heart with horror thrilled,
To find itself for once mistaken.

0! may the tale my memory tells

Of that alarming crash of shells,
And hopes, and schemes, and speculation,

Teach me no more to dream away
Th' uncertain remnant of my day;

But, while I can, and while I may,
Be useful in my proper station.

SUSAN.

JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING.
Why should dreams so dark and dreary

Fill my thought ?

Is there nought,
Nought to soothe and bless the weary?
Night may wrap the arch of heaven-

Soon a ray

Bright with day
Cheers the morn and gilds the even.
I have seen the mountain hidden

In a shroud

Mist and cloud ;
Say, was hope or joy forbidden ?
No! I knew its summit hoary,

Soon would rise,

Midst the skies,
Girt with green and crowned with glory.
Many a stream with song of gladness

Many a rill,

Silent still,
Winter binds in chains of sadness:
Many a waterfall and river:

Summer's wand

Breaks their band, And their music ceases never. Is the sun in heaven no longer,

When the rain

Sweeps the plain!
Soon he blazes brighter,--stronger.
Is the floweret's sleep eternal,

When its cup,

Folded up,

Waits the smiles and breezes vernal ?

Why should man, then-child of sorrow!

Mourn his doom?

Present gloom
Will be light and bliss to-morrow.
Why should man, then, bound his vision

To the cell

Where we dwell?
Worlds are his, and worlds elysian.

Even here all pain is fleeting ;

Even here,

Joy and care
Join in constant, earnest greeting:
But where all our hopes are tending,

Peace and love

Reign above
Bliss unbroken-joy unending.

MATINS AND VESPERS.

THE SNOWDROP.

(Suggested by the discovery of one on New Year's day.)

An! first and fairest flower of spring,

Hail to thy silver ray:
Surely some gentle spirit dwells,
Beneath the shadow of thy bells,
And shields thee by its fairy spells,

From the cold wintry day.

Sweet harbinger of gentler gales,

Hail bright and lovely gem!
When earth is desolate and drear,
Thou com'st the wintry waste to cheer;
The first and fairest to appear

In Flora's diadem.

Emblem of hope! thou tellest us

Of sunny days to come;
Though o’er us now the storm-cloud lowers,
You bid us think of happy hours,
Which wait us in the blissful bowers

Of our bright future home.

Yes! we may learn of thee, sweet flow'r,

To bear life's chilling blast;
For sacred hope will still illume
Our path, though it be one of gloom,
Which leads us through the silent tomb

To God and heaven at last.

ROSAMOND.

THE HEATH AND THE HAREBELL.

On one of drear November's chilly days,

I found these flowerets growing side by side, Blooming and fair as when the brightest rays

Of sunshine deck'd them in the summer-tide. Far from the busy haunts of men they grew,

Unheeded by the casual passer-by; While all around them bore a sombre hue,

The Harebell wore the colours of the sky. Winter had set his seal upon the earth,

And o'er the land had spread his gloomy wing, But these fair blossoms seem'd to say, that mirth

And gladness would return with coming spring. And thus it fares with man, whose pilgrimage

Is thickly strew'd around with thorns and care, Yet may he learn from Inspiration's page

To give no place to feelings of despair.
Though dark awhile and drear our lot may be,

Some blessings still will cheer the lonely road,
And mercies in these trials we shall see,
When shelter'd in our Saviour's bright abode.

ROSAMOND

LIFE, A PILGRIMAGE. HAPPY, O! happy he, who not affecting The endless toils attending worldly cares, With mind reposed, all discontent rejecting, In silent pace his way to heaven prepares; Deeming his life a scene, the world a stage, Whereon man acts his weary pilgrimage.--"Old Author."

TO AN AFFLICTED ONE.

Child of affliction, raise thy drooping head,
Though round thy sorrowing path, dark shadows spread,
The distant prospect is serenely fair;
And peace, and joy, await thine entrance there.
Hadst thou been pamper'd by the hand of wealth,
Nursed in the lap of luxury and health,—
Surrounded by the pride and pomp of state,
With all the trappings which attend the great, -
Thou wouldst not have possess'd a chasten'd mind,
Nor felt how sweet it is to be resign'd.

Thine Heavenly Father, infinite in love,
Sends sorrow down to raise thine heart above.
To bid thee seek the visits of his face,
And supplicate the dews of heavenly grace;
He gives thee, 'midst the tossings of the night,
Bright corruscations from the world of light;
That in those prayerful hours thy faith may see,
The angel of His presence rests with thee.

But can affliction, then, a right convey
To all the glories of celestial day ?
Alas! full many a rebel soon shall know
His sorrows were but buds of future woe!
But sorrow sanctified is mercy given ;
'Tis love's directory, and points to heaven,
He who with tenderness inflicts the load,
Has bid thee roll thy burdens on thy God;
His mighty arm shall then sustain thy head,
Himself support thee on thy dying bed :
Himself admit thee to the realms of bliss,
And deck thee with a robe of righteousness.
The pain which here has blanch'd thy pallid cheek,
To that abode in vain shall entrance seek:
The tear that glistens in thy languid eye,
His gentle hand benignantly will dry:
While ransomed saints shall sweetly join with thee,
To bless His name who died at Calvary;
Who put away thy sins, thy sorrows bore,
And bids thee reign with him for evermore. 2-

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