HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF A

Go, sufferer! calmly meet the woes

Which God's own mercy bids thee bear; Then, rising as thy SAVIOUR rose, Go! his eternal victory share.

CHURCH.

WHERE ancient forests round us spread,
Where bends the cataract's ocean-fall,
On the lone mountain's silent head,
There are thy temples, GoD of all!

Beneath the dark-blue, midnight arch,

Whence myriad suns pour down their rays, Where planets trace their ceaseless march, Father! we worship as we gaze.

The tombs thine altars are; for there,
When earthly loves and hopes have fled,
To thee ascends the spirit's prayer,
Thou GoD of the immortal dead!

All space is holy; for all space

Is fill'd by thee; but human thought Burns clearer in some chosen place, Where thy own words of love are taught.

Here be they taught; and may we know

That faith thy servants knew of old; Which onward bears through weal and wo, Till Death the gates of heaven unfold!

Nor we alone; may those whose brow

Shows yet no trace of human cares, Hereafter stand where we do now, And raise to thee still holier prayers!

FORTITUDE.

FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way Be rough, like that thy SAVIOUR trod; Though cold and stormy lower the day,

This path of suffering leads to GOD.

Nay, sink not; though from every limb Are starting drops of toil and pain; Thou dost but share the lot of Him With whom his followers are to reign.

Thy friends are gone, and thou, alone,
Must bear the sorrows that assail;
Look upward to the eternal throne,
And know a Friend who cannot fail.

Bear firmly; yet a few more days,

And thy hard trial will be past; Then, wrapt in glory's opening blaze, Thy feet will rest on heaven at last.

Christian thy Friend, thy Master pray'd, When dread and anguish shook his frame; Then met his sufferings undismay'd;

Wilt thou not strive to do the same?

O! think'st thou that his Father's love Shone round him then with fainter rays Than now, when, throned all height above, Unceasing voices hymn his praise?

THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

ANOTHER year! another year!

The unceasing rush of time sweeps on Whelm'd in its surges, disappear Man's hopes and fears, forever gone!

O, no! forbear that idle tale!

The hour demands another strain, Demands high thoughts that cannot quail, And strength to conquer and retain.

'Tis midnight-from the dark-blue sky,

The stars, which now look down on earth, Have seen ten thousand centuries fly,

And given to countless changes birth.

And when the pyramids shall fall, And, mouldering, mix as dust in air, The dwellers on this alter'd ball

May still behold them glorious there.

Shine on! shine on! with you I tread
The march of ages, orbs of light!
A last eclipse o'er you may spread,
To me, to me, there comes no night.

O! what concerns it him, whose way
Lies upward to the immortal dead,
That a few hairs are turning gray,

Or one more year of life has fled?

Swift years! but teach me how to bear, To feel and act with strength and skill, To reason wisely, nobly dare,

And speed your courses as ye will.

When life's meridian toils are done,

How calm, how rich the twilight glow! The morning twilight of a sun Which shines not here on things below.

But sorrow, sickness, death, the pain
To leave, or lose wife, children, friends!
What then-shall we not meet again

Where parting comes not, sorrow ends? The fondness of a parent's care,

The changeless trust which woman gives The smile of childhood,-it is there That all we love in them still lives.

Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay; Immortal being! feel thy power,

Pursue thy bright and endless way.

ON LISTENING TO A CRICKET.

I LOVE, thou little chirping thing,
To hear thy melancholy noise;
Though thou to Fancy's ear may sing
Of summer past and fading joys.

Thou canst not now drink dew from flowers,
Nor sport along the traveller's path;
But, through the winter's weary hours,
Shalt warm thee at my lonely hearth.
And when my lamp's decaying beam
But dimly shows the lettered page
Rich with some ancient poet's dream,
Or wisdom of a purer age-
Then will I listen to the sound,
And, musing o'er the embers pale
With whitening ashes strewed around,
The forms of memory unveil;
Recall the many-colored dreams
That fancy fondly weaves for youth
When all the bright illusion seems
The pictured promises of Truth;
Perchance observe the fitful light,

And its faint flashes round the room, And think some pleasures feebly bright May lighten thus life's varied gloom.

I love the quiet midnight hour,

When Care and Hope and Passion sleep, And Reason with untroubled power

Can her late vigils duly keep.

I love the night; and sooth to say,
Before the merry birds that sing
In all the glare and noise of day,
Prefer the cricket's grating wing.

A SUMMER NIGHT.

How sweet the summer gales of night,
That blow when all is peaceful round,
As if some spirit's downy flight

Swept silent through the blue profound!

How sweet at midnight to recline

Where flows their cool and fragrant stream! There half repeat some glowing line,

There court cach wild and fairy dream; Or idly mark the volumed clouds

Their broad deep mass of darkness throw, When, as the moon her radiance shrouds,

Their changing sides with silver glow; Or see where, from that depth of shade, The ceaseless lightning, faintly bright, In silence plays, as if afraid

Ог

To break the deep repose of night;

gaze on heaven's unnumbered fires, While dimly-imaged thoughts arise, And Fancy, loosed from earth, aspires To search the secrets of the skies;

What various beings there reside;

What forms of life to man unknown, Drink the rich flow of bliss, whose tide Wells from beneath the eternal throne;

Or life's uncertain scenes revolve,
And musing how to act or speak,
Feel some high wish, some proud resolve
Throb in the heart, or flush the cheek.

Meanwhile may reason's light, whose beam
Dimmed by the world's oppressive gloom,
Sheds but a dull unsteady gleam,

In this still hour its rays relume.

Thus oft in this still hour be mine
The light all meaner passions fear,
The wandering thought, the high design,
And soaring dreams to virtue dear.

A WINTER MORNING.

THE keen, clear air-the splendid sight-
We waken to a world of ice;
Where all things are enshrined in light,
As by some genii's quaint device.

'Tis winter's jubilee: this day

Her stores their countless treasures yield; See how the diamond glances play,

In ceaseless blaze, from tree and field.

The cold, bare spot, where late we ranged,
The naked woods are seen no more;
This earth to fairy-land is changed,
With glittering silver sheeted o'er.

The morning sun, with cloudless rays,

His powerless splendor round us streams; From crusted boughs and twinkling sprays Fly back unloosed the rainbow beams.

With more than summer beauty fair,

The trees in winter's garb are shown: What a rich halo melts in air,

Around their crystal branches thrown! And yesterday-how changed the view From what then charmed us; when the sky Hung, with its dim and watery hue,

O'er all the soft, still prospect nigh! The distant groves, arrayed in white, Might then like things unreal seem, Just shown awhile in silvery light,

The fictions of a poets' dream.

Like shadowy groves upon that shore,
O'er which Elysium's twilight lay,
By bards and sages feigned of yore,

Ere broke on earth heaven's brighter day.

O God of nature! with what might
Of beauty, showered on all below,
Thy guiding power would lead aright
Earth's wanderer all thy love to know!

THE PARTING.

We did not part as others part;

And should we meet on earth no more, Yet deep and dear within my heart

Some thoughts will rest a treasured store.

How oft, when weary and alone,

Have I recalled each word, each look, The meaning of each varying tone,

And the last parting glance we took! Yes, sometimes even here are found Those who can touch the chords of love, And wake a glad and holy sound,

Like that which fills the courts above.

It is as when a traveller hears,

In a strange land, his native tongue, A voice he loved in happier years,

A song which once his mother sung.

We part; the sea may roll between,

While we through different climates roam: Sad days-a life-may intervene ;

But we shall meet again at home.

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

Он, stay thy tears! for they are blest
Whose days are past, whose toil is done;
Here midnight care disturbs our rest,

Here sorrow dims the noon-day sun.

For laboring Virtue's anxious toil,

For patient Sorrow's stifled sigh,
For faith that marks the conqueror's spoil,
Heaven grants the recompense,—to die.
How blest are they whose transient years
Pass like an evening meteor's light;
Not dark with guilt, nor dim with tears;

Whose course is short, unclouded, bright!
How cheerless were our lengthened way,
Did Heaven's own light not break the gloom,
Stream downward from eternal day,

And cast a glory round the tomb! Then stay thy tears: the blest above

Have hailed a spirit's heavenly birth,

Sung a new song of joy and love,

And why should anguish reign on earth?

Yet hereafter thy bosom some sorrow may feel, Some cloud o'er thy heart its chill shadow may

throw:

Then ask if thou wilt, and my words shall reveal The feelings and thoughts which thou now canst not know.

FUNERAL HYMN.

He has gone to his God, he has gone to his home;
No more amid peril and error to roam.
His eyes are no longer dim,

His feet no more will falter;
No grief can follow him,

No pang his cheek can alter.

There are paleness and weeping and sighs below
For our faith is faint, and our tears will flow:
But the harps of heaven are ringing;
Glad angels come to greet him,
And hymns of joy are singing,

While old friends press to meet him.

Oh! honored, beloved, to earth unconfined,
Thou hast soared on high, thou hast left us behind;
But our parting is not for ever:

We will follow thee by heaven's light,
Where the grave cannot dissever
The souls whom God will unite.

OH! NE'ER UPON MY GRAVE BE SHED.

OH! ne'er upon my grave be shed

The bitter tears of sinking age,
That mourns its cherished comforts dead,
With grief no human hopes assuage.

When, through the still and gazing street,
My funeral winds its sad array,

Ne'er may a Father's faltering feet
Lead with slow steps the church-yard way.

"T is a dread sight,-the sunken eye,

The look of calm and fixed despair, And the pale lips which breathe no sigh, But quiver with the unuttered prayer. Ne'er may a Mother hide her tears,

As the mute circle spreads around; Or, turning from my grave, she hears The clods fall fast with heavy sound. Ne'er may she know the sinking heart, The dreary loneliness of grief, When all is o'er,-when all depart, And cease to yield their sad relief; Nor, entering in my vacant room,

Feel, in its chill and lifeless air,
As if the dampness of the tomb

And spirits of the dead were there.
Oh! welcome, though with care and pain,
To bid a parent's joys remain,
The power to glad a parent's heart;
And life's approaching ills depart.