MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

CHARITY.

A VERSIFICATION OF PART OF THE THIRTEENTH CHAPTER OF FIRST CORINTHIANS.

(Written in her twelfth year.)

THOUGH I were gifted with an angel's tongue,
And voice like that with which the prophets sung,
Yet if mild charity were not within,
'T were all an impious mockery and sin.

Though I the gift of prophecy possessed,
And faith like that which Abraham professed,
They all were like a tinkling cymbal's sound,
If meek-eyed charity did not abound.

Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow,
And to the flames my body I should throw,
Yet the vain act would never cover sin,
If heaven-born charity were not within.

TO SCIENCE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Let others in false Pleasure's court be found,
But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round;
Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight,
Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight.

Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide,
Direct my way, whene'er I step aside;
May one bright ray of Science on me shine,
And be the gift of learning ever mine.

PLEASURE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Away! unstable, fleeting Pleasure,
Thou troublesome and gilded treasure;
When the false jewel changes hue,
There's naught, O man, that's left for you!
What many grasp at with such joy,
Is but her shade, a foolish toy;
She is not found at every court,
At every ball, and every sport,
But in that heart she loves to rest,
That's with a guiltless conscience blest.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

The Shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care,
And mourns to find one little lamb has strayed;
He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air,
O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade.

But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen
Depicted on the careful shepherd's face,
When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green,
He sees his fav'rite charge is in its place.

Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn, When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed, And thus with mercy he receives him home,

When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed.

There is great joy among the saints in heaven,
When one repentant soul has found its God,
For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given,
And sealed it with his own redeeming blood!

LINES,

WRITTEN UNDER THE PROMISE OF REWARD.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Whene'er the muse pleases to grace my dull page, At the sight of reward, she flies off in a rage; Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try, But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh.

She torments me each moment, and bids me go write,
And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight;
The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense,
And against all her insults I have no defence.

I advise all my friends, who wish me to write,
To keep their rewards and their praises from sight;
So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride,
Nor Pegasus rear, till I've taken my ride.

TO THE

MEMORY OF HENRY KIRK WHITE.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads
Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades,

The mourning Nine, o'er White's untimely grave
Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave.

There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin,
Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin;
There his deserted garlands with'ring lie,
Like him they droop, like him untimely die.

STILLING THE WAVES.

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

"And he arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sti 'Peace, be still!'

Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread
On the rough bosom of your watery bed!
Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet,
But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet;
'Tis He alone can calm your rage at will,
This is His sacred mandate, "Peace, be still!"

A SONG.

(IN IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH.)

(Written in her thirteenth year.)

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sae swift,
His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair lift,

His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his plaid,

And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad.

Ah! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now?
The tiny drop trickles frae off thy dark brow.

"I come," said the stranger, "to spier my lued hame,
And to see if my Marion still were the same;
I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled,
And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid;
I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame,
And now I'm returning wi' speed to my hame."

"Gude Spirit of Light!" ('t was a voice caught his ear)

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And is it me ain Norman's accents I hear?

And has the fierce Southron then left me my child!
Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild?"

He turned to behold-'t is his mother he sees!
He flies to embrace her -he falls on his knees.

"Oh! where is my father?" a tear trickled down, And silently moisten'd the warrior's cheek brown: "Ah! sure my heart sinks, sae sair in my breast, Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest!" "But where is my Marion?" his pale cheek turned red,

And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried.