In the heart of the rich man, the court of the prince, In the tumult of war, on the brow of the fair, Though millions surround them still I am not there. In the home of the noble, the virtuous, the great, In thy own lovely bosom, rejoicing I wait. I wish I might dwell in that beautiful eye; I wish I might float in yon pure azure sky; I would lead you in triumph wherever I stray'd, Where the sunbeam had lit, or the pale moon had play'd. 1834. ESSAY ON THE SACRED WRITINGS. THE Bible! what is it? -every heart which has read and justly appreciated that inestimable volume cannot fail to exclaim, "This is the work of a God!" Who is there that will not admire, (although he read with a doubting mind,) its force, dignity, beauty, and simplicity? Principles so pure, precepts so sublime, and thoughts so refined, who could have formed them but one inspired by a God, or God himself? 'Tis our guide, our star to lead, the herald to usher us into a glorious eternity. When the mind is overwhelmed with care, what power can soothe like this sacred volume? Its pages, beaming with truth and mercy, will shed a holy light over the troubled landscape, and impart a softer swell to the billows of adversity. It is the lighthouse by whose beams we should direct our path over the gloomy waves of life. Then why neglect it? Some may think it derogatory to their earthly dignity-" What will the world say?" Read it, and learn from its sublime precepts to stem the tide of worldly opinion. When all else fails you, this will remain the supporter of your rights; here is real dignity and grandeur, but it is the dignity of the soul, the grandeur of virtue, the dignity arising from a close alliance with the Deity. If He who thundered on Mount Sinai, and caused the silver founts to flow from rocks of adamant, will deign to approach so near us, is it for us to stand aloof, wrapped in the mantle of our own insignificance, and brave the tempest of life alone? Oh! how depraved that heart must be, which such condescension will fail to affect! and how happy the bosom for ever confiding in its God! calm in the midst of affliction, resigned while the torrents of grief pour on the soul; which, though borne down by sorrow, is fortified by virtue, and looks calmly and steadily forward to the calamities which it is certain will terminate in an endless communion with its Maker. February 2, 1834. THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAН. Он tremble, ye proud ones! oh tremble with fear! For Jehovah has come in his wrath; Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow, Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye, Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin! The spirit of death o'er your city has pass'd, His broad flaming weapon is waving on high; Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind's rude blast, 'Tis written in fear on yon lightning-crown'd sky. Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance, As he cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance. The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne, The warrior secure in his strongly-built tower, For the soft voice of music hear sorrow's deep moan, And shrink 'neath the hand of their God in his power. The smile on the cheek is transform'd to a tear, But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear. Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread, For mercy may rest 'neath the frown on his brow. Oh, haste e'er each fast-failing hope shall have fled, Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow. The moment of grace and repentance has pass'd; And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again. 1834. VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. Он thou, who rollest far above, Round as my father's shield in war! All cold and pale, the feeble moon 1834. But thou, unchanging, mov'st alone! The ocean shrinks and grows again, When o'er yon vault the thunders peal, But now thou look'st to me in vain, I know not if thy yellow hair Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds; Amid the clouds thy form may sleep, TO MY DEAR MAMMA, ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NEW YORK. THOUGH my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long My lyre has been thrown all neglected aside, And other enjoyments I've sought for a while; But though lured by their brilliance, still none can compare With my dear little harp and my mother's sweet smile. With joy I return to my books and my pen, To my snug little home and its inmates so dear, For while scribbling each thought of my half-crazy brain I can chase every sorrow and lull every fear. Oh excuse my poor harp if these lines do not rhyme, 1834. ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F. H. WEBB. In vain I strike my youthful lyre, Some gayer music to impart, And dissipate the gloom which hangs Too sadly round my mourning heart. Oh, I would wish its low, deep tones, Some gentler, sprightlier strain to borrow; But still, they only can respond The plaintive voice of heartfelt sorrow. |