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1837.

Each morn and eve a mother's prayer
With mine shall seek the courts above:
A mother's blessings rest on thee,
Embalm'd in all a mother's love.

LINES

WRITTEN AFTER READING ACCOUNTS OF THE DEATH OF

MARTYRS.

SPEAK not of life, I could not bear
A life of foul disgrace to share!
Wealth, fame or honour's fleeting breath,
What are they to this glorious death?
Think ye a kingdom back could win
My spirit to this world of sin?
Think ye a few more years of strife
Could draw me from eternal life?
Dark is the path to Canaan's shore,
But Jesus trod that path before!
He hath illumed the grave for me,-
My Saviour! I will die for thee !
Yes! lead me forth; in faith secure,
The keenest anguish I'll endure!
And while my body feeds the flame,
My soul its bright reward shall claim!
Soon shall these earthly bonds decay,
This trembling frame return to clay,
And earth, enrobed in clouds of night,
Shall fade for ever from my sight.
But who would mourn a home like this,
When gather'd to that home of bliss?
But there is many a tender tie
Would shake my firm resolve to die;

1837.

Cords which entwine my longing heart,
Affection's death alone can part.
Jesus, forgive each faltering thought,
Which weaker, earthlier love hath taught;
Forgive the tears which struggling flow
To view a mother's, sister's wo.
Forgive this grief, though weak it be,
Nor deem my spirit turn'd from thee!
Raise my unworthy soul above
The tempting wiles of earthly love!
Soon shall each torturing pang be o'er,
And tears like these shall flow no more;
And those I love so deeply here
Shall meet me in yon heavenly sphere.
Love! what have I compared to thine ?
Love, pure, ineffable, divine!
Love which could bring a God below
To taste a mortal's cup of wo;
To weep in agony, to sigh,
To bear a nation's scorn-to die!
Oh, love! undying, godlike, free,
All else is swallow'd up in thee.
Soon shall I also soar above,
To dwell with thee, for “ God is love."
Yes! pile the blazing fagots high,
Till the bright flames salute the sky!
From each devouring pile you raise,
Shall soar a hymn of love and praise,
And the firm stake you rear for me,
The gate to endless life shall be.
But oh, ye frail, deluded train,
How will ye meet your Lord again?
"Father! their crimes in mercy view!
Forgive, they know not what they do!"

ON READING COWPER'S POEMS.

CHARM'D with thy verse, oh bard, I fain would raise
A feeble tribute teeming with thy praise;
For thee, oh Cowper, touch the trembling string,
And breathe the thoughts the muse inspires to sing.
For thee, whose soul delighted oft to roam
O'er the pure realms of thine eternal home;
Who, scorning folly's smile or fancy's dream,
Made truth thy guide and piety thy theme;
Who loved to soar where heaven's own glories shine,
And tuned the lyre to harmonies divine !
Whose strains, when pour'd by faith's directing voice,
Made doubt recede, and certainty rejoice.
Whose lofty verse, by sterner justice led,
Made unbelievers trembling, shrink with dread.
Oh that each bard, from earthborn passions free,
Might tread the path thus nobly mark'd by thee,
And teaching song to plead in virtue's cause,
Might win like thee, a grateful world's applause.
Knowing from whence thy matchless talents came,
Thou fanned'st to purer life the kindling flame,
And breathing all thy thoughts in numbers sweet,
Laid them adoring at thy Maker's feet.
Thus teaching man that all his nobler lays
Should rise o'erflowing with that Maker's praise;
That his enraptured muse should firmly own
The claims of truth, and faith, and love alone!
That he, who feels within the fire divine,
Should nurse the flame to grace God's holy shrine.
Let those who bask in passion's burning ray,
Who own no rule but fancy's changeful sway,
Who quench their burning thirst in folly's stream,
And waste their genius on each grosser theme,
Let them turn back on life's tumultuous sea,
And humbly gazing, learn this truth from thee;

That virtue's hand the poet's lamp must trim, And its clear light, unwavering, point to Him, Or all its brilliance shall have glow'd in vain, And hours misspent shall win him years of pain.

1837.

STANZAS.

Он, who may tell the joy, the bliss,
Which o'er the realm of fancy streams,
The varied scenes of light and life,
Which deck the poet's world of dreams?

The ransom'd soul may speed its flight,
To live and glow in realms above;
May bathe in floods of endless light,
And live eternal years of love.

But oh, what voice hath e'er reveal'd
The glories of that blest abode,
Save the faint whisperings of the soul,
The mystic monitors of God?

Thus may the poet's spirit dance
And revel in his world of joy,
May form creations at a glance,
And myriads at a word destroy.

But mortal ear can never hear

The music of that seraph band;
Nought save the faint, unearthly tones
Just wafted from that spirit-land.

None but the poet's soul can know
The wild and wondrous beauty there;
The streams of light, which ever flow,
The ever music-breathing air.

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His spirit seeks this heaven awhile,
Entranced in glowing dreams of bliss;
Lives in the muses' hallow'd smile,
And bathes in founts of happiness.

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'Twas the song of the evening spirit! it stole,
Like a stream of delight o'er the listening soul,
And the passions of earth-joy, or sorrow, or pain-
Were absorb'd in the notes of that heavenly strain.
My heart seem'd to pause as the spirit came nigh,
And, array'd in its garment of music, pass'd by!
" I am coming, oh earth! I am hasting away,
With my star-spangled crown and my mantle of gray;
I have come from my bower in the regions of light,
To recline on the breast of my parent, night!
To soften the gloom in her mournful eye,
And guide her steps through the darken'd sky!
I come to the earth in my mystic array;
Rest, rest from the toils and the cares of the day!
I will lull each discordant emotion to sleep,
As I hush the wild waves of the turbulent deep,
And my watch o'er the couch of their slumbers I keep.
The streams murmur 'peace,' as I steal through the sky,
And hush'd are the winds, which swept fitfully by;

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