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The gracious answer, Lord! we hail,

And mark the treasure given,
A solace through the gloomy vale,
A comforter when griefs assail,
A wife-the boon of Heaven.

O may the solemn nuptial vow
Be registered on high;
And with our joyous strains below,
May angel notes accordant flow,
To bless the sacred tie.

Now, hand in hand, a favored pair,
May they thine altar raise;
Together, Lord! thy favor share;

And that which thou hast given to prayer,
Oh may it end in praise!

CHARITY.

MEEK Charity! to thee we're told is given

In rms of holiest proof, the countless faults
Of m 1 to hide; and, in the sight of Heaven,
To ender him beloved. Then, in the assaults
Of fiercest passions, when we're urged along
With unrelenting fury to pursue

Some fallen enemy, whose wilful wrong

Hath caused our hatred, let us pause and view
HIS meek example, who the precept gave;
For think not Charity sincerely shown
By ostentatious homage at the throne
Of our own vainness! Let us humbly save
The poor from want, and secretly give rest

Unto the weary desolate :-'twill please Heaven best

THE SKY-LARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth, where cares abound;
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest, upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will
Those quivering wings composed, and music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyond,

Mount, daring warbler! that love-prompted strain, (Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond),

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain;
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing,
All independent of the leafy Spring.

Leave to the nightingale the shady wood ;-
A privacy of glorious light is thine,
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with rapture more divine:
Type of the wise, who soar-but never roam,
True to the kindred points of heaven and home!
WORDSWORTH

LITTLE STREAMS.

LITTLE streams, in light and shadow
Flowing through the pasture meadow;
Flowing by the green way-side;
Through the forest dim and wide;
Through the hamlet still and small;
By the cottage; by the hall;
By the ruined abbey still:
Turning, here and there, a mill;
Bearing tribute to the river;
Little streams, I love you ever!

Summer music is their flowing;
Flowering plants in them are growing
Happy life is in them all,
Creatures innocent and small;
Little birds come down to drink
Fearless on their leafy brink!
Noble trees beside them grow,
Glooming them with branches low,
And between the sunshine glancing
In their little waves are dancing.

Little streams have flowers a-many,
Beautiful and fair as any;

Typha strong, and green bur-reed;
Willow-herb, with cotton-seed;
Arrow-head, with eye of jet,
And the water-violet;

There the flowering rush you meet.
And the plumy meadow-sweet;
And in places, deep and stilly,
Marble-like, the water-lily.

Little streams, their voices cheery
Sound forth welcomes to the weary;
Flowing on from day to day,
Without stint and without stay.
Here, upon their flowery bank,
In the old times pilgrims drank;
Here have seen, as now, pass by
Kingfisher and dragon-fly;

Those bright things that have their dwelling
Where the little streams are welling.

Down in valleys green and lowly,
Murmuring not and gliding slowly;
Up in mountain hollows wild,
Fretting like a peevish child;
Through the hamlet, where all day
In their waves the children play,
Running west, or running east,
Doing good to man and beast;
Always giving, weary never,
Little streams, I love you ever!

LINES TO A FRIEND ON HIS MARRIAGE On thee, blest youth a father's hand confers The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew; Each soft enchantment of the soul is hersThine be the joys to firm attachment due.

As on she moves, with hesitating grace,

She wins assurance from thy soothing voice; And, with a look, the pencil could not trace, Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice.

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame !

To thee she turns, forgive those falling tears! To thee she turns, with surest, tenderest claimWeakness that charms, reluctance that endears

At each response the sacred rite requires,

From her full bosom bursts th' unbidden sigh;
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires,
And on her lips the trembling accents die.
O'er her fair face what soft emotions play!
What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend!
Soon shall they fly, glad harbingers of day,
And settled sunshine on her soul descend!

Ah soon thine own confessed, ecstatic thought?
That hand shall strew thy summer path with flowers ;
And those blue eyes, with modest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours!

THE POET TO HIS WIFE.

ROGERS

No image of creative fancy thou,
But an imbodying of truth and love-
Fond sharer of my joys and sorrows-how
Thon art such unsubstantial forms above.
Most hollow-hearted, and most ignorant
Of gentle Love's best happiness, are they
Who rail against our state; by Heaven, and cant
Apart, 'tis one of purest joy. I pray
That we may not, through stubborn will perverse,
Changing, ourselves, God's blessing to a curse,
Divert the stream of mutual delight;
But that it flow serenely, clear and bright,
Missing foul discontent's dark, shallow wave,
And passion's whirling eddies, to the grave.

APRIL.

CAPRICIOUS month of smiles and tears!
There's beauty in thy varied reign:
Emblem of being's hopes and fears-
Its hours of joy and days of pain.
A false inconstant scene is thine;

Changeful with light and shadow deep-
Oft-times thy clouds with pure sunshine

Are painted-then in gloom they sleep. Yet is there gladness in thy hours,

Frail courier of a brighter scene-
Thou fragrant guide to buds and flowers,
To meadows fresh and pastures green!
For as thy days grow few and briet,

The radiant looks of spring appear-
With swelling glow, and opening leaf,
To deck the morning of the year.
Yes, though thy light is checkered oft

With drifting showers of sorrowing rainYet balmy airs and breezes soft

Are lingering richly in thy train:
And for thy eddying gusts will coine
The lay of the rejoicing bird,

That tries his new and brightening plume-
'Mil the void sky's recesses heard.
And soon the many clouds that hang
Their solemn drapery o'er the sky,
Will pass, in shadowy folds away-

Lo! mark them now!-they break-they fly And over earth in one broad smile,

Looks forth the glorious eve of day-
While hill, and vale, and ocean-isle,
Are laughing in the breath of May.
Type of existence! mayst thou be

The emblem of the Christian's race-
Through all whose trials we may see
The sunshine of undying grace:
The calm and heaven-enkindled eye,

The faith that mounts on ardent wing,

That looks beyond the o'erarching sky

To heaven's undimmed and golden spring.

ANON.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

DEAR as the dove, whose wafting wing

The green leaf ransomed from the main, Thy genial glow, returning Spring, Comes to our shores again; For thou hast been a wanderer long, On many a fair and foreign strand, In calm and beauty, sun and song, Passing from land to land.

Thou bring'st the blossom to the bee,

To earth a robe of emerald die;
The leaflet to the naked tree,
And rainbow in the sky;
I feel thy blest, benign control

The pulses of my youth restore;
Opening the spring of sense and soul
To love and joy once more.

1 will not people thy green bowers
With sorrow's pale and spectre band,
Or blend with thine the faded flowers
Of memory's distant land;
For thou wert surely never given

To wake regret for pleasures gone;
But, like an angel sent from heaven,
To sooth creation's groan.

Then while the groves their garlands twine,
Thy spirit breathes in flower and tree,

My heart shall kindle at thy shrine,
And worship God in thee:

While listening to thy choral strain,

And in some calm sequestered spot,

Past griefs shall be a while forgot And pleasures bloom again.

MALCOMB.

THE HURRICANE.

LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh:
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wings of the heavy gales,
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails;
Silent and slow, and terribly strong,
The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;
While the world below, dismayed and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast, and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-
A glare that is neither night nor day,

A beam that touches with hues of death
The clouds above and the earth beneath,
To its covert flies the silent bird,
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard
Uplifted among the mountains round,
And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail!How his gray skirts toss in the whirling galeHow his huge and writhing arms are bent, To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold, at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain, the visible space! Darker-still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air:. And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the worlds below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that ?-'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round.

Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds!-ye are lost to my eyes:

I seek ye vainly, and see in your place

The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space-
A whirling ocean that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all:
And I, cut off from the world, remain
Alone with the terrible hurricane.

ON A SLEEPING BOY.

BRYANT.

SLEEP and while slumber weighs thine eyelids down,
May no foul phantoms o'er thy pillow frown;
But brightest visions deck thy tranquil bed,
And angel's wings o'ercanopy thy head.
Sleep on, sweet boy! may no dark dreams arise
To mar thy rosy rest-thou babe of Paradise!

See where the glowing hands are closely pressed, As when from prayer he softly sunk to rest; Mark how with half-closed lips and cherub-smile He looks, as still he prayed, and slept the while; Yet-yet they seem as if they whispered praise For all the blessings of his halcyon days.

Bid, oh, Almighty Father, God, and Friend,
Religion's glories on his steps attend!

To shine through all the dreary storms of life,
A splendid beacon in the world of strife;
And when to Thee recalled he sinks in death,
May prayer and praise still' bless his parting th

THE VOICE OF GOD.

"SPEAK, Lord!" the youthful prophet humbly cries; "Thy servant hears!"

And instant, hark! the voice divine replies,
Its will declares :-

No other ear in all that temple's round
Receives the deep, impressive, solemn sound;
The sacred tribe, the aged priest passed by,
God stands revealed to youthful piety

He comes no more to rouse the outward ear
At dead of night;

No fearful dream his purposed act makes clear
To mortal sight :—

But wheresoe'er man seeks to meet him, still
A voice is near him, whispering of his will,
And ever, as he calls on God to "speak,"
That inward voice will nature's silence break.

Yes, Christian, he whose voice then spake on earth
Still speaks to thee;

Whether in sweetest music, warbling forth
From every tree,

Or in the stillness of the evening hour,

Or when the tempest gathers all its power,
Or when the sea its awful voice uprears,

Be thine to answer, "Speak; thy servant hears."

In all thy varying portion, in the strife
"Twixt earth and heaven,

Or when sweet gleamings of a better life
To thee are given,

When hard the conflict, dim the distant end,
No light to cheer thee, at thy side no friend,
Yet, hark! e'er now, in answer to thy prayer,
The voice, the voice of Love Divine is there!

Or when the page of truth before thee spreads
Its chastened light,

And some reviving promise round thee sheds
Hopes clear and bright,

There speaks the Gospel's Author: to that word,
Favored disciple of a pitying Lord,
Bead, meekly tend, a still, attentive ear:

Tis his to speak; with reverence thine to hear.

Thankful for this, thy destined path pursue,
Or dark, or bright;

Till faith, while glory burst upon the view,
Is lost in sight:

Till then, with ever wakeful care, abide
By the least whispers of thy heavenly guide;
For still, when followed most, that voice shall be
Strength, comfort, peace, and blessedness to thee.
EMILY TAYLOR.

RIGHT OF THE POOR TO EDUCATION.
OH! for the coming of that glorious time
When prizing knowledge as her noblest wealth
And best protection, this imperial realm,
While she exacts allegiance, shall admit
An obligation, on her part, to teach
Them who are born to serve her and obey;
Binding herself by statute to secure
For all the children whom her soil maintains
The rudiments of letters, and to inform
The mind with moral and religious truth,
Both understood, and practised,-so that none,
However destitute, be left to droop
By timely culture unsustained, or run
Into a wild disorder; or be forced

To drudge through weary life without the aid
Of intellectual implements and tools;
A savage horde among the civilized,
A servile band among the lordly free!
This right, as sacred almost as the right
To exist and be supplied with sustenance
And means of life, the lisping babe proclaims
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will,
For the protection of his innocence;
And the rude boy-who, having overpast

The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled,
Yet mutinously knits his angry brow,
And lifts his wilful hand, on mischief bent,
Or turns the sacred faculty of speech

To impious use-by process indirect

Declares his due-while he makes known his nec
-This sacred right is fruitlessly announced,
This universal plea in vain addressed,

To eyes and ears of parents who themselves
Did, in the time of their necessity

Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a prayer
That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven,
It mounts to reach the state's parental ear;
Who, if indeed she own a mother's heart,
And be not most unfeelingly devoid

Of gratitude to providence, will grant
The unquestionable good; which, England, safe
From interference of external force,

May grant at leisure; without risk incurred
That what in wisdom for herself she doth,
Others shall e'er be able to undo.

Look! and behold from Calpe's sun-burnt cliffs To the flat margin of the Baltic sea, Long-reverenced titles cast away as weeds; Laws overturned,—and territory split; Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes, Which, ere they gain consistence, by a gust Of the same breath are shattered and destroyed. Meantime the sovereignty of these fair isles Remains entire and indivisible;

And, if that ignorance were removed, which acts
Within the compass of their several shores

To breed commotion and disquietude,
Each might preserve the beautiful repose
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres
-The discipline of slavery is unknown
Amongst us, hence the more do we require
The discipline of virtue; order else
Can not subsist, nor confidence, nor peace.
Thus, duties rising out of good possessed,
And prudent caution needful to avert
Impending evil, do alike require

That permanent provision should be made
For the whole people to be taught and trained.

So shall licentiousness and black resolve
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits
Take their place; and genuine piety descena
Like an inheritance, from age to age.

MERCY.

WORDSW DRT.

MERCY is welcome news indeed,
To those that guilty stand;
Wretches, who feel the help they need.
Will bless the helping hand.

Who rightly would his alms dispense,
Must give them to the poor;
None but the wounded patient knows
The comforts of a cure.

We all have sinned against our God;
Exception none can boast;
But he that feels the heaviest load,
Will prize forgiveness most.

No reckoning can we rightly keep,
For who the sum can know?
Some souls are fifty talents deep,
And some five hundred owe.
But let our debts be what they may,
However great or small,

As soon as we have naught to pay,
Our Lord forgives us all.

'Tis perfect poverty alone,

That sets the soul at large; While we can call one mite our own, We have no full discharge.

HART

INVOCATION TO NIGHT.

COME, with thy sweeping cloud and starry vest,
Mother of counsel, and the joy which lies
In feelings deep, and inward sympathies,
Soothing like founts of health, the wearied breast!
Lo'er the distant hills the day-star's crest

Sinks redly burning; and the winds arise,
Moving, with shadowy gusts and feeble sighs
Amid the reeds which veil the bittern's nest!
Day hath its melody and light-the sense

Of mirth which sports round fancy's fairy mine; But the full powers which loftier aids dispense, To speed the soul where scenes unearthly shineSilence, and peace, and stern magnificence, And awe, and throned solemnity, are thine! J. F. HOLLINGS.

A LAMENT AND A REPLY.

A LAMENT.

WHEN shall I see a flower,

Nor muse on its decay?
When shall I know one happy hour,
Nor-ere it pass away-
O'ercloud its happiness with tears,
Because it can not last for years?

When will no dread of change

Darken my spirit's trust?

When will the knowledge, sad and strange That man is of the dust,

While gazing on beloved eyes,

Instead of wretched, make me wise?

Nature, and flowers, and youth,
Birds, and their rich, wild glee,
All pleasant things in sooth,
Why are they sad to me?
Why in each form behold I Death?
Why seems all music but his breath?

Death is my life: Delight

Seems of his influence born;

A meteor flashing through the night-
A lily fenced with thorn,-
A wild and momentary gladness
That in its elements hath madness.

A troubled joy in love,

And fears when fully blest,— Clouds when the sky is bright above And sadness when at rest! Alas! my soul has left its ark And wanders o'er the waters dark!

THE REPLY.

RESTLESS spirit!-wouldst thou know
When will close thy night of wo ?-
Cease thy wanderings to and fro.

Long thy heavy heart will beat
With its own unholy heat,
If thy fancy, wild and fleet,

Like a homeless bird must fly,
Searching rock, and plain, and sky,-
All too low, and yet too high.

Let her choose her tree, and rest,
There renew her stolen nest,—
Be again the green leaves' guest.

Stricken spirit, there's a tree
Grows for healing, grows for thee;
Haste then, to its covert flee!

Whispering oracles are rife
'Mid its leaves to quiet strife:
Spirit'-'tis the Tree of life.

MRS. FLETCHER.

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How beautiful the twilight sky,

Whose story worlds now sprea,
Amid the purple depths of eve,
Their glories o'er my head!

And there is one-a radiant ore--
Amid the rest shines he,
As if just risen from his sleep,
Within the mighty sea.

The clouds fall off in glittering flake
Before his shining brow;

So moves a ship that flings the waves
In bright froam fom its prow.

I marvel not in former days
Ere purer light were given,

That men fell down and worshipped the
A spirit-king in heaven.

But now that knowledge great and nigh
Is kindled in man's soul,
We know thee but a glorious part
Of a more glorious whole.

Oh, mysteries of night that fill

The mind with awe and love,
How visibly the power of God
Is manifest above.

Oh! might and majesty that reign
Upon the midnight sky!—
Creed of my hope! I feel thy truth
Whene'er I gaze on high.

EVENING PRAYER.

MISS LANDON

SHOULD Some seraph wing his flight,
From the realms of cloudless light,
Earth and ocean soaring over,
Where would he delight to hover?

Not o'er halls of regal pride;
Not o'er fields with carnage dyed,
Where, mid shouts of triumph breathing,
Fame the hero's brow is wreathing;

Not o'er cells of lettered age;
Not o'er haunts of hoary sage;
Not where youthful poet stealing,
Woos the muse's warm revealing;

Not o'er wood or shadowy vale
Where the lover tells his tale,
And the blush-love's fondest token-
Speaks what words had never spoken:

Not where music's silver sound
Wakes the dormant echoes round,
And with charms as pure as tender
Holds the heart in pleased surrender.

O'er the calm sequestered spot,
O'er the lone and lowly cot,
Where, its little hands enwreathing,
Childhood's guileless prayer is breathing;

While the gentle mother nigh,
Points her daughter's prayer on high,
To the God whose goodness gave her,
To the God whose Love shall save her:-

There, awhile the Son of Light
Would arrest his rapid flight,
Thence would bear, to heaven ascending,
Prayers with heartfelt praises blending.

Gladly would he soar above,
With the sacrifice of love;
And, through heaven's expanded portal,
Rear it to the throne immortal!

REV. T DAL

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE.

ODE I.

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night,

He beam'd upon my wondering sight.
I heard his voice, and warmly prest
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhal'd whene'er he sigh'd,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant of the Cyprian band,
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;
I took the wreath, whose inmost twine
Breath'd of him and blush'd with wine,
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow;
And ah! I feel its magic now:
I feel that even his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much.

IV.

VULCAN! hear your glorious task;
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No-let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul;
But mind that, o'er its simple frame
No mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side,
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.
I care not for the glitt'ring wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But let the vine luxuriant roll
Its blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lip'd bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes,
And flights of Loves in wanton play,
Wing through the air their winding way;
While Venus from her harbour green,
Looks laughing at the joyous scene,
And young Lyæus by her side

Sits, worthy of so bright a bride.

A.

II.

GIVE me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I.
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety;

Flashing around such sparks of thought,
As Bacchus could alone have taught.

Then give the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrill'd along; But tear away the sanguine string, For war is not the theme I sing

III.

LISTEN to the muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire!
Sketch'd in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;
Many a city, revelling free,
Full of loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain.
Piping as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the carthly heaven of love,
Thus delighted mortals prove.

SCULPTOR, wouldst thou glad my soul,
Grave for me an ample bowl,

Worthy to shine in hall or bower,

When spring-time brings the reveller's hour;
Grave it with themes of chaste design,

Fit for a simple board like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites,
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate,
Which History shudders to relate.
No-cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heav'n and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy,
And while he smiles at every tear,
Let warm-ey'd Venus dancing near,
With spirits of the genial bed,
The dewy herbage deftly tread.
Let love be there, without his arms,
In timid nakedness of charms;

And all the graces, link'd with Love,

Stray laughing, through the shadowy grove,
While rosy boys disporting round

In circlets trip the velvet ground.
But ah! if there Apollo toys,

I tremble for the rosy boys.

VI.

As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an carly rose was weeping,
I found the urchin Cupid sleeping,
I caught the boy, a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side,
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelm'd him in the racy spring;
Then drank I down the poison'd bowl,
And love now nestles in my soul.
O yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

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