188

THE DUELLIST'S HONOUR.

No father asked what sorrow moved his heart,
No mother, had he sought the better part?
Unwatched, uncounselled, silently, he trod
The house, that day,-left to himself and God.
Buried in sleep, at night's hushed hour, once more,
His parents lay.-A knock is at the door!
A voice!—it is their child!—but changed in tone,
From sorrow's note, it seemed like pleasure's own.
Once more they roused to hear their little son
Weep at the door; yet not, as late, undone.
No tears of anguish, now! With joy he cries,
Rise, my dear father!-rise, dear mother! rise,
And help me praise! and higher praises sound—
For I, this night, have a sweet Saviour found!

THE DUELLIST'S HONOUR.

AND what's that Honour, but a fiend,
That lures with hateful guile;
Yea, by infernal custom screened,
That murders with a smile?

A devil, that can laugh at ties
Which kindred souls entwine;
By whose deceit, the victim dies,
An offering at its shrine ?

WINTER WOES.

The griefs that rend the widow's breast,
The tears of her despair,-

The sigh that speaks the heart oppressed,
The orphan's look of care-

These are false Honour's triumphs! these
The trophies of its fame;

And such the envied laurel wreaths,
That cluster round its name.

WINTER WOES.

THE Snow lies drearily upon the ground,
The stream is frozen and the forest bare;
Long nights and short days tell

That monarch Winter's come.

I hear the voice of plaining. There are wo
And want in yonder dwellings. Can I see
Such misery and tears,
Nor hasten to relieve?

Perhaps on yonder wretched bed, lies one,
That once saw better days. He sat with men
Of wealth, and drank their cup,

And lived in Splendour's hall.

189

The contrast that he makes, between his cot,

And the proud dome that sheltered, once, his head― His luxuries and joys,

And present poverty,

Adds to his pangs. O, better can he bear
The ills of want, who never other knew-
Than can the fallen wretch,

That once was Grandeur's child.

Perhaps, in yon low rooms, abideth one,
Who is a widow, desolate and poor.

Her orphaned babes! I seem

To hear them cry for bread.

The cold wind enters every crevice. She
Sits lonely, weeping by her scanty fire.
She shivers at the blast-

Her heart is well nigh broke!

The snow lies drearily upon the ground,―
I'll hasten to the man, reduced by want,-
I'll seek the widow's door,

And cause her to rejoice.

THE EAGLE ON HIS MOUNTAIN HEIGHT. 191

THE EAGLE ON HIS MOUNTAIN
HEIGHT.

THE eagle on his mountain height,
Beneath the eastern sky,—
Securely views the source of light
With bold and fearless eye.

If, while thus lost in glory's blaze,
He bends a downward view,
Earth seems unto his distant gaze,
Minute, and cheerless too.

Thus, on the mount of faith and prayer,
Jehovah's love is seen;

Sure vision, strengthened, gazes there,

Without a veil between.

Then dim is every joy, compared
With bliss that never cloys;

And light the sorrows each has shared,
Compared with heavenly joys.

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A MOTHER.

A MOTHER.

To be a Mother, is, for her,
To taste of more delight,
Than when the little traveller,
Her babe-first met her sight.
It is to welcome one to earth,
That may hereafter shine
With children of the second birth,

In blessedness, divine.

To be a Mother, is to know

Much of enduring pain,

Lest that sweet blossom, cherished so,

May ne'er true life obtain.

It is to bow in agony,

And wet her couch with tears; And send up broken sighs, and be Distressed with many fears.

To be a Mother, is to trace,

As Childhood's years revolve,

His path; and still, when on his face, Sits Manhood's high resolve—