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By Thy redeeming grace alone
And not for merits of my own,
O, pardon me!”

As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or shade
Upon his mind;
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection's gentle eye
So soft and kind;

His soul to Him who gave it rose;
God led it to its long repose,
Its glorious rest!
And though the warrior's sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.

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SHEPHERD ! that with thine amorous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me; That madest thy crook from the accursed tree On 7. thy powerful arms were stretched so ong Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains; For thou my Shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Ha'; Shepherd —thou who for thy flock art ying, O wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow. Q wait!—to thee my weary soul is crying— Wait for me!–Yet why ask it, when I see, With *: o to the cross, thou'rt waiting still Or me

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LoRD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me—that thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion l—that I did not greet Thy blest approach ; and O to heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried, “Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt See How he persists to knock and wait for thee!” And O ! how often to that voice of sorrow, “To-morrow we will open,” I replied, And when the morrow came, I answered still, ** To-morrow.”

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CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high,
Bright with a glory that shall never fade, -
Mansion of truth l without a veil or shade,
Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye,
There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence,
Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ;
But, sentineled in heaven, its glorious presence
With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death.
Beloved country ! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison-house of clay,
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!

Heavenward the bright perfections I adore Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way, That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.

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O Lord ' thou seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one, the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what oncé was bright!
Eternal Sun' the warmth which thou hast given,
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays;
Yet, in the hoary winter of my days,
For ever green shall be my trust in Heaven.
Celestial King! O let thy presence pass
Before my spirit, and an image fair
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,
And owes its being to the gazer's eye.


LAUGH of the mountain l—lyre of bird and tree :
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although, where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
* golden sands, that charm each shepherd's

How without guile thy bosom, all transparent

As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count 1

How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current

O sweet simplicity of days gone by

Thou o the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid


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GENTLE Spring l—in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display !
For winter maketh the light heart sad,
And thou—thou makest the sad heart gay.
He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train
The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the
rain ;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow ;
And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,
We must cower over the embers low ;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, heaven be praised, thy step is migh;
Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.


Sweet babel true portrait of thy father's face,
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed

Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me!

I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ;
'Tis sweet to watch for thee—alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow,
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harin.

Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,
Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Awake, my boy!—I tremble with affright!
Awake, and chase this fatal thought!—Unclose

Thine eye but for one moment on the light!
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

Sweet error! he but slept; I breathe again;
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile!

O when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

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