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Hail! beauteous stranger of the grove,

Thou messenger of spring,
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering through the wood,

To pluck the primrose gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest the vocal vale, An annual guest, in other lands

Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year.

0! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;

We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the spring.



( God! whose thunder shakes the sky,
Whose eye this atom globe surveys,
To thee, my only rock, I fly,
Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the powers of human skill ;
But what the Eternal acts is right.

O teach me in the trying hour,
When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still iny sorrows, own thy power,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

Il in this bosom aught but thee,
Encroaching, sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why, drooping, seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God created all to bless.

But, ah! my breast is human still ;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,
The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I'll thank th' infliction of the blow,
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.



WHEN autumn, bleak, and sun-burnt do appear,
With his gold hand gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the ripened sheaf;

When all the hills with woody seed are white, When levying fires, and lemes, do meet from far the sight;

When the fair apple, rudde as even sky,
Do bend the tree unto the fructile ground,
When juicy pears, and berries of black dye,
Do dance in air and call the eyne around;

Then, be the even foul, or even fair,
Methinks my hearte's joy is stained with some care.



One gusty day, now stormy and now still,
I stood apart upon the western hill,
And saw a race at sea: a gun was heard,
And two contending boats at length appeared :
Equal a while; then one was left behind :
And for a moment had her chance resigned,
When in that moment, up a sail they drew-
Not used before—their rivals to pursue.
Strong was the gale! in hurry now there came
Men from the town—their thoughts, their fears the same;
And women too! affrighted maids and wives,
All deeply feeling for their sailors' lives.
The strife continued : in a glass we saw
The desperate efforts, and we stood in awe,
When the last boat shot suddenly before,
Then filled, and sank—and could be seen no more!
Then were those piercing shrieks, that frantic flight,
All hurried ! all in tumult and affright!
A gathering crowd from different streets drew near,
All ask, all answer-none attend, none hear!
One boat is safe ; and see ! she backs her sail
To save the sinking—Will her aid avail ?
0! how impatient on the sands we tread,
And the winds roaring and the women led,
As up and down they pace with frantic air,
And scorn a comforter, and will despair ;
They know not who in either boat is gone,
But think the father, husband, lover, one.

And who is she apart? She dares not come
To join the crowd, yet cannot rest at home:
With what strong interest looks she at the waves,
Meeting and clashing o'er the seamen’s graves !
'Tis a poor girl betrothed—a few hours more,
And he will be a corpse upon the shore.



An ardent spirit dwells with Christian Love,
The eagle's vigour in the pitying dove ;
'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh,
That we the wants of pleading man supply ;
That we in sympathy with sufferers feel,
Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal :
Not these suffice-to sickness, pain, and woe,
The Christian spirit loves with aid to go ;
Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead,
But seeks the duty-nay, prevents the need;
Her utmost aid to every ill applies,
And plants relief for coming miseries.



Still there was virtue;-but a rolling stone
On a hill's brow is not more quickly gone;
The slightest motion-ceasing from our care
A moment's absence-when we're not aware-

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