FRAGMENT.

LOUD rage the winds without. The wintry cloud
O'er the cold north-star casts her flitting shroud;
And Silence, pausing in some snow-clad dale,
Starts as she hears, by fits, the shrieking gale;
Where now, shut out from every still retreat,
Her pine-clad summit, and her woodland seat,
Shall Meditation, in her saddest mood,
Retire o'er all her pensive stores to brood?
Shivering and blue the peasant eyes askance
The drifted fleeces that around him dance,
And hurries on his half-averted form,
Stemming the fury of the sidelong storm.
Him soon shall greet his snow-topp'd [cot of thatch],
Soon shall his numb'd hand tremble on the latch,
Soon from his chimney's nook the cheerful flame
Diffuse a genial warmth throughout his frame;
Round the light fire, while roars the north-wind
loud,

What merry groups of vacant faces crowd;

These hail his coming-these his meal prepare,
And boast in all that cot no lurking care.
What though the social circle be denied,
Even Sadness brightens at her own fireside,
Loves, with fixed eye, to watch the fluttering blaze,
While musing Memory dwells on former days;
Or Hope, bless'd spirit! smiles-and still forgiven,
Forgets the passport, while she points to Heaven.
Then heap the fire-shut out the biting air,
And from its station wheel the easy-chair:
Thus fenced and warm, in silent fit, 'tis sweet
To hear without the bitter tempest beat,

All, all alone to sit, and muse, and sigh,

The pensive tenant of obscurity.

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TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS,

WHO, WHEN THE AUTHOR REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM.'

'Do I not feel?'

The doubt is keen as steel.

Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye,
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:

Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved, solitary thing;
Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:
Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel!
Even then I wept I had not power to heal.

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Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom.

Who were my friends in youth? The midnight fire-
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;

To these I 'plain'd, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;

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The sacred source of woe I never ope,

My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou didst wrong me,

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; I fondly thought,
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought! 30
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought, ere time's last day were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine,

Half-past Eleven o'clock at Night.

H. K. WHITE.

CHRISTMAS DAY. 1804.

YET once more, and once more, awake, my harp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain;
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,
I ask of thee; for I, with hymnings high,
Would join the dirge of the departing year.

Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch or ivy sere,

Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day
Of the Redeemer. Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the dayspring first
Beam'd from on high. Now, to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate we add
One unit more,-space, in comparison,
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery ;
Wars, famines, and the fury, pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppressed, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.
So has the year been character'd with woe

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In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes;
Yet 'twas not thus He taught not thus He lived,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving.. He, a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed,-path though rude,
Yet borne with patience still: He came to cheer
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,
And on the wandering and benighted mind
To pour the light of truth. Oh task divine!
Oh more than angel teacher! He had words
To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;
And when the soul was toss'd in troubled seas,

Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile
At the surrounding wreck.-

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd

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Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,
His persecutors-Father, pardon them,

They know not what they do.'

Angels of Heaven,

Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,

And did Him homage, say, may mortal join
The halleluiahs of the risen God?

Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard
Amid the seraphim in light divine?

Yes, he will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,
Low though it be and humble. Lord of life,
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising soul. I mount, I fly
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.

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50

NELSONI MORS.

YET once again, my Harp, yet once again.
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,
I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,

I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth ;

Not unrepining, for my froward heart

Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow

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