HUMAN FRAILTY.

Weak and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain;

But Passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part;

Virtue engages his assent,

But Pleasure wins his heart.

"Tis here the folly of the wise,
Through all his art we view;
And, while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,

A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail,
To reach the distant coast;

The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.

RETIREMENT.

Far from the world, O Lord! I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.

The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem, by thy sweet bounty, made
For those who follow thee.

There if thy spirit touch the soul,

And grace her mean abode; Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God!

There like the nightingale, she pours

Her solitary lays;

Nor asks a witness of her song,

Nor thirsts for human praise.

Author and guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light divine;
And, all harmonious names in one,
My Saviour, thou art mine!

What thanks I owe thee, and what love,

A boundless, endless store,

Shall echo through the realms above,

When time shall be no more.

PROVILENCE.

God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines.
Of never-failing skill,

He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread,
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

CRABBE.

THE MOURNER.

YES! there are real mourners,-1 have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene; Attention (through the day) her duties claimed, And to be useful as resigned she aimed; Neatly she drest, nor vainly seemed t' expect Pity for grief, or pardon for neglect ; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep; Then to her mind was all the past displayed, That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid: For then she thought on one regretted youth, I tender trust, and his unquestioned truth; s every place she wandered, where they'd been, And sadly-sacred held the parting scene, Where last for sea he took his leave; that place With double interest would she nightly trace!

Happy he sailed, and great the cares he took,
That he should softly sleep and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck;
And every comfort men at sea can know,
Was her's to buy, to make, and to bestow:
For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told,
How he should guard against the climate's cold;
Yet saw not danger; dangers he'd withstood,
Nor could she trace the fever in his blood.

His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak ; For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message. Thomas, I must die: Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go !—if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake: Yes! I must die-blow on, sweet breeze, blow on, Give me one look before my life be gone, Oh! give me that, and let me not despair, One last fond look!—and now repeat the prayer.' He had his wish, had more: I will not paint The lovers' meeting; she beheld him faint,— With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew : He tried to smile; and, half succeeding, said, "Yes! I must die"-and hope forever fled. Still long she nursed him; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime.