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Full text of "Moral pieces, in prose and verse"



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MORAL PIECES, 



IN 



Prose and Verse. 



BY LYDIA HTJNTLEY. 



HARTFORD : 

Sheldon < Goodwin Printers. 

1815. 



2>itmt of fiDonnecttcut, ##. 

BE IT REMEMBERED : That on the thirtieth day of Deeera- 
^ er > i* 1 the thirty-ninth year of the Independence of the United 
states of America, LYD1A HUNTLEY, of the said District, hath 
deposited in this office, the title of a Book, the right whereof she 
claims as Authoress in the words following, to wit : 

" Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse. By Lydia Huntley." 
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled " An 
act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts 
and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times 
therein mentioned." 

HENRY W. EDWARDS, Clerk 

ofthe District of Connecticut. 
A true copy of Record examined and sealed by me, 

HENRY W. EDWARDS, Clerk 
of the Diftrict of Connecticut. 



? 
T?3 

. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 



A FEW of the productions now brought he- 
fore the puhlic were intended for the use of a 
School ; hut the greater part arose from the im 
pulse of the moment, at intervals of relaxation 
from such domestic employments, as the circum 
stances of the writer, and her parents, rendered 
indispensable. Most of them were written when 
she was ^very young, and, with the exception of 
two or three short pieces, the whole, before she 
had attained the age of twenty-three years. 



ENGLISH 



INTRODUCTION. 



A DAMP and dewy wreath that grew 

Upon the breast of Spring, 
A harp whose tones are faint and few, 

With trembling hand I bring. 

The clang of war, the trumpet's roar., 

May drown the feeble note, 
And down to Lethe' 's silent shore, 

The scattered wreath may float. 

But He, who taught the flowers to spring 
From waste neglected ground, 

And gave the silent harp a siring 
Of wild and nameless sound ; 

*l 



VI INTRODUCTION. 

Commands my spirit not to trust 

Her happiness with these : 
A bloom that moulders back to dust, 

A. music soon to cease. 

But seek those flowers unstained by time, 

To constant virtue given, 
And for that harp of tone sublime, 

Wliich seraphs wake in Heaven. 



CONTENTS. 



A. Page. 

ADDRESS to the Deity, - 54 

Anniversary of the death of a venerable 

friend, - 35 
Address to the New Month, - - -47 

Adieu, - 121 

Anniversary of the death of the Rev. Mr. 

Hooker, - 133. 
A Thought, 134 
Address from a young Pupil to her com 
panions, - 151 
Application of the Roman Precept, - 225 
Autumnal Scene, 242 

\ B * 

Birth Day, - 146 

Birth day of a young Lady who had recent 
ly lost her Mother, 219 

C. 

Contemplation, - 3 

Conflagration at Washington, - 31 

Characters of Others, - - 66 

Composition, - 79 

Courage of Cesar, - 129 

Cares of Earth, 149 



viii CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Careless Heart, - 199 

Confidence of Alexander, - 203 

Creation, - - 239 

Convention, 246 

D. 

Death of an Invalid, - 13 
Dove, - 14 
Death of Mr. Washburn, - 49 
Desertion of the Muse, - - 109 
Deserted Garden, - 107 
Destruction of the Inquisition, - 43 
Deception, - - 137 
Departure of Mrs. Nott with the Missiona 
ries, - - 140 
Dedication for a Book of Poetical Extracts, 143 
Detached Thoughts, - ... 157 

E. 

Election, .... 27 

Excuse, - - 113 

Evening Thought, - - 123 

Evening, . 131 

Equanimity of Zeno, - - - 131 

Evils of Haste, - - - 134 

Exclamation at Midnight, - - - 142 

Emblem, - ... 03 

Evening Examination, - - 216 

Evening Reflection, - - 228 

Eclipse of the Moon, - - - 250 

Evening Prayer, 264 



CONTENTS. IX 

F. Page. 

Filial Duty, - 53 

Farewell to the Month, - - 46 
For the blank page of a new Bible, - 122 

Friendship, 141 

First of September, - 173 

First Morning of May, 226 

First Wintry Morning, 252 

G. 

God displayed in Ms Works, ... 4 

Gratitude, - 19 

Do. 95 

Giving the Bible to the Esquimaux, 9 

Government of the Passions, - 85 

H. 

Happiness, - 97 

Hearing a Bell Toll, - - 206 

Hymn, 229 

I. 

Indecision, - - - 91 
Improvement of Scipio's Boast, - - 223 

Infant, - - 255 

Invocation, - - 257 

L. 

Life, - 23 

Longest Day, - 220 

Life, 136 



X CONTENTS. 

M. Page. 

Macdonough, 29 

Malta, 39 

Memory, - 59 

Montivideo, - - 103 

Modesty, 94 

Morning Thoughts, - 118 

Morning, - ISO 

Moonlight Scene, 147 

Midnight Prayer, 206 

Moon and Star, - - - 212 

Morning Prayer, 260 

Midday Prayer, 263 

N. 

Novel Reading, 56 

O. 

Our Country, 24 

On hearing a friend sing at Midnight, - 190 
On the Character of a venerable Friend, 200 

P. 

Procrastination, - 6 

Philosopher's Reproof, 120 

Psalm CXIX. - 138 

Psalm CXIX. - 175 

Paraphrase of Amos, - 181 

Parting, - 205 

Pope, - 213 



CONTENTS. Xl 

Page. 

P arting Friend, -. - 217 

P araphrase of Cleopatra's Advice, 222 

Q. 

Queen of Night, - 128 

R. 

Richmond Theatre, 248 

Rain Bow, 235 

Rising Moon, 115 
Regard due to the feelings of others, - 126 

' Reflection, 133 

Request, 148 

Rose, 179 

Rove Forever, - 208 

Rapidity of Time, 214 

Reply of the Philosopher, 223 

Do. 224 

S. 

Storm at Midnight, 5 

Self Knowledge, 72 

Sabbath Morning, 116 

Susceptible Mind, 18 

Summer Morning, 127 

Sleeping Infant, 196 

Solitary Star, - 201 

Seclusion of Basil, - 226 

St. Clair, - 251 

T. 

Tribute, - - 1 



Xii CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Tear, 22 

To a Friend in Affliction, - 117 

To a Young Lady, - 124 

Trust in the Almighty, - 135 

Tolling of a Bell, 139 

To a Friend on the first day of the Year, 140 

Transient Joy, - 144 
To a Friend whose correspondence had been 

interrupted, - - 193 

To an Instructor, - 209 

Twilight, - 215 

To a Friend with Geraniums, 215 
To a Friend on the 24th anniversary of her 

Marriage, - 234 

Thoughts on Childhood, - 236 

To a Friend, - - 241 

V. 

Vain Pursuits, - 125 

Vanity, 137 

Vanity of Life, ... 204 

Victory, 231 

Vicissitudes of Nature, - - 258 

W. 

Weeping may endure for a Night, 154 

Y. 

Youth, 99 

Young Friend Sleeping. - - - 221 



MORAL PIECES. 



A TRIBUTE. 



THERE rose a plant from shades obscure, 

Of weak and feeble stem, 
Its shrinking leaves were closely curPd, 

And pale its infant gem. 

And yet, a benefactress kind 

The lonely stranger ey'd 
And lov'd, and watch'd the humble plant, 

Which few had lov'd beside. 

She hid it from the chilling storms, 

For storms its bloom opprcst, 
And when the wintry blast arose, 

She warm'd it in her breast. 



With glance of tearful joy, she viewed 

Its promts' d verdure rise ; 
And oft its drooping buds she rais'd, 

To point them to the skies. 

But as she cherish'd it, a hand 

Remov'd her hence away ; 
And sick'ning on her lowly tomb 

The broken flow'ret lay. 

It rose to seek the ray serene, 

The star of mercy threw ; 
It rose on life's eventful scene. 

To feel and tremble too. 

Yet some have fenc'd it from the blast, 

And from the wintry air, 
And deign'd tho' undeserv'd their smile, 

To shelter it with care. 

Yes they have chcer'd it : they have sought 

To see its branches grow ; 
And have not scorn'd it, though its stalk 

AVas unadorn'd and low. 

And if the fragrance of the skies 

Should to its buds be given, 
That fragrance shall to these arise, 

To virtue, and to heaven. 



CONTEMPLATION. 



OFT, when the morning draws her dewy veil, 
Or twilight slumbers on the shrouded dale, 
Or moon beams tremble thro* the whisp* ring trees,, 
Or flout on clouds before the western breeze, 
Or evening, in her starry mantle bright, 
Precedes the slow majestic train of night ; 
In that still hour the mind excursive roves, 
A heavenly voice the listening spirit moves. 
Then light wing'd forms appear with brow serene, 
And tempt the soul from this terrestrial scene. 
Her pow'rs no more can present objects move, 
And cold is earthly care, and earthly love ; 
Memory hangs pausing o'er the unstain'd page, 
The prostrate passions all renounce their rage, 
Fear shrinks no more, and* wrath forgets to frown, 
And fluttering fancy shuts her pinions down ; 
The roving thoughts restrain their wild pursuit, 
Ev'n crested vanity sits meek and mute, 
And sceptred reason, bowing on her throne, 
Yields to a Pow'r acknowledged, though unknown, 
The world allures but clouds her glories blot j 
The world may call ; the spirit hears her not. 
A still, small voice arrests th* expanding soul, 
The full, strong tides of inspiration roll, 



A viewless harp responds soft tones arise, 
And quick within an answering harp replies 5 
!No more the vague and wild ideas float, 
Charm'd into order by that blended note ; 
But waking genius strives, with fondest care, 
To woo the magic music from the air , 
The strong, unmeasured minstrelsey to bind, 
In harmony by mortal pow'rs confm'd. 



GOD DISPLAYED IN HIS WORKS. 



WHO gave thee clothes to shield thy shrinking 

form ? 

Who gave thee shelter from the wintry storm ? 
Who gave the senseless beasts to be thy food ? 
Spread for thy use the pure and limpid flood ? 
Gave the quick ear to hear, the mind to know, 
The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow ? 
Who gave the day of health the night of rest, 
Joy at thy call, and comfort in thy breast ? 
Who deals with kindest care thy chequer' d lot I 
Whose arm sustains thee tho' thoa see'st it not ? 



Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways t 
Who writes the record of thy fleeting days ? 

Ask of the stream that rolls in torrents hy ; 
Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky ; 
Or of the fields array'd in garments fair $ 
Or of the birds that warble on the air ; 
Or of the mountain lilies wet w ith dew ; 
Or of the brutes, and they will tell thee who. 
Then lift thine eye to that unsullied throne, 
And raise thy heart to Him thy God alone. 



THE STORM AT MIDNIGHT. 



ROVING spirit rushing blast, 
Whither dost thou speed so fast ? 
Hurling from night's ebon car, 
The spear of elemental war? 
Cams't thou from the secret cell, 
Where the prison'd whirlwinds dwell ? 
Hast thou seen the awful court, 
Where the armed thunders sport ? 
Whore the deafning tempest sings, 
Where the lightning whets its stings ? 



Didst thou there obtain thine how 

Of wild and temporary pow'r ? 

Gain the strength that wraps thy breast ? 

Win the cloud that forms thy crest ? 

Beg to wield the mighty scourge, 

To stir the main and lash the surge, 

And wake the waves whose white heads rest 

Lightly on old Ocean's breast ? 

Speed'st thou now to rouse the gale, 
That rends the white and shivering sail 2 
Speed'st thou now to break the sleep, 
Of those that ride the foaming deep ? 
To shriek like ghosts to those that roam, 
" Thou ne'er shalt view thy distant home.'* 

Then go, thou angry tempest go, 
Speed thee on thy task of woe, 
Traverse earth from pole to pole, 
Crush the form but save the soul* 



PROCRASTINATION. 

'* LIVE well to day" a spirit cries, 
To day be good to day be wise ; 



But something inward seems to tell, 
Another day will do as well. 

" Now is the time the accepted time,'-* 
Speaks audibly a page sublime ; 
Another creed is heard to say, 
Wait till a more convenient day. 

Enquir'st thou which of these is truth I 
Which to obey unwary youth ? 
Go ask of nature in thy walk. 
The rose-bud, dying on its stalk, 
The fading grass the withering tree, 
Are emblems of thy fate and thee. 
Ask of the stream or torrent hoarse, 
To linger in its wonted course ; 
Ask of the bird to stay its flight, 
Bid the pale moon prolong her light, 
And listen to their answering tone, 
*' A future day is not our own." 

And is it thine ? Oh, spurn the cheat, 
Resist the smooth the dire deceit ; 
Lest, while thou dream'st of long delay, 
Thine hour of action pass away, 
Thy prospects fade thy joys be o'er, 
Thy time of hope return no more. 

Ask of the Roman pale with fear, 
While judgment thunder' d iu his ear, 



Who to the warning friend could say 
I'll hear thee on a future day ;" 
Ask him if Time confirmed his claim, 
Or that good season ever came ? 

Go, ask of him, whom demons urge 
To leap this dark world's dizzy verge, 
Who on his thorny pillow pain'd, 
Sees no reprieve or pardon gain'd. 
Oh ! ask that dying man the price 
Of one short hour of thoughtless vice ; 
What would he pay what treasure give, 
For one brief season more to live, 
One hour to spend in anxious care, 
In duty, penitence, and prayer ! 

Ask of the grave j a voice replies 
'* No knowledge, wisdom, or device," 
Beauty, or strength possess the gloom 
Where thou shalt find thy narrvw home. 

Delay no longer ; lest thy breath 
Should quiver in the sigh of death ; 
But inward turn thy thoughtful view, 
And what thy spirit dictates do. 



THE GIVING OF THE BIBLE TO THE 
ESQUIMAUX. 



ROUND that wide bay whose waters sweep, 
With slow sad current, to the deep, 
Hoarse hillows beat the rugged shore, 
Of cold and dismal Labrador. 

There as the lonely sailor keeps 

His night-watch o'er those awful deeps, 

Sighs for his long deserted home 

And hails the slowly rising moon, 

Lo ! icy cliffs of fearful size 

Flash death before his startled eyes, 

Cleave his frail bark with thund'ring crash, 

As lightnings rend the lofty ash. 

His frantic shrieks of thrilling pain 

Rouse from their beds the helpless train., 

Who soon shall sleep nor wake again. 

Cold to the raft their limbs congeal, 

Their icy hearts forget to feel, 

Dim close their eyes in silent sleep 

On their last couch the northern deep. 

Perchance upon the flinty beach, 
Their dry, unburied bones may bleach, 



10 



Where desarts stretch in trackless snow, 
And broad lakes rise that never flow, 
And rocks of frost, with frightful ledge, 
Hang sparkling o'er the water's edge. 

There scarce the sun reluctant throws 
A faint beam o'er the polar snows ; 
But wakes to speed his glowing car, 
And shuns the icy coast from far ; 
Pale float his locks on frosted skies, 
As in the waste the torch light dies. 
There life's frail lamp with livid ray 
Burns coldly in its cell of clay, 
And lights a weak and dwindled race, 
Devoid of science, wit or grace. 
For them no spring, with gentle care, 
Paints the young bud and scents the air ; 
Nor autumn bids the loaded stem 
Scatter its fruitage fair for them. 
No storied page, or learned strife, 
Or arts that lend delight to life, 
Or lighted dome, or festive song, 
Shed lustre o'er their winter long. 
But wrapt in skins, by long pursuit 
Torn rudely, from the slaughtcr'd brute, 
Close throng'd in hidden vaults they rest, 
Within the drear earths' mouldering breast. 
Hear the wild storm above them pour, 
Or sunk in sleep forget its roar. 



11 



The long dark night, with heavy sway, 
Hangs frowning o'er their homes of clay ; 
The twilight dim the infant moon, 
The pale sad stars that break the gloom 
Glance coldly on their living tomb. 

Ah ! what can cheer that lonely spot, 
Or bind the sufferer to his lot ? 
The hand that spread those frigid skies,, 
And gave the polar star to rise, 
The hand that stretch'd that frozen plain, 
, And shcw'd to man his drear domain, 
Gave, to enhance the scanty store, 
An humble mind that ask'd no more. 

And yet a better boon than thig 

In later times he gave, 
A warning voice, a call to bliss, 

A hope beyond the grave ; 
A page whose lustre shone to bless 
The lone retreat of wretchedness. 

He reads, he weeps, his prayers arise 
To Him who hears a sinner's cries. 
Sounds soft as music seem to roll, 
Strong light is kindled in his soul, 
While deep repentance, earnest prayer, 
And grateful love are rising thnv : 
And tears stand trembling in his eye 
That for his sins, Ids Lord should die. 



Now when the storm more feebly blows, 
And cold plants creep through wasted snows. 
When summer lifts her fleeting wings, 
"With ardour to his task he springs, 
Blesses the hand that gilds the scene. 
And kindly spreads the sky serene. 

Nor wintry storms to him are drear, 
Though hoarse they thunder in his ear, 
Who in his humble cell at rest 
Feels peace divine inspire his breast ; 
And sees fair hope in roseate bloom 
Descend to share his clay built room. 

Thus to his silent grave he goes, 
And meekly sinks to long repose, 
In firm belief at last to hear 
The strong Archangel rend the sphere, 
The trump proclaim the day of doom, 
A hand break up his ice-bound tomb, 
And bear him where no pain shall come. 
No winter shroud the scene with gloom. 
No stream congeal, no tempest rise, 
No gloomy cell or darken'd skies, 
No withering plant, no flinty soil, 
Or pining want, or fruitless toil, 
No lamp emit a glimmering ray, 
No setting sun forsake th<j day ; 
But light shall beam before unknown 
From Him who sits upon the throne, 



13 



And joy, and peace, and love shall cheer 
The son of wintry realms severe, 
Who, ransonvd by his Saviour's blood, 
Cleans'd in that fountain's healing flood. 
Still meek and uncomplaining trod, 
And found a mansion with his God. 



DEATH OF AN INVALID. 



HOW oft, reviving Invalid, would'st thou, 
When vernal plants diffus'd their blossoms fair, 

Salute the opening scene with cheerful brow, 
And hail the genial freshness of the air. 

How oft would'st thou the passing hour beguile, 
Though health refus'd to flush thy cheek again, 

Oh, I shall miss thy custom'd morning smile, 
Though pale beneath the shaft of lingering pain. 

Placid and gentle ev'n in life's decline, 

Though no fair hand thy lonely path did strew, 

Well pleas' d to see the joys of youth, though thine, 
Chill'd by the hand of age, were faint and few. 

S 



14 



Buried and stiff, awhile thy form must rest, 
The cold, damp earth thy dream of life must blot. 

Thus all, like thee, shall sink on Natures breast, 
Like thee be mourn'd a moment then forgot. 



ON THE DOVE'S LEAVING THE ARK. 



STILL did an unseen Being guide 

The lonely vessel o'er the tide, 

And still, with steady prow, it braves 

The fury of the foaming waves. 

While fierce the deluge pours its stream, 

The thunders roll the meteors gleam, 

When Ocean's mighty cisterns broke, 

And earth like a rent cottage shook, 

And slowly as its axle turn'd, 

The wat'ry planet mov'd and mourn'd ; 

Though trembling at the tempest's ire, 

Or scorching in the lightning's fire, 

While holding in her firm embrace 

The remnant of a wasted race, 

Still o'er the waves the wandering ark 

Roam'd like some lone, deserted bark. 



15 



But now the storm has hush'd its ire, 
The warring elements retire ; 
And from his curtains, dusk and dun 
Look'd forth, once more, th' astonish'd sun. 

What saw he there ? Young Nature's face 
With smiles, and joy, and beauty fair ? 

No ! not one feature could he trace 
To tell him life was ever there ; 

Save when that little hark was seen 

To shew him where her pride had been. 

But now from that secure abode 

A winged stranger went, 
And from the casement open'd wide 

A joyful flight she bent ; 
High mounting seem'd to seek the sky 
With forward breast, and sparkling eye, 
Like captive set at liberty. 

So went the dove on errand kind, 
To seek a mansion for mankind, 
Tho' scarce her meek eye dar'd to trace 
The horrors of that dreadful place. 

The waves with white and curling head 
Swept above the silent dead, 
The heaving billows' dashing surge 
Hoarsely swell'd the hollow dirge >; 



16 



The heavy weight of waters prest 
The mighty monarch's mouldering breast. 
The giant chief, the sceptred hand, 
The lip that pour'd the loud command ; 
The blooming cheek the sparkling eye. 
Now shrouded in the sea-weed lie. 

But still the pensive stranger spread 
Her white wing o'er that Ocean dread, 
And oft her anxious eye she cast 
Across that dark and shoreless waste. 
For evening clad the skies in gloom, 
And warn'd her of her distant home. 
The stars that gcmm'd the brow of night 
Glanc'd coldly on her wavering flight, 
In tears, the moon with trembling gleam 
Withdrew her faint and faded beam, 
And o'er that vast and silent grave 
Was spread the dark and boundless wave. 
With beating heart, and anxious ear, 
She strove some earthly sound to hear, 
In vain no earthly sound was near. 
It seem'd the world's eternal sleep 
Had settled o'er that gloomy deep, 
Nor slightest breath her bosom cheered. 
Her own soft wings alone she heard. 

But still that fearful dove preserv'd, 
With unabating care, 



17 

The olive leaf the type of peace 
All fragrant, fresh, and fail*. 

With pain her weary wing she stretch'd 

Over the billows wide, 
And oft her panting hosom dropp'd 

Upon the hriny tide. 

The image of her ahsent mate, 

That cheer'd her as she strove with fate* 

Grew darker on her eye $ 
It seem'd as if she heard him inn u ru . 
For one who never must return, 

In broken minstrelsey. 

Yet ere her pinions ceas'd their flight, 
Or clos'd her eye in endless night, 
A hand the weary wanderer prest 
And drew her to the ark of rest. 
Oh ! welcome to thy peaceful home, 
No more o'er that wild waste to roam. 

"When from this cell of pain and woe, 
Like that weak dove my soul shall go, 
And trembling still her flight shall urge, 
Along this dark world's doubtful verge 
O'er the cold flood, and foaming surge, 
Then may the shrinking stranger spy 
A pierc'd hand stretching from the sky, 
3 



18 



Then hear a voice in accents blest, 
" Return return unto thy rest," 
Long prison'd in a wayward clime, 
Long wounded with the thorns of time ; 
Long chill'd by the wild storms that pour 
Around that dark, deceitful shore, 
Enter where thorns shall wound and tempest}* 
rage no more. 



THE SUSCEPTIBLE MIND. 



HAST thou seen the Mimosa within its soft cell, 

All shrinking and suffering stand, 
And draw in its tendrils, and fold its young leaves, 

From the touch of the tenderest hand ? 

Hast thou seen the young Aspen that trembles 
and sighs, 

On the breath of the lingering wind ? 
Oh ! Ihese are but emblems, imperfect and faint* 

Of the shrinking and sensitive mind. 



19 



GRATITUDE. 



USES WRITTEN OS PLANTING SLIPS OP GERANIUM AND CON 
STANCY NEAR THE CRAVE OF A VENERABLE FRIKJ1). 



LITTLE plant of slender form, 
Fair, and shrinking from the storm, 
Lift thou here thine infant head, 
Bloom in this uncultur'd bed. 
Thou, of firmer spirit too, 
Stronger texture, deeper hue, 
Dreading not the winds that cast 
Cold snows o'er the frozen waste, 
Rise, and shield it from the blast. 

Shrink not from the awful shade 
Where the bones of men are laid ; 
Short like thine their transient date, 
Keen has been the scythe of fate. 
Forth like plants in glory drest 
They came upon the green earth's breast, 
Sent forth their roots to reach the stream, 
Their buds to meet the rising beam, 
They drank the morning's balmy breath, 
And sunk at eve in withering death. 



Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude 

To trouble this deep solitude ; 

But should the giddy footstep tread 

Upon the ashes of the dead, 

Still let the hand of rashness spare 

These little plants of love to tear, 

Since fond affection with a tear, 

Has plac'd them for an offering here. 

Adorn the grave of her who sleeps 

Unconscious, while remembrance weeps, 

Though ever, ever did she feel, 

And mourn those pangs she could not heal. 

Sev'n times the sun with swift career, 
Has mark'd the circle of the year, 
Since first she prest her lowly bier ; 
And sev'n times, sorrowing have I come, 
Alone, and wandering through the gloom, 
To pour my lays upon her tomb : 
And I have sigh'd to see her bed 
With brambles, and with thorns o'erspread, 

For surely round her place of rest, 
I should not let the coarse weed twine, 

Who so the couch of pain has blest, 

The path of want so freely drest, 

And scatter'd such perfumes on mine. 

It is not meet that she should be 

Fogotten or unblest by me. 



*1 



Ye plants, that in your hallow'd beds, 
Like strangers, lift your trembling heads, 
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds, 
And meet the morning's earliest ray, 
And catch the sun-beams as they play ; 
And when your buds are moist with rain, 
Oh shed those drops in tears again ; 
And if the blast that sweeps the heath, 
Too rudely o'er your leaves should breathe, 
Then sigh for her ; and when you bloom 
Scatter your fragrance on her tomb. 

But should you, smit with terror, cast 

Your infant foliage on the blast, 

Or faint beneath the vertic heat, 

Or shrink when wintry tempests beat, 

There is a plant of constant bloom, 

And it shall deck this lowly tomb, 

Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain. 

Or by the breath of winter slain ; 

Or by the sweeping gale annoy'd, 

Or by the giddy hand destroyed, 

But every morn its buds renew'd, 

Are by the drops of evening dew'd 

This is the plant of Gratitude. 



THE TEAR. 

-4 
WHEN gentle pity imoves the breast, 

And claims for others' woes the sigh, 
Or mild commiseration leads 

To kinder deeds of charity, 
Or the quick, feeling heart laments 

The woes of those it holds most dear, 
How graceful on the cheek is seen, 

The pure and sympathetic tear. * 

* 
Or when the page of life is dark, 

And fled is every earthly trust, 
When no kind comforter is near, 

And the sad soul is in the dust, 
Or when the bursting heart laments 

O'er lost affection's silent bier ; 
At once to mark and sooth the grief 

There flows the sorrow-starting tear. 

There is indeed a grief that scorns 

The channel of a watery eye, 
But then it breaks the thread of life, 

Or heats the brain to agony. 
And Oh ! preserve the friends I love, 

From feeling such a pang severe, 
And give them in their hour of woe 

The secret solace of a tear, , 



23 

.... 
Among the boasted joys of youth, 

Fair friendship's form has met my view, 
And fondly I retun'd her smile, 

And still believ'd her promise true : 
Yet I have felt, but ask me not, 

What thus has chang'd my prospect drew, 
And what has taught me so to prize 

The treasure of a silent tear. X. 



LIFE. 



LIFE is like a painted dream, 
Like the rapid summer stream, 
Like the flashing meteor's ray, 
Like the shortest winter's day, 
Like the fitful breeze that sighs, 
Like the wavering flame that dies, 
Darting dazzling on the eye, 
Fading in Eternity. 



'**** 

OUR COUNTRY. 



REF1ECTIONS ON THE MOUSING OF THE ANJflTKHSAHT OF 01DB 

IMIEPLNDKIfCK, JVLT 4, 1814. 

HENCE ye rude sounds, that wake me from my 

sleep, 

And fright away my dreams, peaceful and pure. 
I shudder at the cannon's deafning roar, 
The martial echo, and the shout of joy 
Where joy is not. For say can joy be there 
Where honour and the blissful time of peace 
Are parted names ? And you, ye peaceful bells, 
That call the meek soul to the house of prayer, 
Why with your hallow'd voices will ye swell 
This morning tumult ? Oh, that ye would leave 
Me to my slumbers ; better 'twere to dream 
Of weariness and woe, to scale the cliff 
Snow crown'd and dizzy, see the foe approach, 
And when you spring to motion find the limbs 
Stiff and the tongue enchain'd ; or dare the flood 
Upon some broken bridge Ah ! better far 
To suffer for an hour, and rise in peace, 
Than to muse waking on disastrous war 
And glory lost. To wake, alas, and think 
That honour once was ours, and find it not, 
Is but to wake to pain To see the wounds 



Our bleeding country bears, and then to find 
No balm in Gilead no physician there, 
Is more than torture. Hence ! away, ye sounds 
Of revelry and mirth; your tones are harsh, 
Your melody discordant ; for the heart 
Responds not to them. Ye, that joy so much, 
Look to the heights of Quecnston ; see the plains 
Where bleach the bones of valour ; hear the voice 
Of treachery false-hearted ; hear the tones 
Of jarring counsels ; hear the widow's wail ! 
Look where the troubled skies are red, with light 
Of flaming villages and meteors wild 
Glare o'er the darken'd concave ! 

"Who are these, 

That from their cold and humid beds arise ? 
The chiefs of other days. They fought, they bled, 
When war was righteous, and they slept in peace. 
Dark on their brows, a frown indignant sits, 
And hollow voices on the midnight blast 
Tell of disgrace and death. But do you say 
These are the visions of a fearful mind ? 
And you are still for war ? Then sound the charge, 
Urge on the combat bid the battle rage 
The victim bleed the lonely orphan mourn. 
If deeds like these delight you, take your fill, 
And shout, and triumph, in the groans of pain. 
Since war you love, then arm you for the fight, 
Bind on the shield, and grasp the sword, and throw 



A stronger fence around the endanger'd home 
Of those you love. And since for war you call, 
Prepare for war ; and train your infant sons 
To deeds of daring ; let no voice of peace 
Or mercy reach them, lest it enervate 
Souls given to war ; but let the tale of blood 
Sooth them to slumber, and the trumpet's clang 
Break up their cradle dream. Since war you will, 
Then arm you for the deeds and woes of war ; 
Stand firm and stedfast ; for your Country looks 
That those who urge her on so mad a course, 
Should not desert her in her day of need. 

But let the Christian place a stronger trust 
7'* Him the God of Might, who sits serene 
Ruling the tumults of this jarring world, 
And marking for himself the righteous soul, 
Who, whether prison'd in a cell of pain, 
Or driven to fields of blood, or tost on waves 
Dark and tempestuous, at length shall rise 
With rapture to that calm and pure abode, 
Where war, and woe, and error cannot come. 



ELECTION. 



0S THE MEETING OF THE FREEME.V TO ELECT THEIIl REPRT.- 
SENTATIVES, SEPT. 19tll, 1814. 



I SEEM to hear a distant voice 
Thus feebly and imploring say, 

*' My sonssupporters of my laws, 
Arouse ye at my call to day. w 

Is this my Country ? She whose tone 
Was once so strong, so bold, so just $ 

Now like a captive sad and lone, 
Why sighs she faintly from the dust ? 

Ask not : I cannot answer why ; 

Turn from me, I would seek to mourn 
But cast not thine indignant eye 

On yonder banner stain'd and torn. 

Its hue was once like mountain snows, 
Which no rude foot had ever prest ; 

And like the azure tint that glows, 
When summer suns the skies invest. 



faded, dark, and foul with stains, 
Defac'd with blood, and soil'd with clay, 
A remnant round the staff remains, 
Oh ! save it, ere -'tis rent away. 

And ask not why that sword is dyed 

In carnage reeking to the hilt ? 
The stains are dark that mark its side, 

But redden witli the hue of guilt, 

Yet Oh ! the land where saints have pray'd^ 

And holy men, and heroes trod, 
Though for a season dark with shade, 

Is not forsaken of its God. 

I trust some beam of hope will rise, 
To cheer this dim and troubled spot ; 

Some star of mercy light the skies, 
Though now its lustre glimmers not. 

Then if one plant of peace be left, 
One stream that still with freedom runs. 

One branch not yet of bloom bereft, 
Oh, save it for your infant sons. 

Like diamond bo the shield you wear, 
Which no rash stain of blood shall dim ; 

Lift to your God the eye of prayer, 
And firmly fix your trust in Him. 



ON THE CHARACTER OF COMMODORE 
MACDONOUGH. 



THE scene of death is past ; the cannon's roar 
Dies in faint echoes on the distant wave. 
The Christian and the hero stands alone 
Encircled hy the slain. No flush of joy, 
Or ray of triumph gilds his thoughtful brow ; 
For though his heart ascends in grateful praise 
To Him who heard his prayer, it sighs with pain,, 
Lamenting o'er the woe his hand has wrought. 
That bosom, which amidst the battle's rage, 
Was calm and tranquil, feels the life-blood creep 
Chill through its channels, and that manly cheek 
Which kept its hue unblanch'd, when shrieks of 

death 

And agony arose, is pale, and sad, 
And wet with bitter tears for brethren lost. 
To them he turns his eye, but meets no glance 
Of answering friendship. On the deck they slecn 
Pale, ghastly, silent : while the purple stream 
Flows slowly ebbing, from their bosoms cold. 
One short hour since, he saw them full of life, 
And strength, and courage ; now the northern 

blast 

Sighs as it passes o'er them whispering Iow 3 
Behold the end of man !" 
*4 



X or yet for friends alone, the victor sigf is. 
The noble heart may mourn a fallen foe, 
And do no wrong to honour ; may revere 
His virtues, and lament, that cruel fate 
Bade those to meet so stern, who would have joyM 
To join in friendship's pure and sacred bands. 

He fought not for the vain applause of man, 
To light the flame of war in distant lands, 
Or carry fire, and sword, and woe, and death, 
Among the innocent ; but nerv'd his arm, 
And steel'd his ardent heart, to meet the sword 
Brawn on his native land, and urg'd to blood, 
By provocation strange, and the blind wrath 
Of erring man. He saw a martial host 
Pres, with invading step, her vallies green, 
Pour o'er her placid lakes the storm of war ; 
Saw her smooth waters darkened with the shade 
Of crowding fleets ; he saw the smoke arise 
In heavy volumes, from those splendid domes, 
Where legislation held her awful sway. 
He felt her sad disgrace, and heard a voice, 
Deep tonM and piercing, call the brave to arms < 
His was the heart to answer, and he rose, 
With confidence in heaven, and soul prepared. 
He stood the shock, and from the furnace flame 
C ame forth like gold. And if this scene of woe 
Is still to last, may many heroes rise, 
Thus bright with rays, whose source is from 
within, 



.H 



And clad in virtue's arms. 

The tempered sword, long bath'd in blood, may 

break ; 

The shield may be destroyed ; tbe well aim'd dart 
Err in its course ; the warrior's eye grow dim ; 
But the firm soul, whose trust is plac'd above, 
Shrinks not ; tho' loud that last, dread trump 

should sound, 

Whose warning voice shall rend the solid 
And give her glory to the whelming flame. 



THE CONFLAGRATION AT WASHINGTON. 



W T HAT sounds are these, that on the hollow blast 
Of startled midnight reach the listening ear ? 
They seem like shouts of conquest, join'd with 

shrieks 

Of mad despair, and the confusion wild 
Of those that fear or fly. And see the flames 
In spiry columns burst thro' wreaths of smoke 
Rcdd'uing the brow of night. O scene of woe ! 
That pile superb, whose lofty dome arose 



With pomp and pride, aspiring to the skies, 

Whose spacious halls once shone, with all that art 

Or wealth could give, to dazzle and adorn, 

A blazing pyramid of fire is seen. 

Now its last ray illumes the glowing heavens, 

Darts, sickens, and expires. What ruthless hand 

Could spread the flames of vengeance, thus to blast, 

Destroy, and desolate. Embers conceal'd 

Of hatred and disunion, cherished long 

By treachery's secret breath, and madly fiVd 

By the wild torch of rashness, sprung to life. 

Eternal Justice saw, and was incens'd ; 
And suffer* d them to rage ; and lo ! the flame 
Has caught our fairest domes ; it burns it spreads, 
And who shall quench it? Or with pow'rless strain, 
Or hand so weak as mine, shall dare to paint 
The horrors of that scene ? The costly pile 
Sinking in sheets of fire, and clouds of smoke ; 
The haste of flight, the agony of fear ; 
Pale apprehension, shuddering regret, 
And misery, and tears ? Ah ! who shall bear 
These shameful tidings, to our distant foes, 
Nor shrink with anguish at his Country's wound* 
Who, to the nations of the earth, shall tell 
Her infamy, who once with noble front 
Rank'd high among them ? Who of all her sons 
Can bear to gaze upon her eye, and say, 
" Thy beauty is destroy'd, thy strength is slain,?' 
And when in future days, with downcast eyes, 



Around these blacken'd walls they lingering stray, 
And trace the mouldering ruins, and exclaim, 
With pausing wonder, " Tell us, why was this I" 
The burning blush will dye the hearer's cheek, 
Grief chain the tongue ! Then let oblivion's veil 
In deepest folds forever shroud the scene ! 
Snatch the recording pen, from him who seeks 
To make memorial of his country's shame ; 
From her stain'd annals rend the page unblest ; 
Break off th' unfinished lay ; bid memory sleep, 
Or hide her tablet from a future age. 

Yet Oh ! my Country ! Who can hide thy loss ? 
Forget thy wounds, or mitigate thy woe ? 
Around is darkness, and within is pain ; 
Then let us look above ! There is a ray 
That gleams from thence, an angel voice that cries,,, 
" Lift up the eye of faith ; there yet remains 
" Hope for the righteous ; for the weary, rest ; 
" For the oppressor, vengeance." Still there 

reigns 

A Judge Supreme, whom nothing can elude. 
And though his step is sometimes on the deeps, 
Shrouded in darkness, all his ways are peace, 
Are wisdom, truth, and mercy. Tho J his throne 
Is canopied with clouds, yet the meek eye, 
Now drown' d in tears, and dim with mists of time* 
Shall see, at last, its base was ever fixM 
On righteousness, and everlasting love. 



ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 



1) THOU, whose words the mighty storms obey, 
The whirlwinds ravage, or the whirlwinds stay, 
At w r hose dread call the thunder springs to birth. 
The strong winds rack the firm and solid earth, 
And lightnings glare, and ocean foams with ire, 
And snow-clad rocks burst forth with flames of 

fire; 

Yet whose least breath can hush the jarring strife. 
And wake the severed atoms into life, 
Send hark proud ocean from the trembling land, 
And curb his power with a frail bound of sand, 
Hush the wild whirlwind bid the thunder cease, 
And comfort nature with the smile of peace ; 
Canst thou, who vast eternity dost span ; 
Not change the heart, and turn the ways of man ? 

As the soft stream forsakes its winding course, 
Yet ever speeds to its appointed source, 
So canst thou mould his powers, and bend his will, 
And fit him for thy sovereign purpose still ; 
In thce I trust in this firm hope rejoice, 
Lift upward to thy throne my grateful voice. 
Bend to my prayers thy needed strength im 
part, 



35 



Awake my slumbering powers, confirm my heart, 
Renew my laith restore my wonted rest, 
And teach me what thy will decrees is best ; 
On this firm rock, Oh, let my feet be staid, 
Until they tread that lone vale dark with shade, 
'Till my faint heart shall feel its latest pain, 
And throb no more, in this cold breast again, 
'Till dying life to life eternal tend, 
Hope spring to joy, and faith in vision end. 



ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH 
OF A VENERABLE FRIEND. 



PAST was the day, and all its varied scenes 
Had sunk to rest. Now came the twilight grey 
With weary step , and then the queen of night, 
With graceful motion, and with brow serene, 
Smil'd on the eye. But soon her faded cheek 
All pale and alter'd sunk behind the cloud : 
Thence rising slowly, with a sickly look 
And glance averted, fled with hasty step 
y fo hide her head among the shades of night. 



Now all is gloom and darkness. Emblem Jit 
Of human joys, that dazzle on the sight, 
Then fade, and vanish, and are seen no more* 

And yet, in such a silent hour as this, 

So calm and placid, the full soul delights 

To dwell on what is past, or most of all 

To hold sweet converse with some absent friend 

Belov'd, departed, and beheld no more. 

To such a friend my pensive spirit flies, 

It seeks her in the tomb. Worn with the cares 

Of this hard life, and weary with the weight 

Of more than fourscore years, her head reclines 

Upon the couch, which nature has prepar'd 

For all her sons. White were her scattered locks 

With the cold snows of age, and deep her brow 

Was furrow'd with the heavy touch of care, 

Before these eyes had open'd on the light. 

But yet no boasted grace, or symmetry 

Of form or feature, not the bloom of youth, 

Or blaze of beauty, ever could awake 

Within my soul that pure and hallow'd joy 

So often felt when gazing on that eye 

Now clos'd in death. Nor could the boasted 

pomp 

Of eloquence, which seizes on the brain 
Of mad enthusiasm, emulate the theme 
So often flowing from those aged lips, 



To point the way to heaven. O guide belov'd, 

And venerated and rcver'd in life ! 

But tliou art not ; and many a year has past 

Since I beheld thee, though my heart retains, 

No dearer image ; when that heart has sunk 

Beneath the sorrows of this w T ayw r ard clime, 

Pierc'd with its thorns, and sick'ning at its snares, 

Then has thy spirit, in the placid light 

Of memory, scem'd to rise, and whisper peace $ 

Or in the doubtful visions of the night 

Mild gleaming, bid the mourner not to droop. 

'Twas ever thus ; for ah ! thou wert a friend 

When first the journey of my life began, 

And to thy last and agonizing gasp 

That friendship fail'd not. Thou didst love to 

sooth, 

And dry the causeless tear of infancy, 
That dimnvd an eye just waking on the light ; 
And thou would'st join amid the sports and mirth 
Of giddy childhood, bending low to hear 
The long recital of those joys, and pains, 
That s\vell or sink the little fluttering heart. 
Small were the woes which then would force the 

sigh 

From the rent bosom, for the strength was small 
Civ'n to support them. When with heedless step 
I first began to tread the flowery maze 
Spread for the foot of youth, how kind the voice. 
That warn'd of snares, and dangers, unperceiv 'd, 
5 



38 



That taught to shun the heaten track of vice, 
And love the path of duty, love the way 
Of meekness and of mercy, not to prize 
That loud applause which captivates the ear 
And cheats the heart ; hut seek to follow Him, 
Whose pure and spotless words will lead the soul 
To better mansions, and a better life. 

These were thy words, O meek and lowly saint ! 
"But thou art taken from me thou art gone 
Far from my sight, and never must my ear 
Receive the music of thy voice again. 

Much I could mourn that thou art absent now, 
For much I need thy counsel and thy love, 
And oft I find my wayw r ard footsteps stray 
From the blest boundary of that narrow path 
Leading to life. But yet an higher pow'r, 
A nobler principle, forbids to mourn 
That thou art taken from me, since my loss- 
Is thine eternal gain : for so I trust 
That in the realm of joy thou art at rest. 
Oh, may I meet thee in the cloudless light 
Of that bright world, which no unhallow'd eye 
Or mortal passion ever shall pollute. 

Were we assur'd this glory would be ours, 
How should we bless the hour of our release, 
Which seals the lips in silence, dims the eye, 



39 



And lays the pale cheek in the dust of death ; 
Unbinds the spirit struggling to be free, 
And points it homeward to its Father, God. 



MALTA. 



FAR Eastward, where the sea, with thundering 

tides, 

Sicilian shores from Afric's soil divides ; 
Not far from where high Etna flames w ith dread, 
A little Island rears its rocky head. 
Its broken cliffs allure the freshening gales, 
And flowers and fruitage clothe the verdant 

vales ; 

Mild breathes the air, as if to wake delight, 
And orange groves to soft repose invite, 
But still the rocky coast, with firmness proud, 
Repels the dashing surge, and billows loud. 

Phenician lords first gave its natives law, 
'Till Greece with mightier sway aw^ak'd their 
awe, 



46 



Though scarce the shallow soil and scant domain 
Could tempt the avarice of the haughty train. 

Then Carthaginian darts in wrath were hurl'd, 
'Till Rome's proud sceptre nodded o'er the world ; 
And rising from her throne she hound with car* 
This little gem to grace her flowing hair. 

But soon her regal arm was hent and hroke, 
And changing pow'rs enforc'd a changing yoke, 
Rough on her temples fell the Gothic rod, 
And Norman lords in stern dominion trod, 
Till o'er her head an host w as seen to wield 
The knightly sword, and shake the trophied shield. 
AVhen later times with wondering eye beheld 
High crested valour guard her tented field ; 
While the trumps clanging sound, and thunder 
ing shocks 

Of warlike weapons, rent her vaulted rocks, 
And round her walls the Turkish crescent gleam'd, 
And Turkish blood in ceaseless torrents stream'd, 
And sunk w ith shame the faint besieging band 
Fled few, and feeble, to their native land. 

Once o'er these foaming floods and billows hoar, 
The tempest's wing a lonely vessel bore ; 
The mountain waves in awful fury rose, 
And cleaving gulphs the secret deeps disclose, 
The lightning's pointed shafts like darts were 
driven. 



41 



And thunders rent the darken'd vault of heaven ; 
Loud shrick'd the wild winds from their view 

less path, 

And lash'd the restless surge to foaming wrath. 
'Till with a maniac force, the raging blast 
The shatter'd vessel 'mid the breakers cast. 

Sad, weary, faint, the unprotected train 
Trust their last fortunes to the faithless main ; 
Raise their weak heads above the billows* foam, 
And pine with anguish for their distant home. 

The natives, watching from their sea girt isle, 
Saw the spent sufferers at their feeble toil, 
Held their bright torch above the surge's roar, 
Lent their kind hand to aid them to the shore, 
Gave a glad shelter from the driving wind, 
And with warm welcome cheer' d the sinking mind. 

As round the blaze their sea-beat forms they 

drew, 

Forth from the flame a hissing viper flew, 
Quick to a guardless hand, his venom'd dart 
Shot that keen poison, which corrodes the heart : 
Utter'd the astonish'd natives as they view'd, 
This wretched man is stained with guiltless 

blood, 
"And though he scap'd the doom the seas might 



Yet righteous vengeance suffers not to live." 
*5 



4-2 



With stern and altered gaze they sadly wait, 
The fearful purpose of expected fate ; 
But when they saw the wound with venom fraught, 
No change no horror in their guest had wrought, 
"A God ! a God !" their mingled voices cried, 
And thoughts of reverence thro' their spirits glide. 

Ah simple train ! ye knew not that ye saw 
A friend of Him who vanquished nature's law, 
Who in his bright ascent still paus'd to say, 
"No deadly foe shall bar my servants' way ; 
" On scorpions they shall tread, and feel no pain, 
" The sharp envenom'd dart shall strike in vain." 

"Ye knew not that ye saw the man whose woes 
By him were felt as joys, who deadliest foes 
Undaunted met ; who " counted losses gain $" 
Who neither danger fear'd nor shrunk from pain ; 
Whom no reproach, or scourge, or threatened 

doom, 

Or present woes, or vision'd ills to come, 
Or heighth, or depth, or peril, flame, or sword, 
Could sever from the love and service of his Lord. 

To you was giv'n with pitying love to impart 
Those courteous deeds that win the stranger's 

heart, 

And though more spacious lands, perchance, dis 
play 



43 



A soil more rich, a titled train more gay, 
Yet, lonely Isle, thy praise is on a page 
That passes down to time's remotest age. 

And in thy soil made soft by genial rain, 
An unseen hand has sown a wondrous grain, 
In later times,* by guardian spirits nurst, 
Tho' weak it springs, its verdure faint at first, 
Yet deep and wide the growing root shall spread. 
And high the cherish'd plant shall real' its head, 
'Till on its boughs the birds of heaven shall rest, 
And wounded nations in its fruit be blest. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF THE INQUISI 
TION AT GO A. 



IN distant ages, which the rolling stream 
Of time has wasted like a baseless dream, 
\Vhile o'er the earth the clouds of darkness hung, 

* Referring to the lute distribution of the Scriptures in that 
Island. 



44 



Forth from the deep abyss a monster sprung, 
At first a weak and withered wand he bore, 
The mask of sanctity his features wore, 
A holy zeal he prais'd, menacing loud, 
And to the holy church his head he bow'd, 
Arm'd with her thunders, as her champion rose, 
Though leagu'd in secret with her mortal foes, 
And dark resolves, and deeds of fiendish spite 
Lurk'd in his hollow bosom from the light ; 
Deep draughts of blood in secret cells would drain, 
His ear, like music lov'd the groan of pain, 
Forth to the rack the tortur'd form he led, 
And the fierce flames with guiltless victims fed, 
With bolts, and bars, his wretched prey confin'd, 
And claim'd dominion o'er the free-born mind. 

His lofty dome rose frowning on the shore, 
Dark as his sins, and secret as his pow'r ; 
When midnight wrapt the world in Stygian shade. 
The first accursed stone was hewn, and laid, 
And in the cavern'd cells with malice fraught, 
Base cruelty and superstition wrought. 

Mistaken zeal the pondrous arches rear'd, 
Paus'd o'er her work, and as she saw it fear'd, 
And close-veil'd mystery, with finger slow, 
Plac'd on the massy gates, the seal of woe. 
High on the dome, her audit terror kept, 
And in the cavern'd cells pale misery wept, 
And prison'd virtue toil'd with ceaseless care. 



To feed the wasting lamp of dim despair, 
And helpless innocence, with fainting breath, 
Fell weak and tortur'd in the arms of death. 

Long, his dire arm the humhled nations sway'd, 
And sceptred kings a fearful homage paid ; 
Harsh on the neck, the yoke of bondage prest tf 
The helt of iron bound the throbbing breast, 
The smitten spirit sunk to rise no more, 
And nature trembled at the load she bore. 

But while the monster, with infernal sport, 
Held the dark revels of his blood-stain'd court, 
A heavenl y ray with quick effulgence stream'd 
Through those drear cells where light had never 

beam'd $ 

He heard the bursting bars, the captives free, 
The breaking chain, the shout of liberty, 
Saw thro' his grate a form of heavenly birth, 
Light with soft step upon the grateful earth ; 
In frantic rage his blood-shot eyes he roll'd, 
His inward pangs his changing features told ; 
His champions fled, his guards forsook their 

place, 

His mighty temple trembled to its base, 
Its cleaving arch received the sweeping blast, 
Its mouldering columns fell in ruin vast, 
Loud ycll'd the fiend, with hopeless fury fir'd, 
And as his fabric sunk, his pow'r expir'd. 



46 



Hoarse moving thunders roar'd a mighty knell, 
The glad earth shouted as the prison fell, 
The pow'rs infernal shriek'd in hollow moan, 
And their grim monarch trembled on his throne. 



A FAREWELL TO THE MONTH. 



FAREWELL ! Farewell ! no rolling sim 
To me shall e'er thy light restore, 

And cheerfully thou go'st to seek 
Thy many sisters gone hefore. 

I would, that all unstain'd and fair. 
The register that thou dost bear 
Of me might be ; but yet adieu, 
And if I sigh, still be thou true. 
For thou to Heaven's assembled host, 
Must utter what of me thou know'st. 

Nay cast not back that look of pain, 
And echo not my sighs again ! 



Thou gav'st me time much good to do, 
And health and privileges too, 
And if I fail'd, still blameless thou. 

Thou brought'st me comfort from above, 
Sweet peace, and fond paternal love, 
No night of pain, or day of noise, 
But gentle, intellectual joys. 

I hang upon thy parting glance, 

And bind thy memory to my heart j 
Thy little life to me was sweet, 
. Was sweet as friendship so depart. 



ADDRESS TO A NEW MONTH. 



SUNDAY, NOTKMBEB 1st, 1812. 



HAIL, stranger ! thou art welcome ! for I know 
Thou cam'st to guide me on my way, and haste 
My journey to my home. Thro* paths unknown 



48 



Dark with the sahle of uncertainty, 
Thou point'st me, and I follow undismayed ; 
For all thy course is mark'd and rul'd by Him 
AYho cannot err. Oh ! that his pow'r might make 
Me active every hour, patient and kind, 
Grateful and cheerful, seeking to do good, 
Forgetting all the things that lay behind, 
And pressing firmly onward in the path 
Of duty and of peace. O stranger fair ! 
"Who com'st to aid me on this little stage 
Of life's uncertain road, thy smile is soft, 
And thy first deed is kind ; for first thou shew'st 
To me the brow of morn, gilded and bright, 
And as I gaze thou whisper'st in my ear 
That it is holy : so thou guid'st my steps 
To God's own temple, where the gathering crowds 
Resort to seek his face and chant his praise. 



49 



LINES, 



On the death of the Rev. Mr. WASHBVRV, of Far- 
mington, Connecticut, during a storm at midnight* 
while on his passage to South-Carolina, for the 
benefit of his health, accompunied by his wife. 



THE southern gale awoke, its breath was mild, 
The hoary face of mighty ocean smil'd ; 
Silent he lay, and o'er his breast did move 
A little bark that much he scem'd to love ; 
He lent it favouring winds of steady force, 
And bade the zephyrs waft it on its course ; 
So on its trackless way, it mov'd sublime, 
To bear the sick man to a softer clime. 
Then night came on ; the humid vapours rose ? 
And scarce a gale would fan the dead repose; 
It seem'd as if the cradled storms did rest, 
As infants dream upon the mothers breast. 

But when deep midnight claim'd his drear do 
main, 

And darkly prest the sick man's couch of pain, 
6 



50 



The prison'd winds to fearful combat leap, 

And rouse the wrathful spirit of the deep, 

The impatient storms arose their sleep was 

past, 

The thunder roar'd a hoarse and dreadful hlast, 
The troubled bark was tost upon the wave, 
The cleaving billows shew'd a ready grave, 
The lightnings blaz'd insufferably bright, 
Forth rode a spirit on the wing of night ; 
An unseen hand was there, whose strong con 
trol, 

Required in that dread hour the sick man's soul, 
It struggled and was gone ! to hear no more 
The whirlwinds sweeping, and the torrents roar, 
The rending skies, the loud and troubled deep, 
The agonizing friend, that w ak'd to weep ; 
No more to shrink before the tempest's breath, 
No more to linger in the pangs of death ; 
No more ! no more ! it saw a purer sphere, 
Nor surging sea nor vexing storms were there ; 
Before his eye a spotless region spread, 
Where darkness rested not or doubt or dread, 
And sickness sigh'd not there, and mortal iDs 
were fled. 
- 






THE following productions were ad 
dressed by the author to a number of young 
Ladies placed under her care y and are here 
introduced in the form of Essays. 



ESSAYS. 



FILIAL DUTY. 



AS a child, your first duty is obedience to your 
parents ; an obedience comprehending love, sub 
mission, and reverence. To this simple point are 
all your duties now confined ; but as you advance 
in life they will become more difficult and vari 
ed. Beware therefore of considering it of small 
importance how you conduct yourselves towards 
these parents. You are like a traveller entering 
upon an unexplored country, and these are your 
guides. As your judgment is not matured they 
must also be your counsellors. You are subject 
to afflictions and they will always be your com 
forters. Do not imagine that you are capable of 
directing yourselves, but laying aside all feel- 
*6 



54 



ings of obstinacy and self conceit, submit your 
selves to their instructions, admonitions, and re 
straints. Be not however satisfied with sub 
mission only, for gratitude has more extensive, 
claims. Reflect upon the nature of your obli 
gations to those who have borne cheerfully with 
all the cares, anxieties, and labours, arising from 
your state of infancy and youth. They have 
protected you when helpless, instructed you when 
ignorant, loved you amidst all your errors, and 
will continue to love you even to the close of their 
existence. Favours like these you have never 
received from any other created being, therefore 
next to your father in heaven, you are bound to 
love and reverence your parents. Be dutiful 
and affectionate, studying their wishes in all you 
do. A different course of conduct will afflict 
those to whom you are bound by every tie of na 
ture and gratitude, and lower you in your own 
opinion. You would not surely wound those 
whose kindness to you has been such as you at 
present cannot realize, or in future ever repay ; 
or fail in the first duty of your life, forcing hope 
to sigh at the promise of your future years. 

Those who have been eminent for piety and 
true w'isdom, have invariably performed the re 
quisitions of this most interesting connection. If 
you are anxious for their fame, be careful not to 



55 



neglect this part of their example. Our holy 
Saviour, when he reasoned with the Jewish doc 
tors, and astonished them by his wisdom, obey 
ed the commands of his mother and was subject 
to his parents. It seems almost unnecessary to 
make use of arguments to enforce a duty which 
the light of nature teaches, and which even among 
savage nations is often scrupulously performed. 
And yet experience is daily proving, that it is 
not enough to know the path we are to tread, \ve 
need constantly to be reminded that we are in 
danger of deviating from it. Let us listen to the 
voice of Him who cannot err, proclaiming to us 
who are children, " Honour thy father and moth 
er." Yet because the human heart is hard, and 
the ear dull, unless softened and roused by some 
sentiment of self interest, the same voice adds, 
with unspeakable condescension, "that thy days 
may be long upon the land which the Lord thy 
God giveth thee." Let this encouragement, held 
out to us by infinite goodness, stimulate the ex 
ertions of those who have begun well, and reform 
the practice of those still in error. Whenever 
we are disposed to stifle the warning voice of du 
ty, or turn a deaf ear to that of Him who speak- 
eth from above, let it be remembered that at a 
future day, this folly will be found to "bite as 
the serpent, and stinej as the adder." 



56 



NOVEL READING. 



READING is not only a pleasant recreation, 
but, under proper regulations, the best employ 
ment for our leisure hours. It becomes either 
salutary, or pernicious, according to the choice 
we make of our books, and the time we devote to 
them. It is possible to be dissipated even in 
reading good books ; this however is so seldom 
the case with those of our age, that it is hardly 
an evil to be guarded against. But there is a 
kind of dissipation to which most young people 
are prone, extremely injurious in a variety of 
ways. That is the reading of novels, without limit 
as to number, or discretion in the choice. This 
is not only a waste of time which can never be 
recalled, but has the worst possible effects upon 
the mind, by unfitting it for every other kind of 
intellectual enjoyment. Youth is the season for 
the acquisition of knowledge, but whoever is 
much devoted to a love of works of fiction, will 
find it impossible to pursue, with any effect, such 
a course of study, as will enlighten her under 
standing, strengthen her mind, or amend her 
heart. On the contrary she will find her mind en 
ervated, her wishes uncertain and contradictory, 



57 



her temper capricious and whimsical, and her 
views of life so incorrect and extravagant, that 
in the world where it must still be her fate to live, 
she sees nothing hut what is offensive, because 
it is unlike the visionary world she has formed in 
her own imagination. It is not from the reading 
of such works that we can expect to acquire that 
firmness of character, which is necessary for 
those, who hope to support, with dignity and sub 
mission, the sorrows, pains, and infirmities, to 
which we are all exposed. The precepts found 
in them are not generally those of wisdom, pa 
tience, or sobriety. They are much more apt to 
excite vanity, and prompt a desire to imitate 
some unnatural or inconsistent character. It 
must be acknowledged that these are not the 
characteristics of all novels 5 there are some, 
where feeling and fancy are made the vehicles of 
an excellent moral lesson, where at the same 
time that they warm the imagination, they mend 
the heart, and place the motives for great and 
good actions, in so strong a point of view, with 
out extravagant, or unreasonable embellish 
ment, as hardly to fail of leaving a good impres 
sion. But works of this description bear a small 
proportion to those which are tinctured with folly 
and vanity, whose characters, though dazzling, 
and placed in various attractive attitudes, are ut 
terly unfit for imitation, and the admiration of 



58 



which can only lead to mischief. Their principal 
attractions consist of endowments which imply 
no real merit, and they are usually under the in 
fluence of one single passion, wrought to such a 
pitch of extravagance, as in real life would he 
completely ridiculous. Reading of this kind is 
too apt to inspire an excessive love of admiration, 
and desire to possess personal heauty ; and gives 
us such false notions of the world in which we 
are to perform our part, that the most respecta 
ble occupations, or duties of domestic life, become 
irksome and tedious. 

We must not expect to realize the scenes with 
which we are so much delighted. This world is 
a state of trial, we must therefore expect pain ; it 
is a state of probation and calls for the exercise 
of virtue ; of imperfection, and we must look be 
yond it for purity and felicity. The knowledge 
of our own hearts is essential to respectability 
and happiness ; the permitting ourselves to in 
dulge in the visionary scenes of romance is un 
favourable to self knowledge, and commmonly 
perfects us in nothing but giddiness and self con" 
ceit. If we have occasional recourse to works 
of fancy for amusement, let us do it but rarely, 
and select those works with care. At this season 
of our lives, there is no time to be lost in the ac 
quirement of knowledge $ a future opportunity 



59 



may never be within our power, we should there- 
lore bend our attention to such productions as will, 
while they convey useful knowledge, strengthen 
the mind, and mend the heart. And above all, 
let us prize that volume, which points the way to 
truth, and which speaks of mansions reserved 
for the faithful " incorruptible, undefilcd, and 
that cannot fade away." 



MEMORY. 



MEMORY is that retentive power of the 
mind, by which it preserves the ideas and im 
pressions it has received. It is of great import 
ance in all the various employments and pro 
fessions of mankind, and may be easily weakened 
by neglect, or strengthened at pleasure. It is 
more under our control than the powers of 
perception, fancy, or imagination, and ought 
therefore to be cultivated, to counteract the 
inequality which these must otherwise occasion ; 



since their possessors would have a great variety 
of original and brilliant ideas, even without ex 
ternal advantages, industry, or unusual degrees 
of application. It is so much in the power of 
all, to fix firmly in their minds what they have 
once admitted there, that some moral philoso 
phers have asserted that memory is only a 
habit of Jixed attention ; and that though we 
cannot always acquire what we wish, we may 
always rememher what we please. This theory 
is supported by instances of persons who have 
received from nature a very weak memory, yet 
by study and application have strengthened it to 
every useful and laudahle purpose. Without this 
faculty, knowledge loses its value ; education 
becomes ineffectual, and it is impossible to excel 
in any literary department. 

Careful study, and constant practice, are ne 
cessary to mature it where it exists, and to 
acquire it where it does not ; and ideas are thus 
arranged, consolidated, and treasured in the se 
cret recesses of the mind, to be brought forth 
fof future use, ornament, or delight. That ready 
recollection by which the knowledge possessed 
is brought into immediate exercise, as momen 
tary exigences may require, is a different de 
partment of memory ; more complicated, and 
less easily acquired. This requires judgment to 



select wisely from the store-house of the mind, 
and promptness to apply what is selected, at the 
moment when it will produce the best effect. 

As the want of this is most deeply realized in 
society, so it is most easily acquired by free and 
rational conversation. Were the importance of 
this qualification sufficiently considered, it would 
more frequently turn the unprofitable channel of 
discourse, and introduce subjects which might at 
once draw forth, and enrich the latent treasures 
of the mind. The first act of the memory com 
pares, compounds, and secures a stock of ideas , 
the other selects from that stock whatever may 
entertain, convince, or instruct others. But if 
this latter exercise of memory is peculiarly use 
ful to those who associate much with the world, 
its most pleasing office is to lead the mind 
through the cells which she has stored, or the 
gardens which she has planted, that it may col 
lect sweetness, or study wisdom, or refresh it 
self after the cares and perplexities of life. 

Memory is also a criterion of moral taste ; 
For the mind will cherish those ideas that are 
most congenial to it ; and if those which fre 
quently recur leave the deepest impressions, it 
follows that what is most congenial to the taste, 
we remember best. Thus we often meet with 



one who remembers, accurately and with cast, 
historical facts, ancient or modern ; another, 
dates and eras ; a third, revolutions and con 
spiracies. There are some who have stored their 
memories with biographical sketches and moral 
essays, or the various departments of narrative 
and poetry ; while others are wholly absorbed 
in the passing events of the day, the variations 
of the political atmosphere, the fluctuations of 
society, pieces cf scandal, fashions, manners and 
amusements ; unconscious that they are holding 
up to an attentive observor, a mirror of their 
own intellectual habits, and a key to unlock the 
secret cabinet of the mind. 

Memory is also valuable as a source of intel 
lectual delight. When affliction has embittered 
the present, or age cast its shade over the future, 
it presents in the past, a picture at once consola 
tory and alluring. Thus we find the aged inva 
riably attached to the days that are gone, more 
ihan to those that are passing, or to come ; even 
recollected pain loses its anguish, and the traces 
of memory though broken and imperfect are de 
lightful to the eye that has grown dim to the illu 
sions of hope. But to us, my young friends, who 
have never felt affliction to disgust us with life, 
or age to paralize the ardour of fancy, still to us 
memory opens a full source of pleasure. 



63 



Between the disputed pleasures of memory and 
anticipation, I do not hesitate to give a derided 
preference to the first. One presents a vivid pic 
ture of the future ; the other a faithful tran 
script of the past. The brilliancy of the first at 
tracts for a time, hut reason perceives it to be 
drawn by the mutable pencil of fancy, that the 
curtain of futurity rests upon it, and involves it 
in darkness. She looks on the tablet of memory ; 
its traces are less glaring, but more perfect ; they 
dazzle less, but are not fictitious. One charms 
us while we arc under the sway of fancy, the 
other while we arc controlled by reason ; and we 
are taught to feel those to be the highest pleasures, 
which are tasted by a mind rational and serene. 
On this part of the subject, I will borrow the bean- 
t if ul expressions of a poet : 

" Lighter than air, hope's summer visions fly, 

" If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky, 

" If but a beam of sober reason play, 

" Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts a\vay. 

" But can the wile of art, the grasp of power, 

" Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour ? 

" These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, 

" Pour round her path a stream of living light, 

" And gild those pure and perfect realms of rust, 

" Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest." 

To you, my young friends, \vho are acquiring 
an education, I cannot express the peculiar worth 
and importance of memory. Of what use will it 



04 



Jbe, to listen to, or repeat sentiments however 
good, if they pass away as soon as they are re 
peated ? Of what advantage will it be that you 
acquire knowledge with facility, if the mind neg 
lects to retain it ? If you are sometimes excuse- 
able for not learning with ease, you can never be 
so, for forgetting what you have learned, since 
that depends upon your own choice, and not 
on the peculiar construction of the mind. Make 
use of every expedient, therefore, to strength 
en this important faculty. Give an undivi 
ded attention to what you wish to learn, and 
be not satisfied with once repeating a lesson^ 
but meditate upon its contents until they are 
firmly engraven on your mind. Accustom your 
selves always to render an account of what you 
read, either to yourself, or to some other person. 
Every night examine what you have learned dur 
ing the day ; compare it with what you have 
previously acquired, and he not soon wearied 
with this exercise, for if you really wish to 
strengthen your memories, you will consider no 
exertion too laborious. Despise not to receive a 
lesson of wisdom even from inferior creatures. 
Does the ant when she has carefully collected 
her load, forget to deposit it in her granary ? Of 
what advantage is it to the bee, that she selects 
the most fragrant flowers, that she is skilful in 
extracting their essence, that she bears a larger 
load than her companions, if when she reaches 



65 



her cell she neglects to store her sweetness : 
You are now collecting stores of intellectual 
sweetness for the approaching winter of lift', 
it may be a winter darkened with depression, in 
firmity, or sorrow. If you will then wish for 
internal resources, when the streams of external 
enjoyment have become embittered ; if you will 
then need an asylum to retreat to, when the tem 
pest of trouble is beating without, prepare now 
those resources, and furnish that asylum. Con 
quer now that folly and levity which will in 
scribe the tablet of remembrance, with traces not 
grateful to the calm eye of retrospection. Guard 
against associations of ideas which you would 
blush to pronounce, lest the pure sources of re 
collection should become polluted ; and think no 
exertion too great to strengthen a talent which 
can cheer the da} s of depression and decline. 

But do we not sometimes hear of the pains of 
memory ? How can a faculty like this become 
painful to its possessor? Is it because it reminds 
us of past losses and disappointments ? No ! these 
the hand of time disarms of their anguish, and to 
the submissive mind they are converted into 
blessings. Is it the recollection of injuries or un- 
kindness ? No ! these the Christian will repay 
with forgiveness and gentleness, and thus extract 
good out of evil. Is it then the remembrance of 
departed friends, who cherished and guided us, 
*7 



in the patiis of rectitude and piety I We believe 
these have gone to a better country, and the hope 
of meeting them there, and the memory of their 
virtues, console the heart of the mourner. What 
then can excite the pains of memory ; if it is- 
neither loss, or disappointment, unkindness, in 
jury, or the death of beloved friends ? It is the 
recollection of time mispent, and of duty forsak 
en ! These awaken the pang of memory, and turn 
the eye with terror from the past. 

Guard faithfully, my dear young friends, these" 
avenues of regret, and in every situation and cir 
cumstance of life you will be happy. Neither 
age, sorrow, or disappointment can destroy your 
peace of mind, if you are supported by the con 
sciousness of having performed your duty.. 



ON A JUST ESTIMATION OF THE CHARAC 
TER OF OTHERS. 



HABITUATED as we are to the varied in 
tercourse of society, it is impossible to remain 
long in the world* without forming some csti- 



mate of the characters that surround us. To 
wards some we feel attracted, by others repelled ; 
some, while we scarcely know why, awaken our 
esteem ; and others, without sufficient reason, may 
be thought of with aversion and mentioned with 
disgust. The quality of our taste, the predom 
inance of our feelings, or even the casualty of 
circumstance, may produce associations of ideas, 
confirmed by habit into predilection or enmity. 
To search for the cause of these vary ing opinions, 
to examine the foundation of these attachments and 
prejudices, and to reduce them all to the rule of 
equity is the office of the judgment, that most im 
portant effort of the reasoning powers. In form 
ing our estimate of mankind we are too apt to be 
influenced by the distinctions which we perceive 
among them ; and to view with a great degree of 
deference the wealthy, the powerful, and the hon 
ourable. But the distinctions in society, which 
are wisely appointed by Providence for the ulti 
mate good of the whole, are no criteria of indi 
vidual merit. The vicious, the unprincipled, and 
the cruel, often arrive at the summit of power, 
and are seen wielding the sceptre of dominion, 
and clad in the robe of royalty ; while the virtu 
ous pass through life in obscurity, unheeded and 
perhaps unknown. Wealth, honour, and power 
are often acquired by injustice, preserved with 
pain, and lost in a moment ; so that at once fluctua 
ting and inconclusive, they can give no character 



68 



of their possessors, and furnish no solid basis for 
the judgment to rest upon. 

\Ve, who are young, are also too much inclined 
to form a sudden and favourable opinion from a 
prepossessing appearance ; but beauty of form, 
and regularity of feature, those external gifts of 
nature, imply so little merit in the wearer, that 
by nourishing vanity they frequently prevent the 
acquirement of knowledge and real excellence ; 
and a pleasing and graceful deportment, though 
deservedly an object of admiration, is often assu 
med to conceal depraved motives, and a malicious 
heart. If we, who have seen little of the world, 
have never been convinced of this by our own ob 
servation, the pages of history will enlighten us, 
and even the part that we have lately read togeth 
er, furnishes repeated testimony. Richard the 
II. of England, under a graceful and dignified de 
meanour, concealed a frivolous mind, and a capri 
cious, tyrannical temper ; and Edward the IV. 
whose manners were so prepossessing, that he 
was acknowledged to be the handsomest and 
most accomplished man of his time, habituated 
himself to every vice which can flow from pride, 
licentiousness, or cruelty. You will doubtless 
recollect from scripture history, that Absalom, 
whose hands were defiled with a brother's blood, 
and whose base arts drove an affectionate father 
from his throne, and from his dwelling, by his af- 



9 



lability and insinuation "stole the hearts of the 
men of Israel." If those who possess real good- 
ROSS are sometimes too neglectful of its exterior 
graces, those who are conscious of radical defects 
usually study and practise, with the greatest suc 
cess, the innumerable arts of insinuation. The 
exterior graces, therefore, which attract and daz 
zle the eye, imply no internal excellence, and offer 
no solid foundation for esteem or confidence. Nei 
ther from the talents of others, are we to estimate 
their real worth in the scale of existence. The 
knowledge of what is good, does not always lead 
to the practice of it ; and the power of doing w r ell 
is sometimes neglected or perverted. Those 
whom brilliancy of genius or solidity of learning 
might have qualified to instruct and to bless man 
kind, have sometimes exerted them only to conceal 
or to gild the deformity of vice ; to put darkness 
instead of light ; to untwist the strongest bands of 
society ; to undermine the foundations of virtue, 
and to wrest from their fellow men the hopes of 
immortality. 

The records of ambition and infidelity are dark 
ened with such examples. Their steps have been 
marked with the tears of the oppressed, the mis 
eries of the deluded, and the blood of many vic 
tims. They have passed through life as terrors 
to the living, and sunk among the dead while none 
lamented them. Others, whom nature had endow- 



ed with no uncommon qualifications, have so di 
rected their powers to the attainment and advance 
ment of good, and so virtuously fulfilled "the 
plain intent of life," as to be considered blessings 
in society, ornaments to their own age, and ben 
efactors to posterity. Moderate abilities, habit 
ually exerted on the side of virtue, often gain the 
highest esteem and veneration ; while great tal 
ents perverted, enhance the future misery of the 
possessor and give melancholy proof of the de 
pravity of man. 

But perhaps you enquire, how are we to 
judge of mankind, if neither their stations iu 
society, their personal accomplishments, or men 
tal qualifications, are an allowed criterion ? Es 
timate them not by the stations they occupy, but 
the manner in -which they fill those stations ; not 
from what they appear to be, but what they 
really arc ; not from what they are qualified to 
know, but from what they are accustomed to per 
form. Esteem those who discharge the duties 
of life faithfully, though their sphere be limited, 
or their station obscure : 

" Who does the best his circumstance allows, 
" Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more," 

Dr. YOUK. 

Let the standard of real goodness be your stand 
ard of judgment, and not those adventitious dis- 



71 



lindions which may he possessed without virtue^ 
and lost without a crime. All hcings arc cither 
good or evil, as they imitate or oppose the Great 
Author of all good ; as they obey or transgress 
those laws which are given to advance their own 
greatest happiness, and the welfare of their fel 
low creatures. The love of goodness, wherever 
implanted, will expand and display itself in the 
virtues of the heart and of the life. Wherever 
these are perceived, though in poverty, depres- 
ion, or servitude, they are the transcript of a 
Divine Original ; wherever you find them, though 
humbly clad, or despised among men, revere 
them ; they are the genuine, though imperfect 
image of Him, who is good, and who doeth good 
unto all. Genuine virtue does not proclaim its 
own excellence, does not obtrude itself upon the 
notice of others, does not seek the applause of 
men ; yet this is the standard of character, and 
the true criterion of judgment, which neither 
fluctuates, disappoints,* or deceives. 

I hope, my young friends, that you will per 
ceive the importance of justly appreciating the 
characters of those who surround you in the 
world, and who, from the duties, wants, and con 
nections of society, may have it in their power 
to influence your future enjoyment. Never suffer 
yourselves to like or dislike without sufficient 
cause $ let your attachments be sanctioned by 



reason, and your enmities mitigated by candour $ 
let not the eye of the mind be blinded by preju 
dice, deceived by a gilded surface, or dazzled 
by the tinsel and trappings of time ; but reso 
lutely bear testimony in favour of virtue, how 
ever neglected, and of goodness, however despi 
sed, till eventually the admiration of virtue in 
others, may awaken you to practise it yourselves, 
and the love of goodness here, lead you to its 
perfect reward hereafter. 



ON SELF KNOWLEDGE. 



BY those who have made critical observa 
tions on the powers and pursuits of man, it has 
been pronounced his most uncommon acquire 
ment, to become acquainted with himself. We 
may penetrate into the characters of those who 
surround us ; we may learn the habits, disposi 
tions, and language of foreign nations ; we may 
become acquainted with all the peculiarities of 
the globe that we inhabit ; the course of its riv- 



crs, the height of its mountains, and the treas 
ures that are concealed in its secret caverns ; 
we may follow science as she soars to the heav 
ens, find the places of the planets, call them by 
their names, compute their distances? magnitude, 
and periods of revolution ; yet if we span the 
whole circle of the universe, we may return and 
find mysteries in the little empire within, to per 
plex our researches, and baffle our keenest pene 
tration. We have heard much of the monitor 
within ;" but whoever attempts to trace her ac 
tions to their first spring, and her designs to their 
real source, will be convinced that she has also 
an advocate within. When this advocate per 
ceives the eye of the mind turned inward, she en 
deavours to elude its pursuit, but if she finds it 
bent on resolute search, she casts obstacles before 
it, spreads a veil over what it seeks to investi 
gate, softens errors into virtues, speaks of crimes 
as inadvertencies, and endeavours to blind the 
eye of reason the judge, and to silence the voice 
of conscience the accuser. This is the natural 
pride and vanity of the human heart ; it assumes 
as many shapes as fancy can devise ; it flies from 
reproof, and when truth is painful" loves darkness 
better than light." Her object is to keep the soul 
ignorant of itself, to deceive it into compliance, 
to flatter it into submission, till her own empire- 
is firmly established, and that bound in perpetual 
slavery. But both our duty and happiness rc- 
8 



74 



quire that this dominion should he hroken, ami 
the first step towards it is to think humbly of 
ourselves. We arc beings who have received 
much, and arc accountable for it ; placed in a 
state of trial, with a law of rectitude before us, 
to see whether we will obey, or swerve from it ; 
subject to many afflictions, liable to many errors, 
beaiing within us much which needs to be regula 
ted, reformed, or taken away, and bound to an 
eternal destination of happiness or misery. "What 
is there in this inscription to justify vanity ? Eve 
ry thing around excites us to watchfulness ; every 
thing within to humility. AVe should esteem it a 
great unhappiness to have a friend whose ueal sen 
timents were concealed from us, and whose char 
acter we could not investigate ; how much more 
uncomfortable and olangerous, to remain ignorant 
ef our own. Self knowledge is not the growth 
of an hour, or matured by a single experiment, 
but is attainable by perseverance, and amply re 
wards its toil. It is necessary to self govern 
ment ; for we must become acquainted with our 
prevailing errors, and their probable sources, 
before we can be successful in reforming them j 
we must understand the disease, before we apply 
the remedy. The mind, from a knowledge of her 
most vulnerable parts, knows better where to ap 
ply her strongest guards, how to arouse her 
slumbering energies to some difficult virtue, and 
how to quell those mutinous passions which strive 



75 



tor the mastery i till, like some wise monarch who 
has reduced his realm to submission, she at length 
wields her undisputed sceptre, and tranquilly ex 
ercises her hereditary rights. Self knowledge is 
necessary to improvement ; hence, its great im 
portance to the young, whose business it is to 
improve. She who wishes to acquire knowledge 
must be convinced that she possesses little ; and 
if she candidly observes her own deficiencies, the 
limited nature of her attainments, and the im 
perfect use she makes of those attainments, she 
will feel inclined to that humble and teachable 
disposition which is the beginning of all wisdom. 
It is the attempt of vanity to repress this convic 
tion, to make the mind contented with low r degrees 
of knowledge, to puff it up with shcwy accom 
plishments, because, like all despotic governments, 
her sway is built upon the ignorance and weak 
ness of the subject. 

Self knowledge is favourable to the virtue of 
candour. When we perceive errors and imper 
fections in others, this teaches us that we are 
chargeable with the same ourselves 5 and when 
we feel inclined to condemn some more visible 
failure, this points us within our own hearts to 
the same sources of frailty, and teaches us thai 
in the same circumstances our own conduct might 
have been equally censurable. This represses 
<he spirit of scandal and detraction, that friend 



to the misery of human life ; this teaches us not 
to judge severely, lest we he judged ; and from 
The conviction that we ourselves are " compassed 
with infirmity," excites that charitable temper 
which, to use the inimitable illustration of scrip 
ture, "beareth all tilings, forgiveth all thing's, 
and thinketh no evil." 

It is favourable to our own enjoyment. Most 
of the repinings and discontents of mankind arise 
from their entertaining too high an opinion of 
themselves. This leads them to expect too much 
attention from others, and to be angry when they 
do not receive it ; to fancy slights, ill treatment, 
and partiality, when there is none intended ; and 
to be outrageous when they meet with real inju 
ries. They become the slaves of suspicion and 
jealousy, and their moments of solitude are em 
bittered with unpleasant reflections. But self 
knowledge teaches us not to expect more defer 
ence than we really deserve ; not to be envious 
when others are raised above us ; and not to over 
rate our abilities, and place ourselves in situa 
tions where we arc not qualified to perform a 
good part. Thus it saves us much repining, un- 
happiness, and disgrace, leads us to be grateful 
lor little instances of kindness, and to be patient 
when we are injured and misrepresented. For if 
those actions, which are " despised among men," 
have arisen from pure and disinterested motives, 



it teaches us to extract a pleasure from those very 
motives, which human applause could never have 
bestowed. 

It is necessary for our acceptance with heav 
en. It excites humility ; and with this we must 
be clothed, before we can hope for the divine fa 
vour. If an high opinion of our own merits 
makes us so disagreeable and disgusting to our 
fellow creatures, how sinful must it cause us to 
appear in the sight of One who sees all our hidden 
imperfections ; whose eye pierces every disguise 
by which we deceive others, and possibly delude 
ourselves, and in whose sight our greatest follies 
and errors are more excusable than our pride ! 
The assurances of his favour arc given only to 
those of an humble and contrite heart ; he has 
promised ^to bring down the " loftiness of man, to 
scorn the scorners, but to give grace unto the 
lowly." 

Self knowledge is favourable to the promotion 
of piety. It has already been said that it is the pa 
rent of humility ; and without humility there can 
be no piety, either in the sight of God or man. 
She, who cultivates an acquaintance with herself, 
w r ill perceive that the frequency of her errors de 
mands constant watchfulness, and that her strong 
est resolutions often betray their trust ; she will 
feel the necessity of goodness, and her own ina- 



bilityto keep its law perfectly. A deep ieelintc 
of these \vants and weaknesses, will teach her the 
necessity of divine assistance, and her dependence 
upon a Superior Being ; and will increase the 
fervency of her petitions, that "what is dark he 
would illumine, what is low raise and support.** 

Do not suppose, my young friends, that a 
knowledge of your own hearts, will be only a 
source of self reproach and mortification. If the 
sight of latent errors gives pain to your spirit, 
that pain is salutary, and bears with it a sure rem 
edy, the desire of reformation. But it will not 
always act the part of an accuser, it will some 
times point out to you disinterested motives, and 
virtuous actions, and present you the exquisite 
reward of conscious rectitude. Strive then to 
gain a knowledge of your own hearts, and to scru 
tinize carefully the actions of your lives. 

" 'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours, 
" And ask them what report they bore to Heaven." 

Dr. YorxG. 

Erect a tribunal within, before which the deeds 
of every day shall pass in nightly review. Give 
it power to censure folly, to encourage goodness, 
and to search those hidden motives which elude 
the eye of man. You will find yourselves both 
animated to virtue, and deterred from transgrcs- 



sion by the thought of meeting, in the silence of 
your apartment, a condemning, or an applaud 
ing judge, an image of that tribunal before 
which we must all stand at the great day of 
scrutiny. 



COMPOSITION. 



ONE of the most important brandies of a 
regular education, is the art of writing accurately 
the thoughts that arise in our minds. This ex 
ercise can scarcely be commenced loo early, or 
practised too much, for it continually excites new 
ideas, and aids the mind in the progress of knowl 
edge. Its first requisite is to acquire a habit 
of reflection ; its next, to array those i-cflections 
in a suitable garb. "Without the first, the most 
ornamented style is weak and deficient ; with 
out the last, the most just and noble sentiments 
often lose their effect. Our native tongue, though 
inferior to the ancient languages in sublimity, 
and to some of the modern ones in harmony, ad 
mits of many degrees of refinement, elegance, and 



80 



variety. That it well expresses force and energy 
we see in the writings of Johnson, Young, and 
Milton ; that it can move with ease, gracefulness, 
and beauty, Addison, Bcattie, and Blair have 
taught us j while the innumerable works in the 
historic, poetical, and descriptive departments 
prove that it is endowed with native strength, 
and highly susceptible of ornament. Even in 
our own country, we have many writers, who un 
derstand and exemplify the peculiar refinements 
of their native language. The pages of Wash 
ington and Hamilton ; of Ames, Fraklin, and 
Ramsay, often exhibit those undefmable touches 
of simplicity and eloquence which are never at 
tainable by ordinary writers. 

\Vc have often felt, my young friends, the fas 
cination of sentiments clothed with elegance and 
sublimity ; and though we do not ourselves as 
pire to those high departments of literature, still 
the art of writing our thoughts, with accuracy 
and facility, is an object worthy of our strict 
attention. To assist in this attempt rhetoricians 
have classified the various figures of speech, and 
given rules for metaphor, allegory, and person 
ification, hyperbole, comparison, and apostro- 
phy. But these technical terms, and amplifica 
tions, may be thus simplified for us females. To 
think with clearness and accuracy, and to express 
those thoughts concisely, and with that degree 



81 



of ornament which flows from simplicity, and pu- 
rily of taste. I would particularly recommend 
in A on the epistolary style, because it is of easy 
attainment, and enters into all the uses of com 
mon life. It may be either sportive or sentimen 
tal ; descriptive or pathetic ; argumentative or 
consolatory ; it may select its materials cither 
from the stores of memory, fancy, or imagina 
tion ; for it admits of the most incalculable vari 
ety, and its best ornaments are ease and simpli 
city. Most of yon have felt how it alleviates the 
pain of separation, and animates the best feelings 
of sympathy and of friendship. The image of an 
absent acquaintance excites such a multitude of 
ideas and sentiments, that the judgment scarcely 
knows which to select, or the pen which to ex 
press, and the mind realizes such pleasure in the 
employment that it returns reluctantly even to the 
delights of society. We often gather from the 
page of a writer, a more correct transcript of his 
mental powers, than his conversation would have 
afforded us. Men of the most profound erudi 
tion have frequently dazzled so little in mixed 
company, that from their writings alone could be 
estimated the solidity of their talents, and the com 
pass of their knowledge. There is often attend 
ant on true genius, a delicacy which so fears to 
wound the feelings of another, a diffidence which 
so distruts its own powers, that the possessor is 
kept silent when he might have spoken w ith pro- 



priety, or blushes without cause for what he has 
tittered. To such a mind the harsh and censori 
ous tempers which are found in society are a ter 
ror, and it is in solitude alone that the ideas are 
freed from their bondage, and the expressions 
from their constraint, and the pen which aids the 
progress of this 'secluded delight is resigned reluc 
tantly, as a friend, that has imparted the highest 
degree of intellectual enjoyment. 

Among those who have preferred writing, to 
littering their thoughts, we find the example of 
Virgil, who spoke seldom, and with hesitation, 
and was so unassuming in his manners that when 
the people thronged to see him as he passed, he 
would escape into obscure streets to avoid their 
gaze. Cowper, except before intimate friends, 
was almost uniformly silent, and Goldsmith, whose 
WTitings display beauty of sentiment and eleva 
tion of language, w r as in discourse trifling and 
frivolous. That accute and penetrating meta 
physician, the elder President Edwards, never 
strove to display his talents in conversation, but 
says " as far as I can judge of my own abilities, 
I think I can write better than I can speak." 
The accomplished Elizabeth Smith, who in the 
compass of a short life acquired the knowledge of 
ten different languages, w as so far from that lo 
quacity which often marks superficial attainments, 
that it was difficult to draw her into conversation. 



It is in the writings of these illustrious characters 
that we find originality of thought, justice of sen 
timent, and force of reasoning, occasionally ele 
vating our conceptions, convincing our j udgments, 
and softening our feelings. Many more exam 
ples might be adduced of those who prefer the ex 
ercise of composition to that of conversation, and 
who, in silently meditating upon some rational 
subject, and in recording the spontaneous flow of 
ideas and reflections, have felt a silent satisfac 
tion, and an enlargement of mind, never found 
among the restraints, or the gaieties of society. 
I hope, my dear girls, that each of you will real 
ize the pleasures of that exercise, which you now 
view as a burden, for if it was not of real utility, 
I would never recommend it to you. Often ac 
custom yourselves to select some subject worthy 
of your meditations, and write your thoughts as 
they rise, striving by degrees to give them form 
and consistence, regularity and beauty. It is the 
privilege of our nature to think and to reason. 
To her who cherishes good thoughts, it can never 
be a burden to express them on paper, while she 
is confident that they will meet with no ungener 
ous, criticism. But as you strive to inure your 
selves to this important exercise, be careful that 
w r hat you produce is strictly your own; for 
though a similarity of sentiment or expression 
may accidentally occur between those who con 
sider the same subject in the same point of view, 



yet to pass the sentences of another as your own, 
is a practice to which no good and generous mind 
can descend. You would shudder at the thought 
of defrauding another of his property ; is it not 
equally unjust to defraud him of his literary la 
bours ? You despise the dishonesty of him who 
passes counterfeit coin ; would you not despise 
also the dishonesty of him who should impress 
his own name upon the writings of another ? 
This artifice is easily detected, and like every 
other recoils upon him who practises it, by de 
priving him of all the real improvement he might 
derive from the exercise, and exposing him to the 
contempt of every judicious mind. 

But you, I hope, will ever prefer your own 
thoughts, however rude and unpolished, to the bor 
rowed sentiments of another, from which the eye 
of penetration would turn away disgusted, and the 
voice of conscience secretly condemn the decep 
tion. 'Think often upon rational subjects, and it 
will soon be easy and pleasant to express those 
thoughts. Pursue with perseverance tbe appoint 
ed path to knowledge and to virtue , the future 
good will overbalance the present exertion j and 
suffer me once more to repeat my most earnest 
wish, that each of you may now acquire what 
will render you respectable, useful, and beloved 
throughout the untried scenes of your opening 
journey ; and that each of you from the cares, 



85 



toils and variable pleasures of mortality, may 
enter where error, and pain, and inconsistency 
arc forever excluded. 



ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THK PASSIONS. 



THERE are certain propensities and emotions 
implanted in our nature, which arc discernible in 
the early stages of infancy, and often survive the 
decay and debility of age. Their language is 3o 
universal as to be scarcely modified by the differ 
ent customs of distant nations or remote ages ; 
so unequivocal as to be understood equally by the 
learned and ignorant ; and so strong as frequently 
to imprint indelible lines upon the countenance. 
These are the passions. By their due regulation 
they promote enjoyment, or by improper latitude 
embitter the cup of human life. And as in the ve 
getable kingdom, nature is said to have distributed 
no poison without its correspondent remedy, so in 
the moral world there exist powers to counteract, 
to restrain, or to conquer these latent principles 
9 



of action. The rules that are friendly to the go\ - 
eminent of one may apply with trifling variation 
to all ; and the following remarks shall be con 
fined simply to the passion of anger. This is a 
mingled emotion, and is said to combine a " sense 
of injury with a purpose of revenge," yet is se 
condary to none in the suddenness of its growth, 
the firmness of its root, and the violence of its 
operations. It has been known to rouse all the 
powers of the soul to sudden combat j to rend the 
firmest bands of amity and affection ; to destroy 
in a moment what the labour of years had scarcely 
effected, and the united efforts of ages could never 
reinstate. To conquer this passion requires a 
vigorous and habitual exertion j for if some are 
less constitutionally inclined to it, or less expo 
sed to the causes that excite it than others ; yet 
none ever obtained a habit of constant sweet 
ness and self command, without many internal 
conflicts, because none are exempt from vexa 
tions, or insensible to the risings of resentment. 
It is not blameable to feel quickly or deeply ; but 
it is both blameable and weak, to suffer such feel 
ings to disarm our reason, and raise a mutiny in 
the soul. 

To meet, not only the peculiar vexations of 
our lot, but those more trifling provocations 
which are often the greatest trials of the temper, 
to meet these not with insensibility, but with 



87 



calmness and cheerfulness, is botli important and 
laudable ; important, because our duty and inter 
est require it ; and laudable, because it is obtain 
ed by a victory over ourselves. As the power of 
this passion lies in the suddenness of its impulse, 
overpowering reason, and prompting to rash 
words, or hasty deeds, so its most obvious and 
natural antidote is a iiabit of deliberation. If 
the heart, when its first risings are felt, would 
stay to enquire, why is this tumult ? From whence 
proceeds this agitation ? If it would then indulge 
but a moment of reflection, the danger would be 
past ; for there are very few instances in the whole 
circuit of human life that require the aid of this 
passion, and none that justify its excess. Are 
we offended at those vexatious incidents that we 
cannot control ? Then we are offended at Him 
who does control them, and in such anger there 
is wickedness. Are we opposed in a favourite 
argument ? Let us not sacrifice that composure 
which might enable us to retrieve lost ground, or 
defend what remains, nor cast away the advan 
tages of dispassionate investigation. Are we 
provoked or injured? Let us not add a more 
formidable injury of our own, the waste of spir 
its, the disturbance of present enjoyment, the 
destruction of the calm temperament of the soul. 

Shall we, for any vexation, provocation, or in 
jury, tolerate within ourselves that baleful agent 



38 



which has so often wrought misery, sown discord 
and disunion, arrayed brother against brother, 
and friend against friend, sundered the bonds of 
man's fellowship to man, desolated kingdoms, 
and covered the face of the earth with blood ? It 
is terrible in its combinations and effects, and 
even its lowest degrees are subversive of social 
and individual happiness. It is peculiarly repre 
hensible in our sex, whose most necessary orna 
ment is a spirit of meekness, gentleness, and for 
bearance j and so boisterous and turbulent is 
this in its exercise, that it is distinctively termed 
by some critics, " an un feminine passion." It 
is supposed by some that its lineaments give spirit 
and dignity to the character upon particular oc 
casions. But covet not such a spirit, or such a 
dignity as this. It is an unamiable spirit, a dig 
nity that inspires no true respect ; and in cases 
where energy is requisite, firmness and determin 
ation will accomplish more than all the violence 
of passion. 

In us who are young, an irritable, contentious 
temper is deeply inexcusable ; for if there ever 
exist seasons, situations, or causes that palliate 
it, those palliations do not belong to us ; to 
whom the cares of maturity, and infirmities of 
age, arc unknown ; whose spirits are unbroken 
by disappointment ; whose path is illumined by 
hope : to w r hose eyes the imagery of nature is 



Si) 



beautiful and new ; and into whose hearts the 
whole creation seems to breathe a spirit of peace, 
harmony, and benevolence. This is the season 
to be amiable, grateful, and happy ; and an as 
cendency is most easily acquired over those la 
tent passions which by indulgence will " grow 
with your growth, and strengthen with your 
strength." Strive therefore, to acquire that ha 
bitual self command, which in future life, if fu 
ture life be yours, will be often called for, and 
powerfully exercised. Let no contest be declin 
ed because it is difficult ; no point conceded be 
cause it is trivial ; for this is a warfare where 
victory ensures victory, and defeat produces 
defeat. 

Habits arc confirmed by exercise, and strength 
ened by reflection ; therefore meditate frequently 
on the advantages of that calm repose, which 
arises from a settled and peaceful state of the 
mind, and endeavour to transplant that peace to 
your ow r n bosoms. Consider the complicated evils 
of disordered passions, and resolve to range the 
warring subjects under the banners of reason. 
Think with that forcible and pathetic poet : 

" A soul immortal, wasting- all its fires, 
" Thrown into tumult, raptu r'cl or disturb'cl 
" At ought tliis world can threaten or indulge, 
" Resembles Ocean into tempest rous'd 
" To waft a feather, or to drown a fly." 



90 



With such views accustom yourselves to vea- 
son and to deliberate, until you have established, 
upon a solid basis, the peace and serenity of a 
well regulated mind. Let the influence of living 
and recorded examples lead you to reflection, res 
olution, and correspondent exertions. Your own 
observation has doubtless selected many exam 
ples from the pages of history, and I will no 
tice merely the distinguished Mrs. Rowe, who 
throughout her whole life was supposed never to 
have uttered an illnatured expression ; and the 
accomplished Miss Elizabeth Smith, who moved 
under the pressure of adversity with invariable 
calmness, sweetness, and humility. It is scarcely 
necessary to remind you, that in the scriptures 
many of the " prophets and apostles were exam 
ples of suffering affliction and of patience." But 
I particularly recommend to your study that most 
perfect model, the life of Him who suffered more 
deeply than any man, yet " spake as never man 
spake 5" who, when he was reviled, reviled not 
again, and when he suffered, threatened not." 
Yet because the most powerful examples some 
times fail to influence the conduct, because the 
strongest habits of reflection and self control 
have been known to yield to the momentary im 
pulse of passion, let us follow, as the safest guide, 
that religion which regulates, purifies, and reno 
vates the evil principles of our natures, and in 
as much as it " is pure, peaceable, gentle, easy 



91 



to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits,'* 
is most justly styled " the wisdom that comcth 
from above." 



ON INDECISION. 



THERE are few constitutional misfortunes 
that lead to more unhappiness and disgrace than 
a wavering, unsettled disposition. In all its as 
pects of ambiguous expression, variable opinion, 
and contradictory behaviour, it is blameable and 
hideous. It is always open to censure, and is 
often the parent of deceit, dissimulation, and 
treachery. Let its first appearance in infancy 
and childhood be checked as the harbinger of 
much sorrow ; let its earliest shoots be crushed, 
or they will spring up to misery and shame. As 
indecision of character has often ruined the most 
brilliant prospects, so an habit of dissimulation 
has darkened and defaced many minds which na 
ture formed fair and beautiful. As we are trav 
ellers in a country where many paths tangled 



and irregular present themselves, it is necessarv 
that we should decide which to follow, and what 
object to pursue, lest while we are choosing, 
and varying, and wandering, " life's poor play" 
should end, and an unseen hand take us away. 
We must not only have resolution to decide, hut 
firmness to oppose ; hecause evil solicitations, and 
flattering seductions often meet us in the very 
path of duty. Let it be impressed on the mind 
of youth, that nothing virtuous, noble, or heroic, 
can be accomplished without resolution, firmness, 
and integrity. What would Washington, the 
deliverer of his country, have been without these 
virtues ? What would he have been, had he wa 
vered when the whole weight of a nation's griev 
ances was laid upon him ? Had he shrunk, when 
the trumpet of war sounded, and a proud foe 
approached to meet an irresolute and ill-provid 
ed band ; had he sunk, when papular odium op 
pressed him ; when hardship and weariness en 
feebled him, and his native bowers invited him to 
return to ease, happiness, and the welcome of 
love ? But he resolutely suffered for those whom 
he loved, and who for a time were insensible to 
his merits ; he endured to the end, and now his 
name is immortal. Firmness in declaring the 
truth upon every proper occasion is the natural 
and commendable fruit of integrity. /Of this, our 
great poet Milton was a striking instance. His 
hatred of all disguise and subterfuge sometimes 



93 



exposed him to danger in his journeys among 
different nations, but his firmness pursued fear 
lessly the path which the rectitude of his heart 
pointed out. " He had in him," says a judicious 
critic, " the spirit of an old martyr/' Our temp 
tations to depart from good resolutions, and the 
wavering temperament of our own hearts, teach 
us the necessity of striving for a habit of firm 
ness. With calm deliberation we should examine 
the position we are to take, we should be influen 
ced by pure and innocent motives ; and because 
our strongest determinations are weak, and our 
highest wisdom fallible, we should seek by prayer 
the counsel of God. Thus resolving, we should 
be less subject to errors in judgment ; thus prac 
tising, we should save ourselves many hours of 
regret, self-accusation, and hopeless repentance. 
The scriptures contain frequent reproofs of a 
changeable temper, and excitements to integrity : 
" My beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, immove- 
able, always abounding in the work of the Lord, 
for ye know that your labour is not in vain." 



94 



ON MODESTY. 



MODESTY, considered as proceeding from 
inward purity, and correct intentions, claims a 
high rank among the virtues. Viewed in its ef 
fects upon the manners and the deportment, it 
ranks equally among the graces. It is an essen 
tial part of the female character, and the essence 
of feminine attraction. "Without it, there may he 
regularity of features, but no beauty ; symmetry 
of form, but no grace ; brilliancy of wit, but the 
heart will refuse its approbation. A pleasing 
exterior, and elegant accomplishments will fail to 
delight, if they are seen united with an unblush 
ing front, and a forward demeanor. These in 
the other sex are displeasing; in ours, insup 
portable. 

But that modesty, which it is desirable to pos 
sess, differs extremely from bashfulness, and from 
false delicacy. One is the excess of diffidence, 
and may exist without modesty ; the other is the 
counterfeit of modesty, always liable to suspi 
cion, easily detected, and assumed to conceal 
radical defects. Real modesty is the offspring 
of merit and of humility. It is frequently united 



95 



with great abilities, and great acquirements, but 
it seeks not to display its excellencies ; does not 
court the notice of others. It is " not obvious, 
not intrusive," as one fine writer has expressed 
himself; and another has called it " the sanctity 
of manners." That these concise and beautiful de 
lineations of modesty may apply to each of you, 
united with every amiable virtue, and laudable 
feminine attraction, is the sincere wish of your 
fi iend. 



ON GRATITUDE. 



GRATITUDE is the emotion of a noble 
and susceptible heart excited by acts of benevo 
lence, and directed towards a benefactor. It is 
a gentle affection, softening and harmonizing the 
mind : it is also an active principle prompting to 
the exercise of the social virtues, and leading to a 
mutual interchange of good offices. We may 
learn to estimate it more correctly, by consider 
ing the enormity of the vice of ingratitude. We 



Feel a strong mixture of indignation and abhor 
rence towards a man who has traduced his bene 
factor; a friend who has injured a friend ; or a 
child who has forsaken a parent. It is an an 
cient maxim that " if you have called a man un 
grateful, you have said the worst, you cannot 
add to his baseness.' 5 In all ages of the world, 
and even among savage nations, ingratitude has 
been stamped with abhorrence. 

Let us turn from the idea : let us contemplate 
the excellence and propriety of a grateful dispo 
sition, and endeavour to cherish it with assiduity. 
As the first among our earthly benefactors we 
must each of us recognize our pare nts. They 
have sustained us with kindness in infancy, in 
childhood, and in youth ; they have supplied us 
with the means of education ; they have rejoiced 
in our joys ; in " our afflictions they have been 
afflicted." Ardent affection should mingle with 
the remembrance of these favours ; and our grat 
itude should prompt us to study, their wishes, 
and to advance their happiness by becoming dil 
igent, useful, and amiable. 

Let us, also, recollect all who have been in anj 
degree our friends or benefactors. To think of 
these without affection is ingratitude ; to feel 
gratitude, and not testify it, is forgetfulness, a 
forgetf ulness approaching to neglect. While we 



thus look around us in search of these benefac 
tors, to whom we owe the homage of a grateful 
heart, can we forget Him who is the author of 
all our mercies j our guide in perplexity ; our 
friend in misfortune ; our defence in danger ? 
We cannot lift up our eyes without beholding 
monuments of his kindness, and of his love. Let 
us rejoice in his goodness, and offV>r up our 
thanks for his guardian care. And may not one 
i)f us ever deserve the reproof which was once 
addressed to an offender by a prophet of the 
Lord : " Him in whose hand is thy breath, and 
whose are all thy ways, hast thou not glorified." 



ON HAPPINESS, 



WE are all engaged in the pursuit of hap* 
piness. There are many different means by 
which it is pursued, but all search for the same 
object ,* and among those means there are none 
more respectable and effectual than constant and 
useful employment. While the hands are Indus- 
10 



98 



triously employed, or the mind directed to the 
acquisition of knowledge, time passes pleasantly, 
and we enjoy the consciousness of not having 
lived in vain. Hahitual, well-directed activity 
will shut out the intrusion of melancholy, and 
close many of the avenues by which vice in the 
hour of idleness may enter. Indolence enfeebles 
both the body and the mind ; unfits them for 
exertion, and deprives us of many rational pleas 
ures. TV e are not formed for it ; and when we 
permit its influence, the whole animate and inan 
imate creation appeal's to address us with the 
voice of reproof. All nature is active around 
us. Day and night succeed each other ; seasons 
change ; the globe on which we exist continually 
revolves. One generation passes away, and on 
its ruins another arises ; this also is swept away 
and forgotten " time waiteth for no man." In 
this world of changes, in this scene of activity, 
hall we be as idle spectators ? Let us look 
within ourselves, and observe the powers of our 
own minds ; active, intuitive, capable of pro 
gressive improvement. "Were these powers en 
trusted to us for no valuable purpose ; were these 
given to be buried in the earth ? No ! they are a 
part of the works of Him, who has made nothing 
in vain. To each of us a part is given to per 
form ; and since we have now a season for im 
provement, let us, as an incitement to activity, 
remember that our life is short. " What thine 



99 



hand findeth to do, do it with thy might ; for 
there is no wisdom, knowledge or device* in the 
grave whither thou goest." 



ON YOUTH. 



YOUTH is the season when habits are most 
easily formed ; when principles are most perma 
nently established. That knowledge which ex 
pands the soul, and enlarges its capacity for hap* 
piness, is more easily acquired at the period of 
youth ; because the mind is then usually unbur 
dened with care, and unsoured by disappoint 
ment. This is the period for improvement of 
every description ; a period which, if neglected, 
will occasion future disgrace, and, if mispent, 
may be lamented, but can never be recalled. It 
has been very elegantly and truly said, " If the 
Spring put forth no blossoms, in Summer there 
will be no beauty, and in Autumn no fruit ; so if 
youth be trifled away in indolence, maturity M ill 
be contemptible, and old age miserable." Let 



the spirit of this beautiful comparison animate us 
to greater diligence in the pursuit of useful knowl 
edge, and to greater perseverance in vanquishing 
opposing difficulties. Recollect also that halms 
are now most easily formed. The youthful mind, 
where discordant passions are not suffered to 
predominate, is like wax to the soft impression of 
the seal. Take care to stamp upon it only the 
images of virtue and of piety. Strive to lay the 
foundation of an amiable and an useful character. 
Endeavour to gain a spirit of meekness, of gen 
tleness, and of sincerity. Accustom yourselves 
to condescension and forbearance. Let each of 
you look carefully into her own character, and 
reform what she there finds amiss, remembering 
that every error, in which she persists, removes 
her still farther from the path of duty. Above 
all, never practise dissimulation* It strikes at 
the root of every virtue, and undermines the foun* 
dations of all happiness. Cultivate candour and 
sincerity ; they will endear you to the good and 
to the judicious. Endeavour to realize the im 
portance of establishing good habits ; of forsak 
ing errors ; and of acquiring those sources of in 
tellectual pleasure which will continue unimpair 
ed, when the enjoyments of youth are departed, 
and its bloom forever gone. 

You have gained as it were a little eminence in 
the journey of your life. Behind you are the 



101 



scenes of infancy and childhood, mingled and 
blended together. Before you lies the untravel- 
led path of your existence. Fancy perhaps tells 
you that it will be always clothed with flowers, 
and smiling with verdure. Yet suffer not the 
meteor of fancy to obscure the calm light of rea 
son, or prevent you from listening to the voice of 
experience. Let the advice of your parents and 
friends be dear to your heart ; this will moderate 
the rashness of youth, and restrain its volatility. 
But while you submit to the judgment of others, 
neglect not to read that volume, which above all 
others is full of instruction and true wisdom. It 
was given you from heaven, as a counsellor to 
your experience, and a guide to your wander 
ings. Read it daily ; it gives knowledge and 
discretion ; and if studied with humility will lead 
to truth. From these holy scriptures we receive 
another argument to illustrate the importance of 
the season of youth. We have seen that it is the 
proper time to acquire knowledge and virtuous 
habits ; we there hear, in the voice of inspiration, 
that it is also the time to remember our Creator. 
We are none of us too young to remember him, 
and to love him. Let us therefore endeavour to 
fulfil his commands, to improve time diligently, 
and to walk humbly before him. By persevering 
in the path of duty, we shall be useful and happy. 
AVe are now all of us young. But a time ap 
proaches when we shall be young no more. Let 
*10 



102 



us therefore improve these moments wisely, that 
when they are past we may reflect on them with 
pleasure. Those who have spent their youth in 
indolence, or vain amusements, go down to the 
Tale of life neither respected or beloved. But 
may we assiduously improve these hours, so pre 
cious and so transient ; may we strive to gain 
whatever is useful and pious, and thus lay up a 
good foundation for the time to come." 



ADDITIONAL POETICAL PIECES. 






ON the summit of a Mountain, in Connecticut, is a small lake, 
near which stands a country house, four hundred feet above 
a fine valley, which it immediately overlooks. From the 
North end of the water, the rocks rise abruptly, an hundred 
feet higher, crowned by lofty forest trees, above whose bran- 
dies a dark, grey Tower is seen, resembling the rock on 
which it stands, and commanding a distant view into the 
neighbouring States. The following is an attempt to des 
cribe this place, which bears the name of 

MONTEVIDEO. 



HOW sweet upon the mountains brow 
To stand and mark the vales below ; 
The peaceful vales that calmly sleep, 
Conceal'd, emerging, silent, deep ; 
The forest shades remote from noise, 
The houses dwindled into toys ; 
Or turning from this gentle scene. 
So mute, so distant, so serene^ 
* 



104 

Scale the steep cliff, whose ample range 
Gives to the eye a holder change ; 
The verdant fields which rivers lave, 
The broken ledge where forests wave, 
The distant towns obscurely seen, 
The glittering spires that gem the green, 
The pale, blue line that meets the eye, 
Where mountains mingle with the sky, 
The floating mist in volumes roll'd, 
That hovers round their bosoms cold, 
Woods, wilds, and waters, scattered free, 
In nature's boldest majesty. 

Mark, on the mountain's cultur'd breast, 
The mansion-house in beauty drest ; 
Above, to brave the tempest's shock, 
The lonely tow'r that crowns the rock ; 
Beneath, the lake, whose waters dark 
Divide before the gliding bark, 
With snowy sail, and busy oar, 
Moving with music to the shore. 

And say while musing o'er the place, 
Where art to nature lends her grace, 
The crimes that blast the fleeting span 
Of erring, suffering, wandering man, 
Unfeeling pride, and cold disdain, 
The heart that wills another's pain, 
Pale envy's glance, the chill of fear, 
And war, and discord come not hem 



105 

How sweet around that silent lake, 
As friendship guides, your way to take, 
And cull the plants whose glowing heads 
Bend meekly o'er their native heds, 
And own the hand that paints the flow'r, 
That deals the sunshine and the show'r, 
That hears the sparrow in its fall, 
Is kind, and good, and just to all. 

Or see the sun, with morning heam, 
First gild the tow'r, the tree, the stream, 
And moving to his nightly rest, 
Press through the portal of the west, 
Close wrapt within his mantle fold 
Of glowing purple dipp'd in gold ; 
And then to mark the queen of night, 
Like some lone vestal pure and bright, 
Move slowly from her silent nook, 
And gild the scenes that he forsook. 

And then that deep recess to find, 

Where the green houghs so close are twin'd 5 

For there within that silent spot, 

As all secluded all forgot, 

The fond enthusiast free may soar, 

The sage be buried in his lore ; 

The poet muse, the idler sleep, 

The pensive mourner bend and weep, 

And fear no eye or footstep rude 

Shall break that holy solitude. 



106 

Unless some viewless angel guest, 
"Who guards the spirits of the just, 
Might seek among the rising sighs 
To gather incense for the skies, 
Or hover o'er that hallow'd sod, 
To raise the mortal thought to God. 

O gentle scene ! Whose transient sight 
So \vakes my spirit to delight, 
Where kindness, love, and joy unite 5 
That tho' no words the rapture speak, 
The tear must tremble on the cheek, 
The lay of gratitude he given, 
The prayer in secret speed to heaven, 

Here peace, long exil'd and opprest, 
By those she came to save, distrest, 
Might find repose from war's alarms, 
And gaze on nature's treasured charms ~ 
Beneath these mountain shades reclin'd, 
Sing her sad dirge o'er lost mankind, 
Or on mild virtue's tranquil breast, 
Close her tird eye in gentle rest, 
Forget her wounds, her toil, her pain. 
And droam of Paradise again. 



lor 



ON VISITING THE DESERTED GARDEN 
OF FRIENDS IN THE COUNTRY. 



THE morning smiles on these deserted walls, 
But no bright lustre cheers the lonely halls, 
Strong bolts and bars exclude th* accustom'd 

guest, 

By friendship lur'd, by constant kindness blest, 
Who came with gladness, pleas'd, prolonged his 

stay, 
Reluctant rose, and grateful went his way. 

Fair o'er those winding paths the sun-beam plays, 
But no light footstep o'er their verdure strays, 
Still the strong pillars hold the mounting vines, 
Round the white arch the clasping tendril twines, 
The garden smiles, the roses breathe perfume,* 
The myrtle blows, but who shall watch their 

bloom ? 

The purple plumbs, the untrodden alley strew, 
The peach lies blushing in the nightly dew, 
The fallen apple, in its rind of gold, 
Shines, softens, and returns to kindred mould^ 

* The monthly roses then in bloom. 



108 



Save what the roving boys, in truant hour, 
Snatch with rash hand, with eager haste devour, 
And gazing sadly on the loaded tree, 
Grieve that such sweets should e'er untasted he. 

Clos'd are those Winds thro' which I us'd to 

trace 

The smiling features of ***** *'s face, 
And when no more I hear her accents say, 
** Come in, my friend, yet, a moment stay 5" 
No sound is heard amid the silent view, 
Save the lone kitten's long, despairing mew, 
My lay responsive joins the dismal strain, 
As sad and slow, I wander back again. 

Yet though your loss, dear friends, I daily mourn; 
And selfish sorrow sometimes says, < return,'* 
Still the rash word mature reflection blames, 
And back the quick, unfinished sentence claims; 
No ! stay, and view those scenes with beauty 

fraught, 

Joy in the charms your tasteful care has wrought, 
Best in the shades of innocence and ease, 
Catch the pure spirit of the mountain breeze, 
And taste those rapturous hours, not often known, 
\V hich nature sheds on virtue's friends alone. 

But when drear Autumn's stern and nipping air 
Shall strip the heights of Montevideo bare, 



109 



And when brown and shapeless foliage flics, 
Smit by the fury of the rending skies, 
Before the hoary frost, and snowy flake, 
Shall bind the billow of the gentle lake, 
Oh, haste, the joys of other climes to prove, 
Haste, to the genial warmth of social love ; 
Draw the strong bolts, that bar the entrance free, 
To the fair dome of hospitality, 
Cheer with reviving smiles a pensive train, 
And make the eye of friendship bright again. 



THE employment of transcribing, and the various con 
cerns of a school, having rendered it almost impos 
sible to invent or arrange any thing new, gave rise 
to the following effusion. 



THE DESERTION OF THE MUSE. 



'TWAS night ! but by an airy form. 

My eye was waking kept, 
Which gliding near me, seem'd to seek 

The pillow where I slept. 
II 



110 



She strove to frown, but still her brow 

Was innocent and mild ; 
And though her words were somewhat stern, 

Their tones were sweet and wild. 

Cast not," she said, " a stranger's glance ; 

Not thus w r e us'd to greet, 
We know each other well, although, 

Of late we seldom meet. 

I saw you, when a child you sat, 

And ponder'd o'er the fire ; 
And deign'd to stoop that you might s,ee, 

And try to reach my lyre. 

You prest its strings with so much joy, 

And such a smile serene, 
I fondly hop'd you soon would learn, 

W T hat gratitude might mean. 

Amid your light domestic toils, 

I rov'd with footstep free, 
And oft you laid your needle down, 

To take the pen from me. 

When lonely, pausing o'er your book, 

You walk'd at close of day, 
Well pleas'd to trace my dawning smile, 

You threw that page away. 



Ill 

I met you in my mountain dress, 

And sandals wet with dew, 
All unadorn'd, and yet I thought 

That I was fair to you. 

My lyre was often out of tune, 
Its tones were rude and small, 

Yet were they e'er so weak or rough* 
You gladly heard them all. 

But now how chang'd ! for when I smile. 
And bring my sweetest rhyme, 

You coldly hid me * go my way, 
And come another time.' 

For you must stay to copy off' 

And polish what you wrote, 
And try to soften if you can 

My unharmonious note. 

Even when I come, in all my charms. 

To catch your fickle view, 
You, starting, turn your back, and cry, 

' The clock is striking two.' 

Now. what has two, or nine o'clock 

To do with you and me ? 
And what delights you in your school, 

I'm sure I cannot see. 



Yet, when your strange excuses o'er, 

You sit and muse alone, 
And seem to look as if you wish'd 

Again to hear my tone. 

I come ; and then with curious glance. 

My scanty robe you eye, 
And count my curls, and measure where, 

Each flowing tress should lie : 

And wonder why such tasteless wreaths 

Of faded flow'rs I wear, 
And chide because I could not stay, 

To dress myself w ith care. 

And when you ask to hear my song* 

And I begin to play, 
You utter, < that is out of tune/ 

And snatch the lyre away. 

Now since you have so soon forgot, 

My service, and my truth, 
My kindness to your childhood shewn, 

My friendship for your youth ; 

Go, seek some other muse, who loves 

Your heavy task to bear ; 
For since your ways so much are changed, 

I cast you from my care." 



113 

She spake, and hid her glowing face, 

Within the veil of night, 
And gazing as the vision fled, 

I trembled with affright ; 
Then rose in sadness from my bed, 

And lo ! I could not write. 



AN EXCUSE FOR NOT FULFILLING AN 
ENGAGEMENT. 



WRITTEN IN SCHOOL, 



MY friend, I gave a glad assent 
To your request at noon, 

But now I find I cannot leave 
My little ones so soon. 

I early came, and as my feet 
First entcr'd at the door, 

" Remember" to myself I said, 
" You must dismiss at four." 



114 

But slates, and books, and maps appear* 

And many a dear one cries, 
" Oh, tell us where that river runs, 

And where those mountains rise ; 

And where that blind, old monarch reign'cU 

And who was king before, 
And stay a little after five, 

And tell us something more.'* 

And then my little A * * * *f comes. 

And who unmoved can view, 
The glance of that imploring eye, 

" Oh, teach me something too." 

And who would think amid the toil, 

(Tho' scarce a toil it be,) 
That through the door, the muses coy 

Should deign to peep at me. 

Their look is somewhat cold and stern. 

As if it meant to say, 
" We did not know you kept a school.* 

AVe must have lost our way." 

Their visit was but short indeed, 

As these light numbers show ; 
But Oh ! they bade me write with speed, 

My friend, I cannot go. 

f A child deprived of the powers of hearing 1 , and of speech". 



115 



THE RISING MOON. 



BENEATH the soft glance of the slow-rising 
moon, 

Where the landscape was silent I rov'd, 
While pleasures departed by memory were shewn, 

And I thought of the friends I had lov'd. 

The mild breeze of eve through the branches that 
sigh'd, 

Let fall its pure dews on my cheek, 
And my heart, as it quicken'd its rapturous tide,, 

Felt more than my language could speak. 

" I give, Holy Father, my being to thee ! 

Oh, deign to accept of the boon ; 
Most humbly I render this sacrifice free* 

As I gaze on the fair, rising moon. 

Protect me from folly, preserve me from change. 
From darkness, and errors, and cares ; 

And while thro' this field of temptation I range, 
Oh, break thou its charms and its snares. 



116 



And soon may I reach that blest mansion alar. 

Where the toils of this journey are o'er ; 
Where the pale rising moon, and the mild evening; 
star 

Shall shed their weak lustre no more. 



' 

SABBATH MORNING. 



CANST thou let thy spirit lie 
Cold with inactivity ; 
Canst thou press thy couch of rest, 
Cherish torpor in thy breast, 
On the day thy God has chose, 
On the day thy Saviour rose ? 

Break the seal that binds thine eyes, 
Sleeper I from thy sleep arise ! 
Wake, as morning wakes from night, 
Rise, and Christ shall give thee light. 



117 



TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION. 



THE boasted joys of time, how swift they fly, 
Rent from the heart, and hidden from the eye ! 
An hour they flourish, in an hour decay, 
Bend to the earth, and fade, and pass away. 
But we, frail beings ! shrinking from the storm* 
AVe love these skies which gathering clouds de 
form, 
\Ve lean too fondly on our house of clay, 

Though every blast may sweep some prop away j 
Yet wounded oft, as oft renew our toil, 
To raise a fabric on this mould'ring soil, 
And still we strive, forgetful of the grave, 
To sink an anchor in the tossing wave. 

But He, who marks us in our vain career, 
Oft smites in pity what we hold most dear ; 
Spreads o'er the face belov'd the deathful gloom, 
And hides a parent in the lonely tomb ; 
Makes the sad heart his strong correction feel, 
Wounds to admonish, and afflicts to heal ; 
Reminds the spirit of her heavenly birth, 
And breaks her strong alliance with the earth, 
Warns her to seek for better climes, prepar'd> . 
To give the faithful soul a full reward. 



118 



There may we meet, dear friend, where pain 

shall cease, 

"Where grief shall end in joy, and care in peace? 
Where no sweet hope in bitterness shall end, 
No sad tear fall to mourn the buried friend ; 
No parting hour arrive, no hand divide 
Those by eternity's strong hands allied ; 
No sin shall rise, no folly stain the soul* 
But one unclouded year forever roll. 



MORNING THOUGHTS. 



AWAKE ! awake ! the rosy light 
Looks through the parted veil of night 
Awake ! arise ! short space hast thou 
On earth, and much thou hast to do : 
Another morn to thee is given, 
Another gift from bounteous heaven 
Is lent to thee, while many sleep 

To wake no more on earth again ; 
Is sweet to thee, while many weep, 

Deep sunk in grief, or torn with 



119 

Oh, spring to life ! with joy renew 'd, 
And pour the strain of gratitude, 
On bended knee, with holy fear, 
"With humhle hope, with faith sincere. 

Before the sun shall raise his head 
To smile upon the blushing day, 

Or from his chamber rush to lead 

The young, and thin-rob'd dawn away. 

Before the morn with tresses fair 
Shall sail upon the waveless air, 
Oh, let thy soul ascend as free, 
Thy heart be tun'd to harmony, 
And meekly to thy M aker bear, 
The early vow, the early prayer, 
Unstain'd with shades of earthly care. 

Kneel like a suppliant at his feet, 
Yet like a child address his throne,, 

And let an hour so calm, so sweet, 
Be sacred to thy God alone. 



120 



THE PHILOSOPHER'S REPROOF VERSIFIED. 

WHY weep'st thou, fair One ?" Ah ! a ruth- 

less stroke, 

'< A painted vase, that much I lov'd has broke." 
Another mourner, still the sage espied, 
" And why weep'st thou ? My son ! my son !" 

she cried. 

Deep lost in thought, the man of wisdom mov'd, 
And thus his lips their utter'd grief reprov'd ; 
" How vain the tears that from those eye-lids 

stray, 

" To wet the fragments of a vase of clay ; 
" And vain alike to mourn our mortal birth, 
ft Or hope a deathless date, for a frail child of 

earth." 



121 



THE ADIEU. 



THE evening moon was bright and fair, 
The dews of Spring had chill'd the air ; 
And as I pac'd the gloomy shade, 
The dark rock hanging o'er my head, 
I thought a mournful spirit said, 

Adieu ! Adieu ! 

And sad, my heart with echoing tone 
Sigh'd back again the closing moan ; 
The hour, by fate's dark curtain hid, 
Comes gliding on, the shades amid, 
When I, to all I love must bid, 

Adieu ! Adieu J 

Ye, who have strove to lead my youth, 
In ways of wisdom, ways of truth, 
Have sooth'd my heart, or charm'd my ear, 
Companions sacred, friends sincere, 
Instructors, parents, guardians dear, 

Adieu ! Adieu ! 

Ye scenes in nature's hues array'd, 
The glowing dawn, the twilight shade, 
The dews of morning, blaze of noon, 
12 



122 

Ye sparkling stars, and pale-fac'd moon, 
And fount of light resplendent sun, 

Adieu ! Adieu ! 

journey to a blissful spot, 
Where your fair light is needed not ; 
And through the vale of deathful gloom, 
And through the darkness of the tomb, 
1 hasten to a better home, 

Adieu ! Adieu ! 



FOR THE BLANK PAGE OF A NEW 
BIBLE. 



LET not tlie eye that idly seeks for mirth, 
Fix on this page inspired its roving look ; 

Nor let the heart absorb'd in love of earth, 
Expect its cordial from this holy book. 

The upright soul that scorns deceit and art, 
The eye mild gleaming thro' the contrite tear 

The meek in spirit, and the pure in heart, 
Alone can find divine instruction here. 



123 



This sheds a lustre o'er the darken'd skies, 

When the thick clouds of care and sorrow roll : 

This, when the storms descend, and billows rij 
Holds a firm anchor to the troubled soul. 

This, when the bloom of youth, the hour of ease, 
And star of fortune veil their fickle ray, 

When friendship's smile, and love's fond accents 

cease, 
Shall lead to raptures more sublime than they. 

This, from the wreck of joy that hope shall bring, 
Whose bright eye pierces thro' the mists of time ; 

And from the urn of hope shall spread the wing, 
That wafts the spirit to a purer clime. 



EVENING THOUGHT. 



The evening zephyr on its wings 
The sigh of recollection brings, 
For days and seasons past ; 



124 



And with it too, a voice it bears, 
Trust to your God, your hopes and cares, 
Xjgur fears, your comforts, and your pray'rs. 
>Vhile days and seasons last. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, 



0JV hearing her observe that " accomplishments or 
talents ought not to excite vanity, but to lead our 
hearts in gratitude to our Bountiful Creator." 



SWEET is the hlush of vernal rose, 
And sweet the glance that beauty throws, 
And fair the light whose varied ray, 
Marks feeling's glow, and fancy's play ; 
But when in gentle accent flows, 
The precept pure, that wisdom shows, 
The mental eye with rapture fraught 
Surveys the semblance of the thought, 
And sweeter is the meed it pays, 
Than that which wakes the flatterers gaze. 



125 

And, fair one, when the hues that paint 

The youthful cheek, grow dim and faint, 

And when the voice of softest tone, 

Must falter in its final moan, 

And nought remain of life or grace, 

But what the eye in tears must trace, 

The pious soul from error freed, 

The thought that wak'd the virtuous deed, 

Shall rise above the closing tomb, 

Shall bloom where blight can never come. 



VAIN PURSUITS, 



Some rejoice in pleasure's beam, 
Some in fortune's glittering stream, 
Some in beauty, some in pride, 
Some in honour's treacherous tide ; 
While with giddy haste they pass> 
Like the insect o'er the grass. 



126 

Darkness shades the fickle beam, 
Dims the beauty, dries the stream, 
Breaks the spell that blinds the eyes,. 
And with the dream, the dreamer dies. 



REGARD DUE TO THE FEELINGS OF 
OTHERS. 



THERE is a plant that in its cell, 
All trembling seems to stand, 

And bend its stalk, and fold its leaves, 
From each approaching hand. 

And thus there is a conscious nerve, 

Within the human breast, 
That from the rash or careless hand. 

Shrinks, and retires distrest. 

The pressure rude, the touch severe. 

Will raise within the mind, 
A. nameless thrill, a secret tear. 

A torture undefined. 



127 

you, who are by nature form'd, 
Each thought refin'd to know, 

Repress the word, the glance, that wakes 
That trembling nerve to woe. 

And be it still your joy to raise 
The trembler from the shade, 

To bind the broken, and to heal 
The wounds you never made. 

When e'er you see the feeling mind, 

Oh, let this care begin, 
And though the cell be rude or low. 

Respect the guest within. 



A SUMMER MORNING. 



FAIR on the features of the morn, 

A blush of purple glows, 
While waking plants, and opening flowers, 

Their fragrant breath disclose. 



128 



While clustering mercies seem to bloom, 

And in my path to meet, 
May grateful tho'ts spontaneous rise. 

And pour their incense sweet. 



THE QUEEN OF NIGHT. 



THE queen of night rode hold and high, 
Her path was white with stars, 

Her cheek was sanguine, and her eye 
Glanc'd on the blood stain'd Mars. 

No word she spake, no sign .she made, 
Save that her head she bow'd, 

As if a cold, good night she bade. 
To some departing cloud. 

A fleecy robe was loosely cast, 

Around her graceful form, 
She hid her forehead from the blast, 

Hoarse herald of the storm. 



129 

But soon she staid her rushing car, 

And check'd her rapid rein, 
For morn beheld her from afar, 

And frown'd upon her train. 

The queen of night, and rosy morn, 

Together might not dwell ; 
One came to rouse the slumbering dawn> 

The other sought her cell. 



THE COURAGE OF CESAR. 



ONCE o'er a dangerous sea with weary oar, 

A feeble bark the mighty Cesar bore, 

The tempest roar*d, the trembling steersman 

fear'd, 

When thus a firmer tone his spirit cheer'd 5 
" Fear not Pilot ! brave the stormy sea, 
" Thou bearest Cesar, and his fate with thee." 

So thou, Christian, when thy helm is lost, 



ISO 



And on the sea of life thy hark is tost ; 
Fear not the billows hoarse, or tempest dark^. 
For thy Redeemer guides the cleaving bark. 



MORNING. 



THE morning clouds afar are roll'd. 

The birds awake my rest, 
And see a ray of liquid gold 

Comes darting from the east. 

What shall I render to the friend, 
From whom my blessings flow ? 

What shall I say to thee, my God, 
Whose hand supports me so ? 

Oh, raise my earth-born soul above, 

Bid all my pow'rs adore, 
Nought can I render for thy love, 

But this request for more. 



EVENING. 



COOL evening's breath is calmly shed, 
And o'er the earth, damp vapours spread, 
Lost is her robe of infant green, 
And clos'd the eye of day is seen. 

But Oh, an eye that never sleeps, 
Its silent watch o'er Israel keeps, 
A tempered shield is o'er him spread, 
An arm of love sustains his head . 
A seraph voice. is in his ear, 
Sleep sweetly, for thy God is near. 



THE EQUANIMITY OF ZENO. 



ONCE came a friend, whose cheek was wet with 

tears, 
And gave this message to the Stoic's ears : 



1S2 



w man belov'd ! thy firmest strength prepare, 
To meet the tidings I am doom'd to bear ; 
A dreadful storm thy wrecking ships did sweep, 
And whelm thy riches in the howling deep." 

<( Receive my thanks, O Fortune ! thou hast 

drove 

Me to my studies, and my learned grove, / 
My hooks, my toils, which cheer the lengthened 

day, 
And for whose loss thy gifts could never pay." 



FIRST ANNIVERSARY OF THE DEATH 
OF THE REV. MR. HOOKER. 



SAD o'er thy damp and lonely bed, 

The herbage springs, the long grass sighs. 

The sculptured stone erects its head, 
And sorrow lifts her tearful eyes. 

But ah ! the guise of woe, how vain, 

The sculptur'd stone, the mourner's tear, 

To him who scap'd this world of pain, 
Smiles calmly in a purer sphere. 



133 



REFLECTION. 



A.S I pensively sat at the close of the day, 
When its cares, and its labours were o'er, 

To muse on the tracks of my wandering way. 
Or the path I had yet to explore : 

It seem'd on the lip of the evening, there sigh'd 

A warbling and tremulous tone, 
As if the soft stream, in its murmuring tide, 

Had calPd to the stars as they shone. 

'< Set not on the things of the earth your delight, 
Nor give to its pleasures your heart ; 

Lest you sigh at their wounding, or mourn for 

their flight, 
Or sink as you see them depart. 

And then shall your spirit so anxious repose, 
And then shall your heart be at peace, 

In the grave, where your wearisome journey 

shall close, 
In heaven, where your sorrows shall cease." 



134 



A THOUGHT. 



THE youthful hope, the youthful smile. 

That gild our journey o'er, 
Like man, hut stay a little while, 

Then sink to rise no more. 



THE EVILS OF HASTE. 



THE rash resolve, the headlong course. 

The heart too quickly set, 
Make bitter work for deep remorse, 

And for a long regret. 

Then bow to hear this lesson meek, 

And let it check thy pride ; 
-Be swift to hear, and slow to speak, 

And cautious to decide. 



135 



TRUST IN THE ALMIGHTY. 



OH, lift thy thought above the gathering gloom, 
Above the falling friend, the senseless clod, 

Above the knell, the shadow, and the tomb, 
And let thy sad glance seek the orphan's God. 

He, when the rains descend, and surges roll, 
Bounds the rough billows with his mighty span, 

He breaks the tempest, calms the troubled soul, 
Stills the wild storm, and heals the heart of 
man. 

He rules the pride of elemental strife, 
He bids the tumults of the nations cease, 

And from the troubles, and the storms of life, 
Spreads forth the white wing of the angel 
peace. 

What though our hopes forsake this barren, 

ground, 
What though our branch of earthly trust be 

riven, 

And frail as dew our mortal joys be found, 
We still may hope for bliss at last in Heaven. 



LIFE. 

f 

Life, passing* like the morning ray, 
Speeds swiftly on its rapid way, 
And cloBes, with the closing day, 

So pass away the generous mind, 
The faultless form, the soul refm'd, 
The friend sincere, the parent kind. 

So pass we all : the heart must fail, 
The dim eye close, the cheek turn pale, 
As sinks to earth this fabric frail. 

And thou, whose eye may view this line, 
AVhen low in dust my limbs recline, 
Though dead, I speak, that fate is thine. 

Go, seek his love, whose blood was shed, 
In streams on awful Calvary's head, 
Go. cleanse thee in that torrent red : 

Then happy, whoso'er thou art, 
ff here thou stay, or hence depart, 
For Christ shall bear thee on his heart. 



137 



VANITY. 



AH ! why should vanity enslave 
A mortal journeying to the grave ? 
Ah ! why should pride inflate a breast, 
So soon beneath the clods to rest ? 
Yet still we yield to folly's reign, 
And strive to break her sway in vain. 

O holy Saviour, hear our prayer, 
Behold our toil, our fruitless care, 
And let thy Spirit crush the foes 
That so disturb our soul's repose. 



DECEPTION. 

i 

WHO can detect the bosom's hidden pain, 
When peace, and love, and beauty, light the scene, 
Ah, who can tell what sins the heart may stain 
When smiles of mirth and pleasure deck the me in? 
*13 



138 



For oft hypocrisy will smile serene, 
Veiling her falshood with a semblance fair, 
Soothing her victim while she toils unseen, 
To wind him fast in her destructive snare, 
While disappointed hope and misery are there* 



PSALM CXIX. 



" Unless thy law had been my delight, I should then 
Rave perished in my affliction," 



HAD not thy righteous law heen my delight, 
When friends forsook and earthly comforts fled, 

And cruel foes display 'd their envious spite, 
Most surely I had sunk among the dead, 
And cold oblivion's dew had rested on my head. 

Yet stiD I live, Oh, let my praise arise, 
To Him who, cloth'd with majesty and might, 

And seated in his temple of the skies, 
Sends gifts to man, with peace, and life, and light ; 
But thou, my soul, art vile and sinful in his sight; 



139 



Oh, lead me from those paths with error fraught. 
Whose snares too oft my heedless steps betide ; 

Restrain the hasty speech, and roving thought, 
And fear of feeble man, and causeless pride, 
And all the secret ills that in my heart reside. 



ON HEARING A TOLLING BELL. 



CAST out and banish'd from thy sight, 
I cannot live without thy love, 

I cannot dwell without thy light, 
In earth below, or heaven above. 

Cast me not off: my strength is small ; 

What can I in the day of death ? 
Forsake me not, or else I fall, 

My life is but an air^ breath. 



140 



TO A FRIEND ON THE FIRST DAY OF 
THE NEW YEAR. 



AS the strong oak, when its green houghs are 

riven, 

Firm on its base still lifts its head to heaven, 
As the pure stream which, rushing from its source, 
Bounds o'er the roeks which seek to bar its course, 
So meet the ills of life ; until the sea 
Of time, shall meet the tide, of vast eternity. 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF MRS. NOTT, WITH 
THE MISSIONARIES FOR INDIA. 



ADIEU to her to whom my soul was dear, 
Of life unblemislr d, andftf heart sincere, 
A long adieu ! for never, never more, 
Must that lov'd footstep press its native shore. 
Friend of my heart ! now parted far from me, 
Borne on the bosom of the faithless sea, 
Thou soon must o'er the wilds of Asia stray, 



141 



Where the rude Hindoo holds his devious way. 
Where'er thou art, my spirit flics to thine, 
Bound with the cord of sympathy divine, 
And faith still looks beyond this scene of pain, 
Where holy friendship's bands shall ne'er be rent 
again. 



FRIENDSHIP. 



The emotions arising from mutual, unlimited friend 
ship and entire confidence, are 



SOMETHING than pleasure dearer, more elate 
Than doubtful hope ; more pensive too than joy $ 
More pure than love. They form a band of such 
Confirmed alliance, so constrain the will, 
Sooth the rough passions, jingle with such art 
The hopes, the fears, the raptures of the soul, 
That selfishness is lost, and one free aim 
Inspires two spirits, while one magic band 
Entwines each heart, and so unites their strength 
That pressing onward they despise the front 



And force of opposition ; foil the shafts 

Of envy, meet the armed hosts of care, 

And find stern grief of half her power disarm'd 

Then if these souls unite in virtue's cause, 
Their mystic union never shall dissolve, 
Or in this life, or in the life to come. 



EXCLAMATION DURING A STORM OF THUN 
DER AND LIGHTNING AT MIDNIGHT. 



OH, praise Him while the thunders roll, 
And while the lightnings dart, 

And praise Him in that grateful strain, 
The incense of the heart. 



143 



DEDICATION FOR A BOOK OF POETI- 
CAL EXTRACTS, TO A FRIEND. 



TO aid the garland yet untwin'd, 

And gently swell this budding wreath, 

A wild and mountain flow'r I bind, 

And o'er its leaves the lyre shall breathe, 

And as you seek for varying sweets, 

The future chaplet to compose, 
Tread lightly o'er those lone retreats, 

Where genius hides, and beauty glows. 

Ask from the opening rose its bloom, 
Ask of its buds their tissued fold, 

Seek the meek violet's perfume, 

And bow to cull the snow drop cold. 

Choose freely from the gay parterre, 

Or groves where oaks their shadows cast. 

And climb the cliff where high in air, 
The evergreen endures the blast. 

From cold recess where forests wave, 
Pluck the wild laurel bold and free, 

And gather from the Christian's grave 
The cypress and the rosemary. 



144 

And blend with these the varying stalky 
That fancy's hand in sport may strew, 

Or wisdom scatter in her walks, 
Or pity bring all damp with dew. 

And if you rove in lonely hour, 

"Where rudely rocks on rocks are pill*d, 
Perhaps some unexpected flow'r 

May pour its sweetness on the wild. 

But all in vain this anxious round, 
In vain the sweets by genius given, 

Unless with these that flow ? r is found, 
Whose rich perfume ascends to Heav*n. 



TRANSIENT JOY. 

' 

f ' 
HOW from the changeful tablet of our days, 

Fleets the light trace of joy. First through the 

clouds 

Serene it breaks, and on the lucid ray 
The pleas'd eye fixes. Hap'ly too the heart 
Hangs there too fondly ; and perchance the soul, 



145 



Cheer' d by an April smile, forgets to seek 
For clearer sunshine, and a sky more pure. 
Then o'er the lustre of that silver beam, 
A dark shade passes, such as dims the pride 
Of all below ; it sickens, it expires. 
Seek not with eye intense to pierce that cloud, 
Or tear that veil away : It must not be ! 
Nor raise the murmuring of the lip perverse, 
Nor arm the heart with impious pride ; for oft, 
The heart unhumbled, rising in its wrath, 
Provokes more vengeance from the mighty hand 
That in the cloud, and in the sunshine works, 
Moves on the waters to abase the proud, 
And raise the humble. Will the hand that guides 
The fall of the pierc'd sparrow, and unmark'd 
Suffers no hair to scatter from the head 
Of man his fav'rite, let the sigh of grief 
And tear, and prayer, of patient suffering, rise 
Unnoticed, unregarded ? Oh ! what tongue 
Shall dare to say our God is merciless. 
What mortal hand shall lift itself to blot 
The purpose of his wisdom. Let the eye, 
That in his smile or in his frown perceives 
^The teachings of a father, aid the heart 
That meekly says my God ! thy will be done. 



14 



146 



BIRTH DAY. 



THOU, whose kind hand, and ever watchful care, 
Presents another year, and wakes my prayer, 
Guide thou my steps, direct me in my course, 
Crush vain resolves, and errors strengthened 

force 5 

Impart the meek desire, the hope suhlime, 
The thought that soars ahove the scenes of time, 
The hand that toils untirM for other's good, 
\nd sets the seal to duty understood, 
The humble heart, the sympathy sincere, 
The smile for joy, for misery, the tear, 
Balm for the wounded, for the drooping aid, 
A tranquil trust when ills of life invade, 
The conscience clear, that leads to sweet repose, 
And the warm thrill that pure devotion knows.^ 

f 

Let gratitude to those who kindly strew 
My path with flow'rs, he uniform and new ; 
And still my spirit reach each fair degree 
Of gratitude to those, and love to thee. 

What shall I ask, or what refrain to say, 
Where shall I point, or how conclude my lay ? 
So much my weakness needs j so much thy voice 
Assures that weakness, and confirms my choice. 



147 



Oh, give an active life of peace and truth, 
Strength to my heart, and wisdom to my youth : 
A sphere of usefulness the boon to fill 
That sphere with duty, and perform thy will ; 
An angel's zeal to grace my little span, 
And the meek soul of him who died for man. 

. 

And when at last the heavy shades shall fall, 
Of that dark dream which comes but once to all, 
Whether in youth, maturity, or age, 
Oh, let thy gentle care my pains assuage, 
My faith support, my gathered fears remove, 
And tell my spirit of thy pardoning love. 
Then with firm heart I'd tempt the foaming tides, 
Which this dark land from that of bliss divides, 
Lift the dim eye to catch the smile of Heaven, 
Nerve the rent heart that feels its sins forgiven, 
Meet with calm brow the dashing billow's roar, 
\nd land with safety on the eternal shore. 



A MOON-LIGHT SCENE. 

THE evening blast is wild and loud, 
Like winds of w inter bleak, 

And slowly through a wat'ry cloud. 
The pale moon lifts her cheek. 



148 

Perhaps upon the troubled wave 

Of life's tempestuous sea, 
Some pensive mourner veils her brow.. 

As sad and mournfully. 

While round the adverse tempests fly* 
And clouds of sorrow roll, 

And no kind voice is heard to sigh* 
In mercy to the soul. 

But where the bending concave seems 
To meet the mountain fair, 

I see a bright, unclouded sky, 
And moon-beams quiver there. 

And tho* the virtuous soul may sink. 

With clouds and storms opprest, 
It finds at last a peaceful cell, 

Where all the weary rest. 



REQUEST. 

OH, may my future hours be given 
To peace to wisdom, and to heaven^ 
My hopes disdain a mortal birth, 



149 

My joys ascend above the earth, 
My steps retrace the path they trod, 
My heart be fix'd alone on God. 

So, when the scenes of time shall fade, 
And life's frail lamp be dark with shade, 
A seraph's voice shall sooth my breast, 
And lead me where the weary rest. 



(JARES OF EARTH. 



Whoever has attempted to /Lr all the powers of his 
mind upon intellectual or religious attainments, must 
have felt and mourned the intrusion of restless pro 
jects and worldly pursuits, which, under the name of 
necessary diligence, or laudable economy, usurp pla 
ces not belonging to them, and check- the noblest fruits 
of the soul. 

cares of earth ! how vast and strong ye rise, 
To keep the spirit from her kindred skies ; 
To blind the eye which looks on things divine, 
*14 



150 



And cool the heart where Christ's own love might 

shine. 

Why hold ye o'er my soul this restless power ? 
Why steal ye thus upon the midnight hour ? 
Why will ye on my secret haunts intrude, 
And hreak the charm of much lov'd solitude ? 
For whether evening stars with splendour shine, 
Or morning lead the dawn, or day decline, 
Or meek retirement spread her soft control, 
Or intellectual joys inspire the soul, 
Or active zeal the ready powers command, 
Or high devotion lift her sceptred hand, 
Or sad contrition wake the secret tear, 
Still, still, ye vain pursuits, ye strive to hover 

near. 

Not always thus your hurden shall I bear ; 
The silence of the tomb ! Ye come not there $ 
The pure abodes of bliss ye shall not stain, 
The spirit freed and cleans'd yc shall not pain. 
To this vain world is your short reign confin'dj 
This empty bubble dancing on the wind ; 
A little while your boasted arts renew ; 
A little while and then, * long and last adieiu 



151 



AN ADDRESS 



FROM A IOCWO PUPIL AT SCHOOL FAR FROM HOME, TO HER COX' 
PANIOSS, ON TEE DEATH OF HER FATHER. 



ASK me not why I rise with brow so sad, 

Or why I come in sable vestments clad, 

For on my lips the painful answer dies, 

And secret woes within my bosom rise. 

Far, far away I see a distant scene, 

Tho* forests rise, and lakes are spread between ; 

Yet there the sad eye turns, and views with pain 

A mourning mansion and a weeping train : 

Low o'er a recent grave, the mourners bend, 

"Where sleeps in dust, the father and the friend. 

Cold is that heart which shared in all my joys, 
And deaf the ear that lov'd a daughter's voice, 
And stiff the hand that dry'd my infant tears, 
And lost the guardian of my early years. 

Ah ! who ran tell hqw many pains and woes 
ThrilPd thro' that frame before it found repose. 
Yet in those days fof grief, I was not near, 
To soothe one pang, or one lone hour to cheer ; 
And when he sunk to rest, I w T as not by 
To catch the last glance of the swimming eye ; 



152 



Or hear what foiul parental love might say, 

Ere its last sigh convulsive died away. 

Yet oft before my eyes, this scene will glow, 

And wake the tho'ts that only w ake to woe ; 

And then it seems as if a distant knell, 

Sigh'd on the passing gale farewell farewell.* 

And if at griefs like these, the soul should melt, 
You will not wonder, who yourselves have felt ; 
Then ask not why I mourn departed bliss, 
No heart is cold to such a claim as this. 

Yet not to shade the cheerful face with gloom, 
Or draw one tear from youth's fair eye I come : 
Ah ! no, my friends beloved, companions true, 
I rise a mournful monitor to you. 
While fragrant flowers your op'ning path array, 
And fond paternal love your toils repay ; 
While from those hands such untold favours flow, 
Recount your debt, and muse on what you owe. 
The deeds of love, the thousand nameless fears, 
That mark'd the progress of your infant years ; 
The patient hand, forgetful of its toil, 
Ev'n though it till'd a cold, or stubborn soil ; 
The anxious heart that thrilPd with ceaseless 

pain, 

Lest you should make its future presage vain ; 
The eye that often wak'd, and watch'd, and wept, 
While you have wandered, or while you have 

slept ; 



153 



The sympathetic joy, the kind intent, 
The fervent prayer, the knee in secret bent $ 
Oh, muse on these along your flowery way, 
Then ask your heart, and what hast thou to pay i 
Return with anxious care the due reward, 
No painful task they claim, no service hard ; 
With watchful eye, with prompt obedience seek 
What the heart dictates e'er the lips can speak : 
Still bow your minds to mild instruction's sway, 
Nor cast the morning of your lives away ; 
Still shun the paths of vice, the devious ways, 
Where levity allures, and folly strays ; 
Let sober reason all your actions guide, 
And crush the seeds of vanity and pride ; 
Receive with grateful hand the blessings given, 
And raise the thoughtful eye, and heart to heaven, 
Be studious and sincere, be meekly wise, 
Bound with their hopes your own enjoyment lies : 
Fulfil this law of love, this service due, 
And soothe those hearts that beat so strong for 

you. 

Then when the hour shall come I now deplore, 
When those dear parent guides are yours no 

more ; 

And when with filial care, and solemn dread, 
Your arm shall pillow the expiring head ; 
Or when with sad and shrinking heart you stand, 
To feel the pressure of the stiffening hand, 
Or wipe the death dews from the pallid face, 
Or shrinking feel the last and cold embrace, 



154 



Then the sad tears that filial love must pay, 
The gentle hand of hope shall wipe away ; 
And mem'ry kind shall spread a spotless page, 
Like some broad shield to hreak affliction's rage ; 
And through the skies shall gleam to soothe your 

pain, 

This parting signal, <' we shall meet again ;" 
And though weak nature droops opprest witU 

woe, 

Firm faith shall raise the spirit bending low, 
And on the ear shall pour an heavenly strain, 
Of climes remote from care, and loss, and pain, 
Where pure and sacred bands, shall ne'er be rent 

again. 



< WEEPING MAY ENDURE FOR A NIGHT, 
BUT JOY COMETH IN THE MORNING." 



AS gathering clouds are seen to fly 
Across the fair and summer sky, 
As vapours damp the gales of spring, 
As discords jar the tuneful string, 
So o'er our lives with sadness flow 



155 

The dark and heavy shades of woe ; 

But short their power the frowns they cast, 

Like April storms are quickly past. 

One day, perhaps, our skies they dim; 

One night, the couch with tears may swim ; 

But morn dispels the sahle shroud. 

The sun of mercy lights the cloud ; 

A.n unseen power, with mild control, 

Restores the weak and weary soul, 

And makes the wounded spirit whole. 



DETACHED THOUGHTS. 



WE are creatures of circumstance, inclina 
tion, or habit. One influences us, one impels us, 
one fixes us. Some are so much influenced by 
changing circumstances, that they have no rec 
tifying principle, but revolve with the wheel of 
fortune. Some are led by inclination into the 
paths of vanity or vice ; but habit finally fixes 
us all, associates us to some set of ideas, stamps 
upon us some kind of character, and marks us 
down for the future participation of joy, or for 
the blackness of darkness forever." 



When we least expect happiness, it is oftcu 
nearest ; when we most desire it, it is frequently 
farthest from our reach. Is not this to re 
press the pride of human foresight, to humble the 
15 



158 



vanity of anticipation ; and since we know not 
what a day may bring forth, to teach us our com 
plete dependence upon him who holdeth in his 
hands the keys of life and death ?" 



Physiognomy is an uncertain standard of 
character. The emotions to which a person is 
most subject may, indeed, mark correspondent 
lines upon the face, if their exercise is violent 
or protracted. But how r at first sight can we 
gain that hidden knowledge of human nature, 
which after many years of painful study we often 
fail of attaining? We may suppose that we are 
but imperfectly acquainted even with our inti 
mate friends, if we consider how little we know 
of our own prevailing errors, our own impercept 
ible motives of action ; and recollect that the sages 
of antiquity pronounced it the most difficult part 
of knowledge, for man to know himself. 



Why will some sects deny the necessity of lite 
rary knowledge to Clergymen ? While the oppo- 
sers of religion assiduously cultivate human learn 
ing, and strengthen the weakness of their cause 
by their own erudition, should its advocates be 
deprived of an useful weapon, and the < children 



159 



of this world be wiser in their generation than 
the children of light !" 



How can any one deny the depravity of human 
nature, who perceives in his own heart the in 
roads of pride, envy, and opposition to God 5 
who sees even in the infant mind, seeds of rebel 
lion and ingratitude ; who beholds a globe once 
so fair from its Maker's hands, polluted with 
blood, and the hatred of man to man ; who knows 
that the Son of God suffered the death of the 
cross, that our sin might be taken away ; and 
who hears the voice of Omnipotence proclaiming 
of man, " every imagination of the thoughts of 
his heart is only evil continually ?" Nothing but 
the Spirit of God, can make us sensible of our sit 
uation, for a part of our punishment is already 
begun " having eyes we see not, having ears we 
hear not, having hearts we do not understand." 



When we indulge anger at any provocation, 
we prepare work for repentance. When we 
practise deception, we renounce the inward sup 
port of rectitude. When we seek for the favour 
of the world, we encourage vanity. When we 
neglect to speak in the cause of piety, we forfeit 



160 



ur own peace of mind, and lose our claim upon 
that divine assistance without which we can do 
nothing. 



When the feelings have heen designedly wound 
ed, that kind of assiduity which is employed un 
der the idea of effacing the remembrance, often 
fails of its effect, by leading the mind back to the 
cause which produces the uncommon attention, 
and which also at first produced the pain. This 
is a complex idea ; but he wiio understands but 
little of human nature, knows that it is easier to 
gain the forgiveness of tw r enty offences, easier to 
appease the most violent anger, than to heal a 
wound intentionally inflicted upon an ino .Tensive 
and susceptible heart. The wisest of men has 
said " The spirit of a man will sustain his in 
firmity j but a wounded spirit, who can bear." 



It is not enough that we refrain from speaking 
evil of our enemies, if ^ve indulge thoughts of en 
mity towards them. Let none think that by pla 
cing a guard upon his expressions, he fulfils the 
law of Christ, if within his heart joy rises at the 
distress of those who hate him. We must not 
rest in the externals of duty, we have a judge 



161 



who " rcgardcth not the outward appearance;" 
neither let us deceive ourselves, by thinking we 
have already obtained victory over our own 
hearts, when those roots of bitterness spring up 
within them, which hereafter must be gathered, 
'* and bound in bundles to burn." 



Omit a duty for once, and it will be more diffi 
cult to execute when necessity compels its per 
formance. From what knowledge I have of my 
own character and propensities, I find that I am 
inclined to delay, to procrastinate, and to neglect 
favourable opportunities, cither from not duly 
appreciating them, or from a vain hope that they 
will return again. 



Friends, benefactors, and enemies are neither 
more or less to us than an Omnipotent Being sees 
fit to make them. Favours and insults, gifts and 
injuries, are neither sent us at random, nor with 
out a good design 5 and it should be our constant 
prayer that we may never frustrate the intended 
good, nor miss the lesson of improvement which 
the page of providence spreads before us. 



I hope 1 can bear ingratitude and ill treatment 
to myself $ and may heaven preserve me from 
returning the same to others. Any misery is- 
supportable but the consciousness of having de 
liberately broken the good law of duty. Sins 
against light, and against love, are a heavy 
weight to the spirit, and leave a wound which the 
hand of divine grace only can heal ; a stain which 
nothing less than the blood of the Son of God can 
wipe away. 



The disagreeable occurrences of life require 
us to watch strictly over our hasty spirits. When 
we are fatigued with exertion, when our hearts 
are joyless, and our arms nerveless, and we find 
ourselves annoyed by vexation, perplexity, or con 
tradiction, then is the time for us to double our 
mental guard, to hold strict sway over the mu 
tinous powers, and to reflect deeply upon the pre 
cept " He that hatli no rule over his own spirit 
is like a city broken down without walls." 



The more we encourage plans of earthly em 
ployment, emolument, or happiness, the more 
we put out of view the things unseen and eternal. 
In this there is a warfare. " The flesh standeth 



163 



against the spirit, and the spirit against the 
flesh ;" and nothing but the stroke that separates 
them can destroy this opposition. 



Why should man fear death ? Why should we 
fear to tread a narrow passage to a better world ; 
to pass the portal of a temple immortal, not made 
with hands ? It is the fear of futurity that plants 
thorns in the pillow of death. For if we were as 
sured of the favour of Him who ruleth in that un 
seen world, if we were confirmed in our title to 
that incorruptible mansion, though the parting 
from present things might be painful, or the pas 
sage from them dreadful, yet we should lift up our 
heads, and rejoice, knowing that our redemption 
drew nigh. 



If you yield to difficulties you encourage weak 
ness of mind, and prepare yourself to be often 
overcome and held in bondage. If you were an 
inhabitant of Russia or Lapland, would you say, 
I cannot go out to my usual occupations because 
the snow falls, or the ice has covered the streets ? 
Would you not rather wrap your garment about 
you, and meet the present inconvenience for the 
sake of a future good ? You inhabit a world 



164 



where difficulties, vexations, and disappointments 
spring up in the paths of knowledge, duty, and 
enjoyment. They are placed there as an exer 
cise of your patience, your fortitude, your perse 
verance : go forth with this armour, and you 
shall prevail ; shrink, and be a slave forever. 



Want of sincerity is observable in many of the 
Christians of the present day. They exhort, but 
do not practise ; they believe, but do not feel. 
The consequence is that they neither enjoy what 
they proft'ss, nor give others reason to suppose 
that they understand what it implies. 



Religion is supposed by the world to be a sys 
tem of rigour and austerity, marking its misera 
ble votaries with the traces of melancholy, and 
supplanting all the innocent affections of life. 
How carefi.1 ought its professors to be, that their 
deportment evince no uusociability, moroseness, 
or want of courtesy ! 



"Why should we mourn that we are so weak, 
and exposed to afflictions j when one liveth to 



165 



strengthen our weakness, and to sanctify 
afflictions, if wo will only ask him in faith, noth 
ing doubting? 



Those who know nothing of the duty of praye*, 
except its formal performance, would he aston 
ished to learn what strength it imparts for the 
difficulties, trials, and perplexities of life. 



Can a mind wholly absorbed in the things of 
the world have a sincere desire, and ardent hope 
of Heaven ? Can a heart that longs supremely 
for the grandeur and false splendour of life be right 
in the sight of God ? Can a spirit that looks 
disdainfully upon merit unarrayed have a right 
estimation of man ? Surely no. But take heed, 
thou that inscribest these sentences, lest thine 
heart harbour anger, acrimony, or revenge, lest 
in judging another, thou condemnest also thy 
self. 



Let us desire a disposition to return good for 
evil ; and to walk stedfastly in the path which 
our duty points out, not abashed, discouraged. 



166 



or irritated by the watchful observations of those 
who decry religion, and hate its professors. 



Egotism and vanity are weapons which we use 
against ourselves. We wish to stand high in the 
opinion of others ; but nothing destroys our own 
dignity more than the repetition of the pronoun 
J. We wish to appear gracefully in the eyes of 
others ; yet nothing destroys the attraction of 
beauty more effectually than vanity. In sim 
ple manners all the secret lies." 



When we have recovered from dangerous ill 
ness there is an error into which our earth-bound 
minds are apt to fall. This is entertaining our 
friends, with every symptom and variation of our 
malady, instead of the praise of our great physi 
cian. Few say, " Where is God my Maker, who 
giveth songs in the night I" 



Any affliction is more supportable than the 
consciousness of having mispent our time, and 
neglected opportunities for usefulness. The re- 



167 



proach then falls upon ourselves, and this kind 
of " wounded spirit who can bear." 



One error is liable continually to follow us, 
and destroy the good effect of our best resolu 
tions. This is a spirit of procrastination, a neg 
lect of favourable opportunities for usefulness, 
until those opportunities are past beyond recal. 
Then follows the fruitlessness of regret, and the 
bitterness of self reproach. 



If it is sometimes difficult to know how to di 
rect our course, yet the path of rectitude is al 
ways open before us, and we need not hesitate to 
pursue it. The ambiguities of others sometimes 
perplex our designs, let us be careful that no 
ambiguity of ours may ever be a stumbling block 
in the way of others. 



What is there in the human mind so trembling 
ly vulnerable, that even the suddenness of blunt 
sincerity, or the hasty speech of thoughtlessness 
should wound it like the thorn of unkindness ? 
Those tender and undelinable feelings must often 



168 



thrill and vibrate to the rude touch, unless they 
become gradually hardened by the rough inter 
course of the world. 



In all that overtakes us, whether joyful or af 
flictive, we should recognize the hand of Provi 
dence. Not a sparrow falleth without it ; how 
much less shall the children of men pass unnoticed, 
unregarded, and unprovided for ! 



Disagreeable circumstances will meet us in 
the passage of human life, and we must be pre 
pared to sacrifice to them neither our self posses 
sion, nor our inward repose. 



How can any say that we may merit an ever 
lasting reward by the imperfect obedience of this 
fleeting life ? If our humble faith and patience 
are at length clothed with a spotless robe of 
righteousness, who wrought out this robe for us ? 
Can impurity merit perfection ? Can poverty 
pay an infinite ransom ? " Who can bring a 
clean thing out of an unclean ? Not one." There 
must be some righteousness which we have not 



169 



wrought ; some reward which we have not merit 
ed ; for how can the withering insects of time 
compass Eternity ? 



It is a blessing, that the world furnishes us 
with so few satisfying pleasures; and that in our 
approaches, to what are supposed its purest foun 
tains, we so often find them mixed and vapid. 
This withdraws our grasp from its perishable pos 
sessions ; drives us to the strong hold of hope ; 
shuts us up to the faith of the gospel ; and if the 
heart sometimes sickens at its delusions, it learns 
that in heaven only it can find peace, 



There is a hand that writes vanity upon every 
mortal possession and hope. There is a touch 
colder than marble, which freezes the illusions of 
fancy. There is a power that severs the close 
woven web of man's felicity, and cuts the strong 
Cordage of the heart. He struggles awhile against 
that dart which pierces to " the dividing asunder 
of soul and spirit ;" and, forgetful that he is of 
the dust, shudders at the voice which proclaims, 
" unto dust shalt thou return." 

16 



iro 



Real benevolence imparts willingly, and is thank- 
l\il to Him who furnishes an opportunity of so 
doing*. Fashionable benevolence aids those in 
stitutions which are applauded among men, and 
repeats how much she has given. Covetousncss 
sometimes parts with a portion of its gains, fan 
cying it will merit either prosperity or favour 
from God. My Saviour ! is this the lesson of 
benevolence which thou hast taught us, and is it 
of little consequence how we obey thy perfect 
law of love I 



Infidelity often shelters itself under the mask 
of love to mankind, and a desire to break the 
shackles of superstition. Thus have many who 
are called Philosophers been, for a long time, la 
bouring to undermine the fabric of enjoyment 
and hope. Can it advance the felicity of man to 
disbelieve the existence of a God ? Or quicken 
him to watchfulnsss to cast away the idea of his 
own accountability ? 



* 

How often do we have cause to lament that our 
good resolutions are weakened by the cares and 
perplexities of life, and frequently overthrown 
by sudden and unexpected occurrences ! 



in 



Let uPnot seek the applause of men, or the 
pomp and vanity of life ; for they will prove hin 
drances to the race eternal. But let us patiently 
bear every appointed trial, looking unto Him who, 
for our sakes, was content to bear reproach and 
to be crucified. 



The Almighty alone can soften our disappoint 
ments, that they may not weaken the strength of 
the inward man j and apply them, so as to change 
our losses into gain, and our tears into victory. 



Of how little value are the flowers and thorns* 
the obstacles, or accommodations, of this narrow 
region, through which we pass as travellers and 
as strangers ? AVhat avails it where we pitch our 
tent which may be shaken and destroyed in a mo 
ment ; or what reception we meet at the inn where 
we must remain but for a night, if we arc at last 
found worthy to be numbered with angels, and to 
have our lot among the saints ? 



How does the office of a 'parent, call for all the 
teachings of affection, and all the vigilance of ex- 



ample; and how does it impel to all the holy vio 
lence of prayer, lest the plant should at last fur 
nish fuel for everlasting burnings ! 



" Man's life consisteth not in the abundance of 
the things that he possesseth." Neither the use. 
respectability, nor enjoyment of the present life 
depends on external treasures. Far less are the 
hopes and felicities of the world to come influen 
ced by such slight and variable causes. " The 
poor of this world hath God chosen, rich in faith,, 
and heirs of his kingdom."' 



It is thought by some that where there is a taste 
for literature, and advantages for its cultivation, 
improvement and success are almost inevitable, 
But what are the most persevering exertions with 
out the divine favour ? Nay " It is God that giv- 
eth the increase." The health of the body, the 
health of the mind, and the prosperity of the soul, 
must be sought after in the same manner, and 
found only in the same source. 



All actions that proceed from a principle of 
vanity, must in their end, be unproductive, and, 
in their restrospection, bitter. 



173 



FIRST OF SEPTEMBER, 181S. 



A BIRTH day, a new month, a new season, 
and a new journal, meet me at the same moment ! 
Reflections press upon each other, and the spirit 
is solemnized. A few years since, and I. was not : 
a few years to come, and I shall not be. "We re 
ceive daily conviction of the vanity of earthly en 
joyments, the fallibility of our own powers, and 
the unstable character of our own hearts. Might 
I not apply to myself, what the dying Patriarch 
addressed to his first born Reuben ? " Unstable 
as water thou shalt not excell." While we are 
compelled to perceive our imperfections, we must 
acknowledge the constant watchfulness and love 
of that benevolent Being who dealeth not with us 
according to our sins. He is kind to us, while we 
arc forgetful of him ; he preserves us, though we 
sec him not ; he is near us when we sleep, when 
we wake, and when we wander. The past year 
has been marked with health, peace, and an em 
ployment which 1 love, and have often desired. 
My request is to be better prepared for its vari 
ous duties, to be confirmed in it, as long as I shall 
be enabled to do good, and to have the affections 

*J6 



174 



of those who are entrusted to my care. My 
prayer is, to he made an instrument of real good 
to my fellow creatures, and that all my selfish 
feelings may be absorbed in love to God, and to 
man. Many errors have stained my life. May 
their dominion be broken, their effects counteract 
ed, and their record blotted from the dread book 
of remembrance. The past has been a year of 
few changes, but God only knows what are ap 
pointed to me in this. Perhaps it will lead on my 
last and final change. May I often reflect upon 
..that solemn event ; and may this year exceed my 
whole life for well directed exertions, piety, and 
preparation for it. "Will God watch over me in 
all my wanderings with the tenderness of a fath 
er, w ill he mercifully order all my earthly chan 
ges ; and when that hour shall come, which comes 
to all, will he not purify my spirit, and take it 
into his rest ; because one intercedes for us, who 
is strong to suffer and mighty to save.. 



175 

PSALM CXIX. 96. 

* / have seen an end of all perfection." 

I HAVE seen a man in the glory of his days, 
and the pride of his strength. He was built like 
the tall cedar that lifts its head above the forest 
trees ; like the strong oak that strikes its root 
deeply into the earth. He feared no danger he 
felt no sickness he wondered that any should 
groan or sigh at pain. His mind was vigorous 
like his hody, he was perplexed at no intricacy, 
he was daunted at no difficulty ; into hidden 
things he searched, and what was crooked he 
made plain. He went forth fearlessly upon the 
face of the mighty deep j he surveyed the nations 
of the earth ; he measured the distances of the 
stars, and called them by their names ; he glori 
ed in the extent of his knowledge, in the vigour 
of his understanding, and strove to search even 
into what the Almighty had concealed. And 
when I looked on him, I said. " What a piece of 
work is man ! how noble in reason ! how infinite 
in faculties ! in form and moving how express 
and admirable ! in action how like an angel ! in 
apprehension how like a god !'* 



176 



I returned his look was no more lofty, nor 
his step proud ; his broken frame was like some 
ruined tower $ his hairs were white and scatter 
ed ; and his eye gazed vacantly upon what was 
passing around him. The vigour of his intellect 
was wasted, and of all that he had gained by 
study nothing remained. He feared when there 
was no danger, and when there was no sorrow 
he wept. His memory was decayed and treach-* 
crous, and showed him only broken images of 
the glory that \vas departed. His house was to 
him like a strange land, and his friends were 
counted as his enemies ; and he thought himself 
strong and healthful while his foot tottered on 
the verge of the grave. He said of his son he 
is my brother ; of his daughter I know her 
not ; and he enquired what was his own name. 
And one who supported his last steps, and minis 
tered to his many wants, said to me, as I looked 
on the melancholy scene, " Let thine heart re 
ceive instruction, for thou hast seen an end of all 
earthly perfection." 

I have seen a beautiful female treading the 
first stages of youth, and entering joyfully into 
the pleasures of life. The glance of her eye was 
variable and sweet ; and on her cheek trembled 
something like the first blush of the morning ; 
her lips moved, and there was harmony ; and 
when she floated in the dance, her light form like 



17? 



the aspen seemed to move with every breeze. I 
returned- but she was not in the dance, I sought 
her in the gay circle of her . companions but I 
found her not. Her eye sparkled not there the 
music of her voice was silent she rejoiced on 
earth no more. I saw a train sable and slow- 
paced, who bore sadly to an opened grave what 
once was animated and beautiful. They paused 
as they approached, and a voice broke the awful 
silence : Mingle ashes with ashes, and dust 
with its original dust. To the earth, whence she 
was at first taken, consign we the body of our 
sister." They covered her with the damp soil, 
and the cold clods of the valley ; and the worms 
crowded into her silent abode. Yet one sad 
mourner lingered, to cast himself upon the grave, 
and as he wept he said, " There is no beauty, or 
grace, or loveliness that continueth in man ; for 
this is the end of all his glory and perfection." 

I have seen an infant with a fair brow, and a 
frame like polished ivory. Its limbs were pliant 
in its sports ; it rejoiced, and again it wept ; but 
whether its glowing cheek dimpled witli smiles, 
or its blue eye was brilliant with tears, still I said 
to my heart, " It is beautiful." It was like the 
first pure blossom which some cherished plant has 
shot forth, whose cup is filled with a dew-drop, 
and whose head reclines upon its parent stem. 



178 



I again saw this child when the lamp of rea* 
son first dawned in its mind. Its soul was gentle 
and peaceful ; its eye sparkled with joy, as it 
looked round on this good and pleasant world. 
It ran swiftly in the ways of knowledge it bow- 
ed its ear to instruction it stood like a lamh he- 
fore its teachers. It was not proud, or envious, 
or stubborn, and it had never heard of the vices 
and vanities of the world. And when I looked 
upon it, I remembered that our Saviour had said, 
" Except ye become as little children, ye cannot 
enter into the kingdom of heaven." 

But the scene was changed, and I saw a man 
whom the world called honourable, and many 
waited for his smile. They pointed out the fields 
that were his, and talked of the silver and gold 
that he had gathered : they admired the statcli- 
nes of his domes, and extolled the honour of his 
family. And his heart answered secretly, " By 
my wisdom have I gotten all this :" so he re 
turned no thanks to God, neither did he fear 
or serve him. And as I passed along I heard 
the complaints of the labourers who had reaped 
down his fields, and the cries of the poor whose 
covering he had taken away ; but the sound of 
feasting and revelry was in his apartments, and 
the unfed beggar came tottering from his door. 
But he considered not that the cries of the op 
pressed were continually entering into the ears 



179 



ol' the most High. And when I knew that this 
man was once the teachable child that I had lov 
ed the beautiful infant that I had gazed upon 
with delight I said in my bitterness, " I have 
seen an end of all perfection ;" and I laid my 
mouth in the dust. 



THE ROSE. 



1 SAW a rose perfect in beauty 5 it rested 
gracefully upon its stalk, and its perfume filled 
the air. Many stopped to gaze upon it, many 
bowed to taste its fragrance, and the owner hung 
over it with delight. I past by again, and behold, 
it was gone its stem was leafless its root had 
withered j the enclosure which surrounded it was 
broken down. The spoiler had been there ; he 
saw that many admired it he knew it was dear 
to him who planted it, and beside it he had no 
other plant to love. Yet he snatched it secretly 
from the hand that cherished it ; he wore it on 
his bosom till it hung its head and faded, and 



when he saw that its glory was departed, he cast 
it rudely away. But it left a thorn in his bosom, 
and vainly did he seek to extract it, for now it 
pierces the spoiler, even in his hour of mirth. 
And when I saw that no man, who had loved the 
beauty of the rose, gathered again its scattered 
leaves, or bound up the stalk which the hand of vi 
olence had broken, I looked earnestly at the spot 
where it grew, and my soul received instruction. 
And I said, let her who is full of beauty and ad 
miration, sitting like the queen of flowers in ma 
jesty among the daughters of women, let her 
watch lest vanity enter her heart, beguiling her 
to rest proudly upon her own strength ; let her 
remember she standeth upon slippery places, 
-*< and be not high minded, but fear." 



POETICAL PIECES. 



PARAPHRASE OF PART OF THE BOOK 
OF AMOS. 



I FROM no princely stock or lineage came, 
My father bore no prophet's honour'd name, 
Nor fame, nor power upheld his humble lot, 
Nor wealth, nor splendour dcck'd my native cot : 
A shepherd's garment clad my youthful form, 
Made rough by toil, and harden'd to the storm ; 
I led o'er hills and dales, wild streams and rocks, 
The wand'ring footsteps of my herds and flocks* 
I pointed where beneath the furrow sprung 
The first, soft herbage, delicate and young ; 
I led them where the munn'ring waters wound 
Their fruitful course, along the moisten'd ground j 
And when the noontide sun with fervent heat, 
Upon their drooping heads too fiercely beat, 
I guided where the mountain's shelt'ring heads 
17 



Its sable shade across the landscape spread ; 
And while they sunk in rest and slumbers meek, 
I wander' d forth my simple meal to seek $ 
The juicy wild fig, and the chrystal tide, 
My strength renew'd, and nature's wants sup- 
ply'd. 

And then, when evening slowly drew her shade, 
And on the dewy lawn my flocks were laid, 
Wrapt in my mantle from the chilling wind, 
I gave to holy thoughts my wakeful mind : 
The stars that in their mystic circles move, 
The sparkling blue of the high arch above, 
The pomp of night, her slow majestic power, 
The solemn silence of her midnight hour, 
The gentle softness of the unveil'd moon, 
All seem'd to speak of Him, the Everlasting One. 

From solemn musing, heavenly visions stole, 
With sleep's soft footstep on my thoughtful soul, 
Till in the purpled east, the morning star 
Departing, wak'd ine to my daily care. 
Once as I rose from slumbers soft and sweet, 
And found my lambs reposing at my feet, 
And saw the morning light the hills invest, 
Gleam o'er the forests, gild the mountain's breast, 
Dart on the sparkling streams, and shoot its way 
Through the dark vales where slumb'ring vapors 

lay, 
It seem'd within uiy breast a light there shone. 



183 



More clear and splendid than the rising sun, 
And while my every nerve with rapture thrill'd, 
A Power Supreme my soul in silence held. 

Prone on the earth my bending knees I bow'd, 
My rais'd eyes fixing on a crimson cloud, 
Which from its cleaving arch this mandate hore, 
" Go, shepherd, lead thy much lov'd flock no 

more." 

My trembling lips now prest the soil I trod, 
" Shepherd ! forsake thy flock, and he the Seei 1 

of God." 

Uprising at the heavenly call, I laid 
My crook and scrip beneath the spreading shade, 
" I go, I go, my God," my answering spirit said. 

Through the rough stream I dash'd, whose foam 
ing tide 

Came whit'ning from the mountain's hoary side : 
O'er rocks I bounded, thro' dark forests ran, 
To seek the busy haunts of guilty man. 
Yet pressing on my path, I heard with pain 
The echoing footsteps of a distant train ; 
I saw my snowy lambs approaching near, 
And wondering at their master's bold career ; 
With gentle look, and piteous moans they stood. 
To ask of me their guidance and their food. 

A moment pausing in my anxious race, 

I dash'd the gathering tear-drop from my face. 



184 



For as I look'd upon my fleecy pride, 

[ thought who now their wandering steps should 

guide 5 

But still within the holy impulse burn'd, 
And soon its answering thoughts my heart return'd *. 
"' My tender lambs, my unfed flock, adieu, 
My God, a shepherd will provide, for you ; 
One kind as I have been $ whose care shall guide 
You, where fresh pastures smile, and fountain s 

glide : 

A hand unseen, a voice and purpose true, 
Divide you from my charge, and me from you. v 

And who shall hesitate when God commands ? 
Whether to foreign climes, or heathen lands, 
His messenger he sends, who feels with pain, 
Nature's strong bands his summon'd step detain ! 
But woe to him if bands like these control 
The heavenly purpose planted in his soul, 
If glittering stores, or scenes in childhood trod, 
Or joys of home, or ties of kindred blood, 
Shall draw his wavering heart, more than the call 

of God. 

What tho* my shepherd's coat, and rustic ways, 
111 suit the prophet's venerable grace ; 
What tho' the charge I bring be dark with fear, 
And sound but harshly on the guilty ear ; 
What though my heart its last red drop shall 

drain, 
And I must slumber with the prophets slain $ 



185 



Yet He, who summon'd from that distant rock, 
The rough-clad man to leave his fleecy flock, 
With strength will gird him, for his wants pro 
vide, 

And hush the clamors of the sons of pride, 
Or from these climes where fears and dangers 

roll, 
Receive to endless rest the weary martyr'd soul. 

Untir'd and undismayed my way I led, 

Where proud Samaria's outstretch'd ramparts 

spread ; 

Yet long before I pass'd its outer gate, 
I saw the work of judgment and of fate. 
It seem'cl a fearful desert scorch'd and dry, 
Spread its brown heath, to meet the wondering 

eye; 

The vanished verdure, and the wasted plain, 
Disclos'd the inarch of a devouring train, 
Before whose face the earth was green and fair, 
Behind a wilderness all parch'd and bare ; 
The pining herds, a poor and piteous train, 
Sought their accustom'd food, but sought in vain'. 
Some wild with anguish rang'd the mountain's 

side, 

Some stood despairing in the meadows wide ; 
And some with wasted flesh, and panting breath, 
Sunk gazing, mute and motionless in death. 

#17 



18G 



And when I saw, my soul with grief was cleft. 
For sinfal man, to Heaven's displeasure left ; 
And low to earth, I bent my mournful head, 
Like one who mourns his dearest comfort dead. 
My God ! I cry'd, my God ! arise and see 
Thy judgments, and thy people's misery ; 
The sick land mourns, the haughty sinners pine, 
Thy wrath devours without, and guilt within. 
Ah ! who shall now their wasted strength repair, 
If thou hast cast them, ever from thy care ?' ? 

An answering voice was heard it spake to me ; 
God spake from Heav'n " This judgment shall 

not he." 

I rose with transport from my deep distress, 
And as I journey'd on, his name did bless. 

Soon nature's languid form, reviving fair, 
Sang praises to the God who answers prayer ; 
The host of worms, that cover'd all the ground, 
Vanish'd away, no longer to be found ; 
Spread forth each curling leaf, and withering 

stem, 

The faded bud disclos'd its secret gem ; 
The naked earth her vivid robes assum'd, 
\nd fragrant scents the summer gales perfum'd. 

But yet a little while the glittering blade, 

Of Heavn's displeasure, in its sheath was stay'd, 

\ flame succeeds? its furious ravage spread, 



187 



By wrath first kindled, and by justice fed : 

So wide it rag'd, that scarce its quenchless sweep, 

Would heed the limits of the watry deep. 

Ah ! who shall stay its force, or crush its power ? 
Our God preserve us in this awful hour ! 
Again I pray'd, and wept, and deeply mourn'd : 
" This also shall not he," the same dread voice 

return'd. 

Repent Repent ! ye rebel race ! I cry'd ; 
Go, mourn, and seek your God, ye sons of pride ; 
At that dread name, with fearful rev'rence bend, 
Ye sinful seed of Abraham, his friend. 

Ye scorn the stranger, on the poor ye press, 
Ye wound the widow, and the fatherless, 
Ye scoff at justice, every sin ye know, 
And give to idols, what to God ye owe ; 
Scorn and contempt, upon his laws ye cast, 
And think ye to escape his righteous wrath at last. 
Stain'd with your guilt, the page of fate unrolls. 
Its crimson lines shall enter to your souls ; 
Captivity and pain, its records shew, 
Deep lamentation, mourning, teal's, and woe. 

Your palace shakes ! a sword in life-blood dy'd, 
Is drawn all reeking from your prince's side : 
The sounds of treason clamour in the air, 
Murder, and strife, and foul revolt are there : 



188 



Yet woes on woes shall tread, and pity weeps 
O'er your fall'n city, and your slaughtered heaps. 

O ye, who sink in couches, soft with down, 
And all your crimes in wine and music drown, 
Who wrest the garment from the shiv'ring poor, 
And snatch his pittance, to increase your store ; 
You, first the plagues and wants of war shall vex, 
The captive yoke shall hang upon your necks, 
And you shall groan in servitude and scorn, 
As one who sorrows o'er his dead first-horn. 

sinful nation ! of thy God accurst, 
Thy glory gone, and bending to the dust ; 
The arm that held thee in its fond embrace, 
Shall hurl thee forth, to thine appointed place. 

Go, hide thee in Mount Carmel dive the deep ; 
Go, seek the slimy cells, where serpents creep, 
Make thro' the earth's dark dens, thy secret path, 
Thou canst not shun the purpose of his wrath ! 
" But who art thou ?" The haughty ones reply'd, 
" Presumptuous man !" with frantic rage, they 

cry'd, 
'' Flee to your woods, your mountains, and your 

flocks, 

Go, drive your few sheep on the ragged rocks ; 
Who bade thee, herdman, leave thy wand'ring 

throng ? 
Who made thee judge of violence and wrong ? 5> 



189 



** ~He who beheld me at my humble toil, 
Content and cheerful, in my native soil ; 
He who perceives you, from the frowning skies. 
And all your rage and impotence defies ; 
He calPd me from my flock and pastures fair, 
lie gave the message which I boldly bear ; 
And which I bear 'till death : so spend your ire, 
And wreak what vengeance your mad souls de 
sire. 

Say, whose strong arm compos'd this wond'rous 

frame ? 

Who quench'd the fury of the rushing flame ? 
Who fill'd with spacious orbs, the empty space ? 
Who made the mighty sun to know his place ? 
Who hung upon the cloud the dazzling bow ? 
Who from his cistern, bade the waters flow ? 
Who turneth light to darkness, night to death ? 
Who giveth life, and gathereth back the breath ? 
Who drives thro' realms immense, his flaming 

car? 

To visit Orion, and the morning star ? 
Who gave this pond'rous globe, with nicest care, 
To balance lightly on the fluid air ? 
Who rais'd the mountains to their lofty height ? 
Who speeds the whirlwind in its trackless flight ? 
Who darts thro' dark disguise, his piercing ken, 
To read the secret thoughts and ways of men ? 
Who gave the morning and the midnight birth ? 
Whose muffled step affrights the trembling earth ? 



190 



Who bound the sea, and touch'd the rocks with 

flame ? 

The Lord, the God of Hosts, is his tremendous 
* Name." 



LINES, 



ON hearing a venerable friend sing at midnight, a short 
time previous to Jier death, in consequence of the de 
rangement of a mind, once of the strongest and most 
amiable character. 



'TWAS when drear midnight cast its shadows 

deep, 

A distant voice awoke me from my sleep ; 
First slow and sad, it pour'd a mournful tone, 
Lake sighs o'er parted bliss, and pleasures gone j 
Now to gay hope, the mounting notes were set, 
Rose high to joy then sicken'd to regret, 
Now wild, like mirth, the sprightly numbers flew r , 
Then, shrill and piercing, breath'd a last adieu. 
This was the voice that, when with causeless 

fears, 
Or early grief o'er flow'd my ready tears, 



In childhood's dawn, or youth's delusive day, 
Would sooth that grief and charm those tears 

away. 

This was the voice that lull'd the ear of pain, 
Made penury and anguish smile again ; 
Soft as the dew, that heals the broken plant, 
Pour'd its mild accents on the soul of want ; 
Bade pale regret its wild complainings cease, 
And lur'd the wanderer to the fold of peace. 

Now like a harp, whose tuneful chords unstrung, 
Is on the damp and drooping willow hung, 
It gave in echoes to the fitful wind, 
The mournful music of a hroken mind. 

Yet as the hird, whose sweet and dirge-like 

strains, 

With harmony unwonted fill the plains, 
Who by some presage warn'd of fate's decree, 
Pours her soft tones in dying melody ;* 
So on my ear, that midnight music fell, 
As from the death-tow'r, sounds the long and last 

farewell. 

While faint and low the closing murmur sigh'd, 
And on the car of niglit, the cadence dy'd, 
The boding spirit sunk, with woe distrest, 
And down the check, the floods of sorrow prest : 

* The Swan. 



192 



At last my closing eye forgot to \veep, 
And o'er it past the viewless wand of sleep. 

Dark visions came, all broken and distrest, 
Uncalled, unsought, the enemies of rest ; 
Such as wild fever draws in fearful guise, 
Before the restless mourner's half-clos'd eyes. 

Strange forms were seen of more than mortal 

birth, 

And hollow voices whisper* d from the earth ; 
Wild storms arose, contending billows dash'd, 
And thro* the gloom, a sudden lustre flash'd ; 
When lo, a silver lamp, whose stately spire, 
All bright and vivid, glow'd with heavenly fire, 
Cast its pure light o'er streams, that murmur low, 
Gleam'd on the mountains, cheer'd the vale of 

woe ; 

But as I gaz'd, the beam afar was borne, 
The spire was quench'd, the silver lamp was gone. 

Then sable waters rose with angry sweep, 

A lonely vessel founders on the deep ; 

\\ hile thunders peal, and livid lightnings gleara^ 

And troubled spectres glar'd upon the dream. 

Then rose a Gothic dome, with arch sublime, 
W hose lofty towr's withstood the shocks of time, 
Its spacious halls receiv'd the welcome guest, 
Tho* sick, or weak, or famish'd or distrest ; 



193 



While from its windows gleam'd a steady ray. 
To light the traveller on his lonely way. 
But thundering from below, a viewless shock 
Heaves the strong base, and rends the marble rock : 
Quick from its cope the sunward beam declined, 
Thro* its long arches shriek'd the hollow wind : 
The pond'rous columns on the earth were thrown. 
The trembling earth return'd a hollow moan j 
Sad o'er the spot a mournful cypress hung, 
The long grass wavM, and mossy hillocks sprung. 

Yet, round a mouldering arch, a lonely form 
Twin'd a damp wreath that trembled in the storm, 
BreathM o'er its leaves, the sighs of gratitude, 
And with fond tears the drooping flowers bedew'd. 



TO A FRIEND, 

If'Iiose correspondence had been interrupted by domestic 
occupations, and the various cares of a matron. 



THUS ancient matrons, high in virtue rais'd, 
Whom princes honoured, and whom sages prais'd. 
18 



194 



Like you, the needle's various labours taught. 
And in the loom, and at the distaff wrought ; 
Hence, spoils of industry adorn'd their home, 
And with new lustre glow'd the arts of Rome. 

\h ! sweeter far, o'er such a charge to bend, 
To calm domestic life, a joy to lend, 
Than cloth'd in royal robes, the guise of pain. 
To wield a sceptre o'er the shrinking train j 
Toss on the wave of pow'r, or dictate proud. 
Or rule the fancies of a fickle crowd ; 
Or pass in fields of blood the deathful day, 
Urge on the battle, point the fierce array, 
Drive over fallen ranks the reeking car, 
Rage, toil, and revel mid the din of war ; 
Renounce each female grace, each soft intent, 
To snatch the prize, that nature never meant, 
To win a short applause, to build a name, 
To grasp the fleeting shade of sullied fame ; 
Gleam o'er the historic page, as meteors move, 
To claim our wonder, not awake our love. 

Oh, sweeter far, in shades obscure to hide, 
Where meek content, and piety reside, 
Where heaven-born virtue sheds a lucid ray, 
And intellectual joys inspire the day, 
While o'er the scene no waves of discord roll. 
To quench the light of mercy in the soul. 

And sweet like thee, dear friend, with pensive eyes, 



195 



To watch the plants of reason as they rise j 
Hang o'er your clusters, like the bending vine, 
And teach the infant tendril where to twine ; 
Guard from the mildew's taint, the frost severe. 
Repel the noxious weed that ventures near ; 
Lead the young leaves to lift their drooping heads. 
And drink the purest dew, that evening sheds : 
Curb the aspiring shoots that mount too high, 
Lest in the blast the forward hope should die ; 
To turn the clear stream to the spreading root. 
Catch the first promise of a grateful fruit ; 
Bind the young buds^ whose stalks the winds have 

riven, 
Vnd prune the boughs, and point their way to 

heaven. 

But who can paint the thrill of extacy, 
With which a mother meets her babes on high ? 
Perchance the tempest's rage, with furious strife.. 
Had driven them darkly o'er the sea of life ; 
Perchance the shafts of death, that ceaseless rove. 
Had early pierc'd the brittle band of love ; 
Perchance the wide-stretchM zone, or OceaH 

waves, 

Had roll'd between their long-divided graves ; 
Now safely scap'd from earth's delusive shore, 
Now join'd in glory to divide no more, 
What mortal hand can touch that raptur'd string. 
Whose high-raisM tones salute th' Eternal King ? 



196 



"Lo ! these are they whom tliou to me didst trust, 
These souls immortal, then enshrin'd in dust ; 
I took them trembling-, at thy high decree, 
Receive, instruct, and render back to me." 
Thoughtful I strove with mild affection's sway, 
To blend with reason's dawn, religious ray ; 
To smooth the path of duty, lure the course 
Of those fair streams up to their parent source ; 
By night, my w^aking thoughts on these were bent, 
By day, to thee, the fervent prayer was sent, 
That the bright star of heaven might light their 

eyes, 

And e'vn in youth their wayw r ard hearts be wise ; 
But vain had been the anxious, watchful care, 
In vain the ceaseless, fond maternal prayer, 
Had not a viewless power with love divine, 
Matured the w T ork, and crown'd the great design. 



ON A SLEEPING INFANT. 



O CHILD of innocence and bliss, 
And gentle mirth, and joy benign, 



Fond friendship's wish, affection's kiss. 
And warm solicitude are thine. 

If ever from yon vaulted sky, 
Angelic hosts .to earth descend, 

On thee they sure would cast an eve. 
And o'er thine infant slumbers bend. 

For no dark deeds of guilt or shame. 

Of falsehood, arrogance, or strife. 
Of cruel pride, or cold disdain, 

Have ever mark'd thy spotless life. 

1, stopping in the giddy maze 

Of youth, to catch a smile from thee. 

And pleas'd to look upon the days 
Of careless, guiltless infancy ; 

Perceive as with a vision'd eye, 

The throngs of care, and woe, and dread, 
Which pressing on in sable dye, 

Are hovering round thy cradle bed. 

Sternly, impatiently they wait, 

The time when thou shalt be their prey, 
For well they know this peaceful state 

Excludes their proud and bitter sway. 

Could she, who with a mother's love, 
hy pliant form has just embrac'd, 

*18 



198 

But see the woes that thou must prove, 
' The bitterness which thou shalt taste ; 

The nameless pangs thine heart must know. 
The anguish that will fright thy sleep, 

Her smile would sicken into woe, 
And she would seek alone to weep. 

thou, who thus the eye hast veil'd, 
The book of fate so slowly given, 

1 thank thee, that thou hast conceal'd 

From man the prescience of heaven. 

Ah, when upon thy troubled soul, 
The ills of life shall closely press, 

May resignation's meek control, 
Allay the tumult of distress. 

ijfior often in affliction's school, 

Though the sad heart perceives it not. 

Virtue is gain'd, and wisdom's rule, 
That never, never is forgot. 

When o'er thy fading joys declin'd, 
The sounding waves of sorrow roll, 

Perchance, thou then that hope may'st find. 
Which proves an anchor to the soul. 

Or should the friends whom thou shalt love, 
Thy fond and fearless heart deceive, 



199 

* 

Thou still may'st find a friend above, 
Who never will forsake or grieve. 

O child of innocence and bliss, 
And gentle mirth, and joy benign, 

Fond friendship's wish, affection's kiss, 
And warm solicitude are thine. 



THE CARELESS HEART. 



SAT, can'st thou tell me what is like the heart, 
That cold and careless ne'er performs its part ? 

A garden, left neglected, waste, and bare, 
Where light the wandering people of the air, 
To catch the scattered seed that moulders there. 



-200 



ON THE CHARACTER OF A VENERA 
BLE FRIEND. 



OH, could my humble page one feature save, 
Of that dear friend who moulders in the grave, 
Or through one soul a generous love diffuse 
Of her pure virtues, her exalted views, 
Or to one heart a thought of goodness give, 
Then not in vain this humble page should live. 

And Oh, that I, who saw her here below, 

Who knew those deeds the world could never 

know, 

Her inward peace, amid affliction's rage, 
Her meek and graceful dignity of age, 
Her quickly feeling heart, her moisten'd eye, 
When pain was heard to mourn, and want to sigh, 
Her tenderness for youth, her alms for woe, 
Her hand in secret stretching to bestow, 
Her liberal views, her self-instructed mind, 
Active and strong, with seraph goodness joinM : 
Who saw the path her lonely footstep trod, 
Not chosen by the world, tho* mark'd by God : 
Who saw her tending down the vale of time, 
With thoughtful energy, with hope sublime : 



201 



Who saw her sinking in her last repose, 
Saw her lovM life receive its gentle close ; 
Oh, might I with this image in my eye, 
But learn like her to live, like her to die ; 
Or though a narrower sphere to me is given, 
Still in that sphere be emulous of heaven ; 
Oh, might I from her fond monitions learn, 
To heed my last, my infinite concern ; 
Then not in vain her life, her lessons free, 
Then not in vain will be her death to me ; 
And when with torturM nerve, and labouring 

breath, 

I pant upon the icy couch of death $ 
Then peace shall beam upon my darkenM eyes, 
And hope within my fainting heart arise, 
That she I lov'd on earth, may meet me in the 

skies. 



THE SOLITARY STAR. 



PURE planet, whose propitious ray 
Illumes the darkness of my way ; 



202 

gentle Star, whose light is thrown 
O'er the sad path I trace alone : 
Have all thy sisters gone to rest, 
That thou alone with golden crest, 
And wrapt within thy mantle white, 
Should softly gleam upon my sight ? 
For as a friend thou seem'st to guide 
My steps, and journey by my side. 

To view me with a mournful eye, 
To veil thy face as if to sigh, 
Then meekly bending down thine ear 
The accent of my woes to hear. 

O mild effulgence of the sky, 

Whose gentle beams of heavenly light. 
Soft float in liquid splendour by ; 

And pour upon the rapturM sight. 

Ray of that ray, which heav'n pervades. 
Light of that light, which never fades ; 
Still deign to guide me as a friend, 
And when my earthly wanderings end, 
When death shall close my swimming eyes. 
May mercy's peaceful star arise, 
And point me to that heavenly shore, 
Where I shall need thy light no more. 



203 



AN EMBLEM. 



I'VE seen a drop of morning dew, 
Like some fair gem serene, 

That sparkled on a verdant bough 
All clad in summer green. 

The rising sun absorb'd the tear, 
And drank it as it shone ; 

The winds of winter cleft the bough, 
It moulder'd and was gone. 

The drop of dew is like the bloom 
And morning of our span : 

The bough that withered in the 
Is like the life of man. 



THE CONFIDENCE OF ALEXANDER. 



HOWcan'stthou sleep O King! devoid of fear, 
" When dangers thicken, and when foes are near ? 



204 



How can'st tl^ou sleep ? They throng around 

thy rest, 
" And scarce the arrow stays that wounds thy 

breast." 

" And what think'st thou can harm my helpless 

head ? 
" My friend Parmenio watches near my bed." 

But thou, Christian, hast a firmer friend, 
Who near thy steps, and o'er thy couch does bend ; 
So rise securely, and securely sleep, 
For ever at thy side, that watchful guard shall 
keep. 



THE VANITY OF LIFE. 



AS waves the grass upon the earth to day, 
Which soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away $ 
As smiles the flow'ret in the verdant field, 
Which soon before the passing blast shall yield ; 
So flourish we upon our beds of clay, 
So grow a while* so droop, and so decay. 



205 



Dust turns to dust, with ashes, ashes blend. 
But upward, upward let the soul ascend j 
To God who gave it, let the spirit go, 
While the frail form returns to earth below. 
A few may sigh upon the grave's cold brink, 
A few salt tears the broken soil may drink, 
A few sad hearts in agony may bleed, 
And pay that tribute, which they soon shall need. 

While these frail honours wait the mould' ring dust. 
Say, smiles the spirit with the kindred just ? 
Shine its pure garments in the white rob'd train ? 
Or sound its groans amid the realms of pain ? 
Ah, who can tell ? The cause is God's alone, 
Hereafter thou shalt see, and bless that dark un 
known. 



PARTING. 



FEW friends have we on earth, and when they 

part, 

The nerve unwinds whose tension tears the heart 5 
And the wan brow all blanch'd with sorrow, turns : 
Cold, sunk, and pallid as the clay it mourns. 
19 



206 



THE MIDNIGHT PRAYER OF CHRIST. 



COME, see the mountain where thy Saviour 

knelt, 

The sad, lone place where he his vigils kept; 
Come, feel the midnight blast, his bosom felt, 
The cold night-chills, that o'er his temples crept, 
While guilty, stupid man all heedless slept ; 
And far away his friends forgetful rove ; 
And cans't thou say for me he wakM and wept. 
For me he agoniz'd, and pray'd, and strove ; 
Nor feel one pang of pity, or one thrill of love ? 



ON HEARING A BELL TOLL BEFORE 
RISING. 



SAD sounding bell ! to me thou seem'st to say, 
Awake, thou sleeper, rise, and come away ; 



207 



For while thou slumberest on thy couch of rest, 
The hand of death within thy sphere has prest ; 
And one, whose piercing glance thou us'd to meet, 
Whose step was active, and whose voice was 

sweet, 

Has tasted pain, has deeply drank of woe, 
Has struggled strongly with the frowning foe, 
Has passed the portal arch, whose massy door, 
Once turning on its hinge, shall turn no more j 
Has trod the darkly silent vale, and gone 
A trembling stranger, to a world unknown. 

Nought that she lov*d on earth could bribe her 

stay, 

No friend could go to cheer her on her w r ay ; 
No wealth, to purchase welcome could she bear, 
Nor even her worth, could buy a ransom there ; 
No pompous titles sounded as she came, 
No earthly honours swell'd the blast of fame : 
What then, alas ! has the lone stranger brought ? 
Nought but the spotless robe, by her Redeemer 

wrought. 



208 



THEY ROVE FOREVER. 

LINES written on reading a line of Dr.' Young's, cfe- 
srribing the motion and order of the planetary bodies. 

" They rove forever, -mthout error rove." 

WE too rove ever ; first with infant dream, 
We hang like insects o'er a summer stream ; 
With childish step midst opening sweets we rove,, 
Sooth'd and applauded by the voice of love ; 
Then high with youth, we rush o'er painted 

lawns, 

Half hidden flowers, and still more hidden thorns : 
Mature, we wander on in paths of care, 
And mute, and sad, our various burdens bear ; 
Ev'n too, in age we rove ; with spirit bent, 
Tho' light be dim, and nature's force be spent : 
But rove we without error, as we go ? 
Here pity sighs, and truth must answer, JVo. 



209 



TRIBUTE TO AN INSTRUCTOR. 



AS wlicn an eye, accustom'd to survey 
The changeful aspect of an April day, 
Turns hack regretful to the early dawn, 
And the fair smile that dew'd the face of morn ; 
So I, from youth's delusions, wild and vain, 
Its hoasted pleasures, and its mingled pain, 
Look hack to childhood's fair, and pictured, scenes 
again. 

And most I love those soft and blended shades, 
Where youth just glimmers, and where childhood 

fades, 

On which fond memory sheds a lustre, more 
Than hope, or fancy, on the future pour. 

Oh, deem it not intrusive, vain, or free, 
That this weak lay should pour itself to thee, 
Rcver'd instructor, for before mine eyes, 
Thine image in those vision'd scenes will rise ; 
And memory hastening as with filial love, 
Would wreath its brow with garlands she has 
wore. 

What most I prize, I first received from thee ; 
Knowledge till then had shewn few charms for me, 
*19 



For often bad cold rigour harshly doomed, 
The huds of promise withering e'er they bloom'd. 
And glanc'd with stern regard a chilling eye, 
Upon a mind that shrunk it knew not why. 
And thou alone didst guide a timorous mind, 
Wise as a teacher, as a parent kind ; 
With careful hand its wayward course withheld, 
Allured, not forc'd, encouraged, not compelled ; 
The shrinking eye lookM up, the soul was cheered, 
Felt as it learnt, confided e'er it fear'd ; 
And first by emulation's ardour mov'd, 
Prest onward in the path which soon it lov'd. 
Those intellectual joys by thee were shown, 
Which charm when youth's light giddiness is 

gone, 
And haply but for thee, ah, never had I known. 

A plant of feeble stem thou would'st not break, 
Or bruise its buds because their bloom was weak,. 
Or blight it with a cold and cheerless shade, 
Or scorn it, tho' it rose from lowly bed. 
But propt its humble stalk with kindest care, 
Rais'd its wan buds to feel a fresher air, 
And o'er its narrow leaves and bending head* 
The dews of knowledge and of virtue shed. 
Gave to its shrinking root a firmer soil, 
Though its scant foliage scarce repaid the toil j 
And now of stature frail, and low degree, 
More rude and worthless, than it ought to be. 
It turns to him who first its soil renew'd. 



211 



It lifts to him its buds, and blossoms crude. 
And loads the passing gale with gratitude. 

Yet more than what I speak, to thee I owe, 
And blessings, more than strains so weak can show. 
Thy warning voice allurM my erring youth, 
To seek the path of piety and truth ; 
And heaven's first hopes, as early sun-beams roll, 
DawnM from thy prayers upon my anxious soul. 

Scorn not the muse who comes in rustic dress, 
These thanks sincere and artless to express, 
And breathe her wishes for thy happiness. 
Around thy house may guardian angels bend, 
Thy slumbers watch, thy wakeful hours defend : 
And her whom gentle fate has led to twine 
Her earthly hopes and destinies with thine, 
And all who claim thy labour or thy care, 
Thy daily study, and thy nightly prayer, 
Still to thy hopes be true, and in thy blessings 
share. 

Oh, ever free from doubt, and pain, and strife, 
Flow on the current of thy tranquil life ! 
Pure as the dew-drop on the flow'ret's heads, 
The youthful spring in rich profusion sheds j 
Bright as the star whose crescent gilds the dawn, 
And marks the foot-steps of the glowing morn ; 
Blest in those .joys which hearts like thine may 
prove, 



212 



The kind returns of tenderness and love ; 
Firm in those hopes that heal the wounds of woe. 
Which hearts at peace with God alone can know : 
High in that holy charge so wisely given, 
To lead an earthly flock the way to heaven. 

So may'st thou live, 'till honours more divine, 
More perfect peace, more lasting joys are thine ,* 
'Till from a lofty and a cloudless sphere, 
Shall burst those sounds, too sweet for mortal ear, 
" Come, good and faithful servant, thy reward is 
here. 19 



ON SEEING THE MOON ATTENDED BY A 
SOLITARY STAR, JUST BEFORE SUN-RISE. 



LEAVING the cell of her companion, night, 
She sought her bow'r which vestal lamps adorn, 
But paus'd, and stay'd, and lingei-M in her flight. 
To change stol'n glances with the youthful morn. 

All unattended too. she chose to tread, 
Save that one solitary star was seen, 



218 

Darkly to wrap a mantle o'er its head, 
And page the mystic footsteps of the queen. 

Her veil was all undrawn, her eye was fair, 
But ah ! her cheek grew pale, her lustre dim ; 
For dark-rob'd night, high-seated on his car, 
Was heard to call the wanderer on with hirn. 

Sternly he staid his chariot 'till she came, 
His cold eye glancing on her, unapprov'd, 
The star attendant glow'd with angry shame, 
And rising morn beheld her as she mov'd. 



POPE. 

' CURST be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, 
" That tends to make one honest man my foe, 
" Give virtue, scandal $ innocence, a fear ; 
< Or from the soft-ey'd virgin steal a tear." 

Too well may be applied to this fine writer, the following' 
imitation. 

SHAME to the man ! how well so e'er he write, 
Who mingles fair with foul, and wrong with right $ 
Gives pain to virtue, spotted robes to truth, 
And crimsons o'er the bashful cheek of youth. 



214 



RAPIDITY OF TIME. 



EV'N while we pause, the rapid date 

Of life comes rushing on, 
The sad heart feels the stroke of fate, 

We tremble and are gone : 

Gone and forgot, the mourning eye 

May moisten as we sleep ; 
But time shall sooth the rushing sigh, 

And dry the eyes that weep. 

A little mound of turf, alone 

Shall shade our senseless breast ; 
The clay-cold sod, the burial stone, 
Made dark with storms, with moss overgrown. 
Shall mark our place of rest. 



TO A FRIEND, WITH A PACKET OF GE 
RANIUM LEAVES. 



'TIS said by Cynics harsh and stern, 
The sweets of life are frail and few ; 

But is not gentle friendship one, 
That we around our paths may strew ? 

It surely is : I therefore send, 
An emblem of its sweets to you. 



TWILIGHT. 



I SAW, ere the landscape had faded in night, 
The slow-moving twilight with gesture sublime, 

As I pensively watch'd the decline of the light, 
And listened, absorbed to the foot-fall of time. 

And I said to my heart, as it rose in my breast, 
" What wakes thee to sorrow, what moves thee 
to mourn ? M 



216 



And my heart answered quick, with emotion op- 

prest, 
" I grieve for the hours, that must never return. 5 ' 

In the pale hand of twilight, a tablet appeared, 
Though veil'd in her mantle, and muffled with 
shade ; 

That this had recorded my errors I fear*d, 
And I knew that its traces were never to fade. 



EVENING EXAMINATION. 



AND now let sahle night assert her power, 
And summon back the late departed hour, 
And call the pausing soul with care to trace 
The lines that mark its half averted face. 

The frown of pride, or semblance of content, 
The deed of duty done, or time mispent, 
The meek resolve, firm hope, or wandering bold. 
The vain desire, or cherish'd, or controlled. 



217 



Eye fixM on heaven, or page with error stain'd, 
Does memory smile, or is thy conscience pain'd ? 

Of all thy wanderings, view the vast amount : 
This is the emblem of thy last account. 



THE PARTING FRIEND. 



FAIR on the bosom of the Spring, 

The trembling flow'ret glows, 
But passing storms are on the wing 

To chill it ere it blows. 
Yet though beneath the verdant spray, 

The dew-drops seek to hide, 
Before the sun's meridian ray, 

Those glittering gems are dried. 

And such has been our transient glance, 

As sweet, as quickly flown, 
A smile, a word, a friendly wish. 

And all is clos'd and gone : 



But while in scenes of distant joy, 
You rove with footstep free, 

Soft to your heart, this simple strain 
Shall say, " remember me." 

Perhaps we part, no more to meet, 

And who, my friend, can show 
What scenes of sorrow, or of joy, 

Await us here helow ? 
Though life to us is in its morn, 

And youthful pleasures court, 
Its fairest rose conceals a thorn, 

Its longest space is short. 

But Oh ! there is a hetter state, 

Where hopes unfading bloom, 
There is a brighter land that gleams 

Across the darken'd tomb. 
There may we meet, in that blest home. 

Where none shall sigh with pain, 
Where hours of parting never come. 

Nor human frailties stain. 



219 



THE BIRTH DAY OF A YOUNG LADY, WHO 
HAD RECENTLY LOST HER MOTHER. 



THIS op'ning year, this rising day, 
Of pensive thought, and grateful joy, 

Might well for you awake the lay, 
And still a better lay employ. 

Could I but pour the strain of praise, 
That sighs so soft on beauty's ear. 

The tribute due to wit, and grace, 
How justly were they offer'd here. 

But no, a rude, unpolished strain, 
Presumes the mental charm to trace. 

And mark how virtue's youthful train 
May fill a parent's vacant place. 

Mark how around thai urn they glide, 
"With beams like morning radiance clear 

That urn which drank the recent tide 
Of sad affection's filial tear. 

To you, those younger plants shall spread. 
As round their fair maternal stem. 



20 

To you, shall raise the blooming head. 
And ope the fair, unfolding gem. 

May each its future path explore, 

Like those pure streams which gently lave. 
Unchecked, unstain'd, some verdant shore, 

And join in peace their parent wave. 



THE LONGEST DAY. 



FROM us, if every fleeting hour 

Improvement's boon may ask, 
Surely the longest day may clabn 

A long, and arduous task. 
But since the longest day must end, 

The fairest life decay, 
Let wisdom's hand, and wisdom's voice, 

Direct our youthful way. 

And when we rise, let morning's eye 

Convey the lesson sweet, 
And e're we sleep, let evening's sigh. 

The sacred rule repeat : 



Patient to render good to all, 
Within our bounded sphere, 

The active deed, or grateful wish,. 
Or sympathetic tear. 

To raise the heart to Him, who gives 

Our path with hope to shine, 
Meekly receive the offer'd joy, 

And silently resign ; 
To let no fear disturb the breast, 

No doubt obscure our sky, 
Since virtue cannot live unblest, 

Or unrewarded die. 



SOFT fall upon that closing eye, 
The taper's trembling rays, 

While sweetly o'er thy peaceful brow, 
The smile of slumber plays. 

May guardian seraphs' snowy wings 
Still o'er thy couch be spread, 

*20 



And ever may their viewless shield 

Protect and guard thy head ; 
'Till thou within a purer sphere, 

Shalt soar with those who watch'd thee here. 



PARAPHRASE ON CLEOPATRA'S ADVICE TO 
MARK ANTHONY WHEN ANGLING. 



" FIX not thine eyes upon that shallow brook, 
" Nor lure the silly fishes to thy hook, 
Let cities, thrones, and empires be thine aim, 
And like a Roman get thyself a name." 

Fix not thy hopes upon an airy dream, 
Nor lose thy short line in this troubled stream ; 
But seek the nobler prize to virtue given, 
And like a Christian fix thine eye on Heaven. 



223 



IMPROVEMENT OF SCIPIO'S BOAST. 



" I HAVE no soldier that would count his life 
" Too dear should I require it at his hand ; 

" He the rough surge would brave the battle's 

strife, 
" Or from the high rock leap at my command." 

This was the boast of Scipio -Christian hear ! 

Thou hast a chieftain of more equal laws, 
Count not thine case, or thine existence dear, 

If thou may'st win at last His great applause. 



THE REPLY OF THE PHILOSOPHER 
ANAXARCHUS. 



IN ancient times a tyrant's wrath decreed, 
The hated wise man by his arts to bleed. 
He, while the murd'rous blows with rage were 
dealt, 



224 



Spake thus serene as if no pain he felt, 

" Ye bruise the shell, the wither' d husk ye break. 

Ye sink the boat, but me ye cannot shake," 

Oh ! fear not them whose hand may pierce the 

heart, 

And cannot harm the never-dying part : 
But fear ye Him who rends the clay-built cell, 
And dooms the spirit to the pains of hell. 



ANTISTHENES. 



THE HEPLT OP THE PHILOSOPHER ANTI3THE2TES TO THE EJfQ.ri- 
BY 'WHAT HE HAD GAIXED BT HIS LEAHXIJfG. 



" IT makes me happy in my lone retreat, 
" And with my heart it gives me converse sweet 
And why should he be much inclined to roam, 
" Who finds a better banquet still at home ?" 

And those may say, who by their Saviour blest, 
Bear heavenly science planted in their breast, 



" This in my slumber guards my helpless head, 
And when I wake it cheers me on my hed, 
And when I walk it rises for my guest, 
And when I speak it answers in my breast, 
It soothes my sorrows, guides me when I roam. 
And when I die it gently leads me home." 



APPLICATION OF THE ROMAN PRECEPT, 

" Take heed Cato sees you." 



THE Roman teachers said " Beware of silt, 
Injustice to thy friend, or guilt within, 
See that ye break not our most just decrees $ 
Take heed to what ye do, for Cato sees." 

And Oh ! were they who bow'd to flesh and blood, 
More wise than we who serve the living God ? 
Forgetful Christian ! learn like them to fear, 
Not because Cato sees, but God is near. 



226 



THE SECLUSION OF BASIL. 



THE good man mourird that sin pursu'd him 

still, 

That while he lov*d the good he chose the ill ; 
A kindling anger at his follies burn'd, 
And sadly from the world his steps he turn'd ; 
The pathless desert, brown and barren, sought, 
And gave himself to prayer and holy thought. 
But still he wept and sigh'd " I fled from sin, 
And sinful man, and lo ! it lurks within ! 
I from the world and all its snares did part, 
But ah ! the tempter lingers in my heart." 



THE FIRST MORNING OF MAY. 



MAY ! I hail thy first-born morning, 
Every charm its brow adorning, 
Zephyrs sporting, music waking, 
Streams their icy fetters breaking, 



227 

Hope expanding, joy reviving, 
Nature in her beauty living. 

Let my heart accordant raise 
Purest incense, grateful praise j 
Let my voice with accent free 
Swell the song of harmony. 

Let me quit this idle chime, 
Wooing numbers into rhyme, 
Sorting words, and killing time. 
Inward let mine eye-beams glide 
View my thoughts' uneven tide, 
Roving, wandering far and wide 

Deeds on little purpose bent, 
Faithless to the good intent, 
Time on trifles vainly spent, 
Deeply mourn, be wise repent. 



228 



EVENING REFLECTION. 



ALONE I sit, but yet no pensive sigh, 
Of discontent, or loneliness is here j 

For solitude has shed her purest joy, 

Ana barr'd the entrance of unhallow'd care. 

And from her cell, comes forth with shrouded head, 
The veil'd moon shrinking from the gazer's sight ; 

As if some unseen hand her steps had led, 
Silent and slow to meet the waiting night. 

And aged night, clad in his best attire, 

Seems to compose his brow tho' late so stern, 

To copy youth, to bid his frowns retire, 
And let his starry eyes with lustre burn. 

O Planet ! hide not thus thy silver ray, 
Lift up thy veil, and let thy smile be seen, 

Till silent night confess thy magic sway, 
And every bright star own thee as a queen. 

Yet more effulgent than thy brightest beam, 
And warmer than the cold star's distant ray, 

May Mercy's light upon my spirit stream, 
When she from earth shall wing her unknown 
way. 



229 



H Y M N. 



GOD spake and Chaos heard his voice, 

And nature rose from sleep, 
And lo, this firm and solid earth 

Sprang from the liquid deep. 

He spake and light's transparent ray 

Silver'd each sparkling \vave ; 
He spake and twilight led the day, 

To Ocean's silent cave : 

And darkness rais'd his giant size, 

Deep frowning in his might, 
While thousand, thousand starry eyes 

Look'd from the cell of night. 

The day-star and the trembling moru 

Seem'd hand in hand to move, 
While morning matins tun'd the harps 

Of Seraphim above. 

The earth with herbs, and plants, and flow'rs;. 

Luxuriantly was drest j 
And herds, and flocks, were seen to move.. 

Upon her verdant breast : 

21 



I 



230 

And Ocean spread his glassy wave, 

And peopled was the flood ; 
\nd high upon the pathless air, 

The wing'd musicians rode. 

But more to swell the song of joy, 
And fill the boundless plan, 

Clad in the robe of innocence, 
Forth walk'd majestic man. 

Oh, had he lov'd the God, that stamp'd 

His image on the clay, 
\nd had he kept his gentle law, 

How fair had been his way ! 

Cut whirling in a thoughtless course, 

Ingloriously he fell, 
And sadly does my song forbear, 

That mournful fall to tell. 

For as a stream whose restless wave 
Forsakes its parent source, 

Ungrateful man has found his way. 
Embitter'd with remorse. 



231 



VICTORY. 



WAFT not to me the blast of fame, 
That swells the trump of victory. 

For to my ear it gives the name 
Of slaughter, and of misery. 

Boast not so much of honour's sword, 
Wave not so high the victor's plume ; 

They point me to the bosom goar'd, 

They point me to the blood-stain'd tomb. 

The boastful shout, the revel loud, 

That strive to drown the voice of pain, 

What are they but the fickle crowd 
Rejoicing o'er their brethren slain ? 

And ah, through glory's fading blaze, 

I see the cottage taper, pale, 
Which sheds its faint and feeble rays, 

Where unprotected orphans wail : 

Where the sad widow weeping stands, 
As if her day of hope was done : 

Where the wild mother clasps her hands. 
And asks the victor for her son : 



232 

Where the lone maid in secret sighs 
O'er the lost solace of her heart^ 

As prostrate, in despair, she lies, 
And feels her tortur'd life depart : 

Where midst that desolated land, 
The sire lamenting o'er his son. 

Extends his weak and powerless hand* 
And finds its only prop is gone. 

See, how the bands of war and woe 
Have rifled sweet domestic bliss : 

And tell me if your laurels grow, 
And flourish in a soil like this ? 



THE FIRST WINTRY MORNING. 



AWAKE ! and let the grateful lay 
With joy to Heaven's high palace rise. 

Before the bright, rejoicing day 
Returns to light the glowing skies : 



^33 

Before the throng shall leave their beds, 
Their various labours to pursue ; 

Before the smoke, aspiring spreads 
Its curling volumes light and blue. 

The flowers that in their sweetness rose, 
The mountain's bosom to adorn, 

Now hide their meek and drooping brows. 
Before the stern and wintry morn. 

The plants that once with joy elate, 
Now shrink before the wintry gloom, 

Remind my spirit of the state, 
To which must haste our youthful bloom. 

But when these charms, so bright and frail, 
Shall shrink, and wither, and decay, 

Say, is there nought to countervail 
The good that time shall take away ? 

There is a joy that lights the eye, 

When beauty, youth, and strength are past, 
When all our earthly pleasures fly, 

Like leaves before the wintry blast. 

There is a joy that checks the throng 
Of chilling cares, and sorrow's shock, 

That strikes its anchor, deep and strong, 
In Heaven's imperishable rock. 



234 

Grant me this joy, and when my soul 
Her farewell to the world shall sigh ; 

When unknown seas heneath me roll, 
And lift their deathful billows high ; 

Then when my frail and fainting sight, 
To this receding world is dim, 

The lustre of my Saviour's light 

Shall brightly mark my way to Him. 



TO A FRIEND, ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH 
ANNIVERSARY OF HER MARRIAGE. 



YOU say, that life to you has been 

A mixM and chequerM dream, 
That hours, and days, and years have flown, 

As rapid as a stream. 

You tell me that your youthful prime 

Like morning shadows past, 
That every year of fleeting time 

Grew shorter till the last. 



235 

You tell me that those days of dread, 
That fill the heart with pain, 

Will be remember'd like the shade, 
That ne'er returns again. 

But if a more extended space, 
Than I on earth have known, 

Should leave so light, so faint a trace 
As scarcely to be shown j 

Oh, what is life ? Let wisdom meek 

Return the slow reply, 
Say, what is life ? To move, to speak. 

To look around and die. 



THE RAINBOW. 



THE glowing arch, that crowns the passing 

storm, 

And sooths the angry thunders as they rise. 
Lifts o'er the watry cloud its lovely form, 



36 



And sheds its glory o'er the bending skies, 
With radiance caught from Heaven, hut quick re 
ceding dies. 

The eye that loves to view its dazzling rays, 
And rove with rapture o'er its melting grades, 
And glad prolong its unahating gaze, 
Yet strives in vain to mark the varying shades, 
Where one soft tint begins, and where a softer 
fades. 

So shines the path of virtue, bright and fair, 
With gentle traces, and soft blending lines, 
Her train of duties scarcely shewing where, 
One woos the soul, or one her charge resigns, 
Till in a stream of light, the finish'd glory shines. 



THOUGHTS ON CHILDHOOD. 



STILL roves the mind among the varied scenes 
Of former days ; and pausing as she treads 
Their chequer'd paths, she seems to hear a sound 



237 



Like Ossian's music, pleasant to the ear, 
And mournful to the soul. It is the voice 
Of days departed, and I seem to hear 
Their chiding spirit borne upon the blast. 
May I escape the pale and gliding ghosts 
Of mispent hours ; be shielded from their glance 
Dark and terrific ; rather may I hear 
The plaintive murmurs of those hours of woe 
Long past, but not forgotten. They are like 
The troubled sighing of the eastern gale, 
Passing o'er broken ruins. But a breath, 
Sweet as the sigh of morn, mild as the breeze 
That sweeps the harp of Eolus, meets my ear. 
Days of my childhood, is not this thy voice 
So changeful and so sweet ? Ah ! well I know 
That doubtful melody : it sooths my soul. 

I see the pictur'd hours, I see the shades 
Of infancy and mental darkness pass, 
As I have seen the night's dim shadows fleet. 
Forth steps the morning on the misty hills, 
Trembling and unconfirmed ; and the dim lamp 
Of reason, scarcely lighted, aids her dawn. 
While slowly on a dark mysterious world 
Enters a stranger, but of little note 
Save to the eye of fond parental love. 

Spirit, universal and unseen ! 
Prompting the heart of man to kindest deeds 
Of care, forbearance, or anxiety, 



238 



Teaching the eye to flow, the heart to beat. 
The knee that never bent to bend in prayer : 
Kind nurse of life, how much we owe thy pow'r! 
To thee we owe it, that our feeble race, 
More helpless than the brutes, are not like them 
Suffered to perish. 'Tis thy secret hand 
That lifts the young mind like some sickly plant 
To see the light, to taste the dews of heaven, 
To feel the sun-beams, shielding its soft leaves 
From chill unkindness, that dire frost of life ; 
Propping its stalk, and cherishing its buds ; 
Leading the fragrant waters to its root, 
And taking thence the noxious weeds, that seek 
To drink its moisture, withering every hope. 

pure affection ! waken'd with the sigh 
Of infancy still wheresoe'er I go 
Cheer my lone spirit, and Oh, suffer not 
My numerous errors to abate thy glow, 
Warmer than friendship, and more fix'd than love. 



**.-***#**#* 

THE CREATION. 

BEING tfie first number selected as a specimen of a 
series of pieces on scripture subjects, intended for 
the use of young people. 

WHEN night and Chaos reign'd with awful 

sway, 

And o'er the unform'd earth thick darkness lay, 
The Almighty voice awoke the kindling strife. 
And call'd the dormant elements to life. 

" Let there be light ;" a sudden ray there came, 
Like ether, pure, and piercing as the flame ; 
" Let day arise ;" a blush of purple flowM ; 
The young dawn trembled, and the morning 

glow'd ; 

" Let night divide the empire of tlie day," 
And frowning darkness claim'd his ancient sway. 

Then like an arch the azure skies were rear'd, 
The seas were gather'd, and the earth appealed ; 
Clad with fresh flowers, and plants of gentle root, 
Herb yielding seed, and tree presenting fruit. 

Then, where the curving skies the Ocean prest, 
The Sun, all glowing, darted from his rest ; 



240 



Pale cast the moon her first, and timid glance, 
And the stars sparkled o'er the blue expanse. 

Mild Ocean's waves with scaly silver glow'd, 
Birds soarM in air, and hover'd o'er the flood ; 
Above, around, the tones of rapture sigh'd, 
" Live, and rejoice," the forming God reply'd, 
" Sport on the cloud, and thro* the waters glide." 

Next, rising slow, a mix'd and varied birth, 
Unnumbcr'd beasts came roving o'er the earth, 
They crept, they sported wild, they stalk'd with 

pride, 

Or cropt the grass, or drank the limpid tide ; 
Some, with aw'd gaze, the wondrous scene sur 
vey 'd, 
And some slept fearless, in the cooling shade. 

Serene, the great Creator clos'd his plan, 

And stamp'd his image on the form of man ; 

Gave life and motion to a mass of clay, 

Eye speaking thought, and brow denoting sway, 

Reason to judge, and majesty to awe, 

Sole monarch, holding sway o'er all he saw. 

Last, came a female form, more soft and fair, 
And Eden smil'd to see the stranger there. 

Then tones of joy, from harps seraphic rung. 
The stars of Morning in their courses sung, 



241 



Earth echo'd back the shout of grateful love, 
From hill and valley, cavern, stream and grove 3 
Man fill'd with praise in silent rapture stood, 
God bow'd to view his work, and God pronounc'd 
it good. 



TO A FRIEND. 



SAY, hast thou seen a trembling plant, 
Of feeble bloom, and lowly birth, 

Which every passing blast might bend, 
In sadness to its mother earth ; 

'Till some kind hand would pierce the shade, 
That hid it from the cheering sky ? 

Thine is that gentle culturing hand : 
The weak and trembling plant am I. 

And while that plant of life shall taste, 
And press this low and earthly spot, 

The hand that rearM it from the waste. 
Shall never, never, be forgot ! 



VLTUMNAL SCENE. 



TO a friend, in whose company the author had untness- 
edafine autumnal evening exhibition of clouds, from 
the bridge on Connecticut River, at Hartford. 



WHILE faded nature meekly bends, 
To wear the robe that Autumn lends, 
How sweet her varying scenes to trace, 
Her changeful and retiring grace ; 
While from the bridge that arches high, 
The alter'd landscape meets the eye ! 
The leafless trees, by winds distrest, 
The shore, with lingering verdure drest, 
The passing sails that slowly glide, 
The river's deep, majestic tide, 
Which rolling on, with gathered force 
From northern climes, in torrents hoarse, 
Here spreads a mirror, smooth and free, 
And seeks in haste the expecting sea. 

And then that bold, aspiring tow'r, 
Like chieftain rising in his pow'r, 
Whose graceful form, and brow sublime, 
Overlooks the crowd, and smiles at time ; 
Where gleam the city's fair retreats, 



243 

Her thronging roofs, and busy streets, 
Where wealth, with active labour meets ; 
Her distant groves, her lofty domes, 
Her holy spires, and cottage homes. 
And then, beyond, a distant scene 
Of cultur'd vales, extending far, 
All clad in Autumn's latest green, 
And shelter'd from the storm of war. 

And lo, upon the western sky, 
What glowing scenes attract the eye, 
Where wildly spreads in bright array 
The pageantry of closing day ; 
Whose azure eye with frequent glance 
Looks gaily through the wide expanse, 
To greet the clouds that throng to pay 
Their homage to her gentle sway. 
For though no sounding herald calls 
To warn them from their airy halls, 
Yet still they summon all their pow'r. 
To cheer and gild the festive hour. 

Some rob'd in white with snowy breast. 
Look from the windows of the west, 
And some, to join the mystic dance, 
With fair and glowing brow, advance $ 
Float sparkling on, retire, or roam, 
Like trembling lamp on Ocean's foam ; 
While mingling in their sportive race. 
And flitting light from place to place. 



244 

A glittering train the eye may trace. 
Like champions gay, with crimson vest, 
And golden helm, and saffron crest, 
Who lift the lance with gesture light. 
And hasten to the Woodless fight. 

Then rise a few, in purple robe, 
Like kings to rule this rolling glohe, 
-In solemn state, with massy shield, 
And sceptre all in shades conceal'd : 
But close involv'd in deeper gloom, 
And thick'ning, gathering, as they come., 
A sable train with aspect dread, 
Like warring hosts with muffled tread 
Approach, and cast with angry sweep, 
Their fearful shadow o'er the deep. 

Beneath their frown, these glories fade. 
And all the scene is wrapt in shade, 
For aged night, with envious eye, 
Beheld the joyous revelry, 
And sent that veilM and hostile train, 
To shroud it with the hue of pain. 

But gleaming o'er the mountain's breast, 
Just where its summit meets the west, 
A little spot of light is seen, 
All fair, and tranquil, and serene ; 
So pure, that no rude cloud may dare 
To cast its slightest image there : 



245 

So bright, as if its veil unfurl'd 
The entrance to a better world. 

From thence, the sun, releasM from toil, 
Has shed his soft, departing smile, 
And glittering through a dewy tear, 
Fled gladly to another sphere. 

Perchance, this scene with beauty fraught. 

Was shewn to wake suhlimer thought ; 

Perchance, was spread this evening sky, 

To lure the fixM, enrapturM eye, 

To trace upon its varying roll, 

An emblem of the virtuous soul, 

Who toiling on, through blasts of strife. 

And shades of woe, and storms of life, 

Perceives a mansion, pure and blest, 

A cloudless sky, a ceil of rest, 

And pressing on, where sorrows cease, 

Thus sheds the parting beam of peace. 

And quick, my trembling measure takes 
The wish this glowing scene awakes, 
Not that which decks the polisliM line, 
Where art and melody combine, 
But from a heart where feeling sighs, 
And grateful memory lifts her eyrs, 
That warm and ardent wish will rise, 
That such a cell of peace divine, 
And such a rest in Heaven be thine. 



246 



ON THE CONVENTION AT HARTFORD. 



DZCIMBEB 15th, 1814. 



SAY, who are these that tread the darken'd scene. 
With cautious step and deeply thoughtful air ? 
No crested helmet shades their lofty mien, 
No angry dart, or warring sword, they bear, 
And though their glance is bold, their brows are 
mark'd with care. 

Around their locks a half-form'd wreath is thrown, 
Whose fading leaves, the deepning gloom increase, 
Twin'd from a plant, now exil'd and unknown, 
For whose return the prayer shall never cease, 
The sacred olive fair, that marks the men of peace. 

Tho' prompt to ward the near impending stroke, 
And guard of freedom's stream the vital source, 
They tempt no conflict, no revenge provoke, 
But meet oppression in its daring course, 
With wisdom's ample shield, of Heaven attem- 
per*d force. 

Ye sages firm ! in dark and troubled times, 
To you, in accents sad, your country sighs, 



247 



In days of discord, violence, and crimes, 
Her guardians, and her friends, she sees you rise, 
Like ancient heroes bold, as humble Christians 
wise. 

She sees no party views your aspects shroud, 
No rash resolves your steady course pervert, 
And points you high above the arching cloud, 
Where round the throne of Him who knows the 

heart, 
Bright watchful seraphs stand, and mark your 

arduous part. 

Ye sages just ! the record of these days, 
Shall beam afar beyond your last abode, 
What now your counsels, or your hands, shall 

raise, 

The sword, the shield, the balance, or the rod, 
Will rise before your souls in the dread day of 

God. 

For you the secret prayer to Heaven ascends, 
To Heaven for you, assembled hosts implore, 
When to the earth the contrite spirit bends, 
Or saints the tears of pure devotion pour, 
Your names escape their lips, while they their 
God adore. 



248 



THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE DESTRUCTION 
OF THE RICHMOND THEATRE 



WHENCE were those sounds that swept upon 

the gale, 

And swell'd with echoes strange the troubled air ? 
They seem'd like sorrow's agonizing wail, 
The shriek of woe, the moaning of despair. 

Where is that lofty pile with arches long, 
And ample walls, and oft frequented door, 
Wliose evening tapers lur'd a sprightly throng, 
To taste the pleasures of dramatic lore ? 

Oh, spare the dread recital ! Let the stones 
Which the still glowing embers half conceal, 
Those blackened ruins, and those calcin'd bones. 
The truth, that mocks the aid of speech, reveal. 

The polish'd hand, the heav'n illumin'd face, 
The eye that spoke the feelings of the soul, 
The brow of beauty, and the form of grace, 
Lie scorch'd and shrivell'd, like a parching scroll. 

For while the unfolding plan, the changeful part, 
With hope, or fear, alternate mark'd the mien. 



249 

At once ! a real terror fill'd the heart, 

And bursting flames involved the mimic scene. 

And pressing on, where sinking columns blaz'd, 
Through folding clouds of suffocating smoke, 
And rushing o'er the fall'n, with breathless haste. 
The frenzied croud, in wild confusion broke. 

The speechless father like a maniac mov'd, 
His fainting daughter clasping to his breast, 
The youth in anguish bore the maid he lov'd, 
But death and agony must shade the rest. 

O scene of horror ! Night of deep despair ! 
How each gay prospect, clad in fairest light, 
Fades at the storm of grief, or cloud of care, 
And sinks oblivious, in the gloom of night ! 

O bliss of earth ! How bright and insincere j 
Unworthy of the pains we all bestow ! 
The proudest hopes that deck this dazzling sphere 
But tempt the blast, and urge the darts of woe. 

Then let us seek the joys of heavenly birth, 
Which the fierce flame, that lights the day of 

doom, 

And melts the basis of the solid earth, 
May purify, but never can consume. 



350 



WRITTEN ON SEEING AN ECLIPSE OF 
THE MOON. 



GENTLE night's resplendent queen. 

Of fair and placid brow ; 
Whither has fled thy smile serene, 

And where thy beauty now ? 

A blackening shade deforms thine eye, 
A curtain dark and base ; 

Sad emblem of the spots that dim 

* 

Our own imperfect race. 

But, Planet, in a distant sphere 
Where some, perchance, may gaze, 

Thy visage still is pure and clear, 
And unobscur'd thy rays. 

And thus there is a better land, 
Remote from cloud or strife, 

Where constant virtue shines unstain'd. 
And free from mists of life. 



251 



GENERAL ST. CLAIR. 



, and forgotten by his Country, poor and 
in obscurity, on one of the Attegany Mountains, in 
1815, icas still living the venerable Patriot. 



DEEP in the western wild a mountain rose, 
Its base was green, its summit white with snows, 
Its shaggy cliffs were brown with endless shade, 
While on its bosom humid vapours play'd, 
And the soft sun-beams shunn'd it half afraid. 

Its cold, slow streams without a murmur crept, 
Or bound in icy bands like prisoners slept, 
Save where the headlong cataract would dash 
Across the strong roots of the mountain ash ? 
And sounding, rending, whirling in its course, 
Pour on the distant vale its gather'd force. 

And tho* a summer breeze would sometimes sigh 
Among the trees whose branches sought the sky, 
The ruffian winds with wild and jealous sway 
Would drive the trembling stranger far away. 

And here, thought I, might misery reside, 
Siillen regret, or disappointed pride, 
Or sick seclusion sigh o'er errors past, 



252 

Or mourning frailty seek repose at last, 

Or here remorseful agony might weep, 

Or stern misanthropy her vigils keep, 

Or in these midnight cells might murder wait, 

To lure the thoughtless traveller to his fate, 

Or men like fiends, forever lost to shame, 

Might perpetrate such deeds as have no name. 

Yet in the centre of this fearful wood, 

High on a cliff a rustic cahin stood ; 

It seem'd not like the secret haunt of guilt, 

"Where groans of anguish rise, and blood is spilt s 

But such as pining want would not refuse, 

And what unshelterM poverty might choose. 

Forth from its humble door unheeded goes, 
A man of many years, and many woes ; 
His eye was on the earth, his step was meek, 
The mountain winds blew coldly on his cheek, 
And on his mantle thin their vengeance seem'd 

to wreak. 

He brighter paths, and better days, had seen, 
And high in honour's envied list had been ; 
Yet for no deed of wrong, no hateful crime, 
Pass'd he in solitude his exil'd time : 
Ah no ! if doubts like these within thee rise, 
Muse on his brow, and then those doubts despise. 
A mild and manly dignity is there, 
TbV mark'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with care, 
Yet not obscur'd by shame, or darken'd by despair ; 



253 



And all abstracted from the world he seem'd, 
As if of other climes and spheres he dream' d ; 
For as he rov'd, the mental eye he cast 
Darkly on days, and hopes, forever past, 
And something like reproach he might have said, 
B ut said it not and meekly bow'd his head. 
Not thus he looked, when in the hall of state, 
The list'ning crowd approved the wise debate ; 
Not thus he mov'd, when to the trumpets clang, 
The rending earth, and hollow mountains rang, 
And darkening war-clouds gathered o'er the plain, 
And the high steed disdain'd the rider's rein. 

For this sad man was once his country's pride^ 
Bred in her camps, and in her councils tried ; 
And when she first, serene in youthful charm, 
Gave her weak hand to prop a mother's arm, 
His dark eye flash'd, and on he rush'd to know 
A soldier's want, and weariness, and woe j 
Dauntless in danger, unsubdu'd by pain, 
'Till gladness sparkled in her eye again. 

And when, in later times, a host was seen, 
\Vith haughty step to print her vallies green, 
And she arose with strength, he with her rose,, 
And firmly aim'd his falchion at her foes; 
Assum'd the statesman's robe, the warrior's crest, 
Mov'd when she call'd, and where she pointed^ 

prcst. 

For her his arm was bar'd, his bosom burn'd. 
88 



254 



For her his wakeful eye to Heaven was turn'd ; 
Nor deem'd it much that in her hour of woe, 
He, toil, and pain, and agony should know $ 
And little reck'd he that her hour of strife 
Should claim the strength and glory of his life ; 
But dream'd not once that she, for whom he rov'd, 
Would ever glance upon him, unapprov'd ; 
Or through his panting side, with fury rude, 
Plunge the sharp point of dire ingratitude ; 
Or turning from him with a demon's rage, 
Strew with fresh thorns, the journey of his age. 

Vet O my country, slumb'ring on the steep, 
That beetles fiercely o'er the foaming deep, 
A voice is on the breeze ; unseal thine eyes, 
The still, small voice of injur'd merit cries: 
Arouse thine ancient spirit, rush to save 
A suffering servant, e'er he seek his grave. 

man of sorrows ! who wert wont to bear, 
Ev'n in thy youth the agony of care, 
Who like a rock in times of danger rose, 
Be greatly firm to bear thy weight of woes. 
Vet'ran, be firm ! for on a threshold dread, 
Thy weary, unsupported foot does tread, 
The threshold of the grave ; yet if no sin, 
No poison'd spring of action boil within, 
If on the arm of Deity thou trust, 
Mix, free from terror, with thy kindred dust. 
A day there is when thou shalt wake from sleep. 



ass 



A world there is where thou shalt never weep, 
It brightly gleams o'er Jordan's troubled flood; 
A land where vice shall feel the avenger's rod, 
And virtue's sons in faith behold their God. 



ON AN INFANT, 



WHOSE COCXTEJJANCE DISCOVERED UNCOMMON TRACES OI 
THOUGHT. 



SAY, on that brow with beauty fraught, 
What hand has mark'd so deep a trace, 

And given that cast of pensive thought, 
To what might seem an angel's face ? 

Parental care supplies thy want, 
Fulfills each wish thy soul can form, 

And spares no art to shield the plant 
Of promise from the adverse storm. 

No grief has given thy sigh to flow, 
Nor has for guilt thy bosom bled $ 

And thou hast never paid to woe 
The tear that love for thee has shed. 



236 

The cares that fright the smile of sleep, 
And slowly steal away our'hloom, 

The time to mourn, to muse, to weep, 
To thee, sweet babe, are yet to come. 

Yet who that loves with eye serene 
On peace and innocence to look, 

Would haste to pierce the sable screen, 
That curtains fate's eventful book ? 

No let its doubtful page of pains, 
In Heaven's decreed oblivion rest ; 

Nor murmur, while this truth remains, 
That what our God ordains, is best. 

And though affection's eager hand 
Might seek to snatch more joy for thee. 

Dear infant, than thy God" has plann'd, 
For this short life of vanity j 

Yet if his love will guide thy ways, 
And light devotion's holy fire, 

And let thee breathe in Heaven his praise. 
What more for thee, can man desire ? 



257 



INVOCATION TO SOLITUDE AND THE 
MUSE. 



COME, silent nymph ! who lov'st the evening 

shade. 

Whose gentle step scarce prints the fallen dew. 
Whose still small voice, ah, holy musing maid ! 
Would charm my early hours when life was new : 
Oh, come with her who on thy arm reclines, 
With angel features, and an eye of fire, 
Amid the loose folds of whose garment shines, 
But half conceal'd, a sweet and magic lyre. 
Her form as light as aspen when it sighs, 
And answers to the breeze that swells and dies, 
When on the cloud she soars, or skims the main, 
Or stoops that mortal ear may hear her strain. 

Oft has she gently paus'd with mute caress, 
That I, with infant hand, her strings might press 
Her soften'd aspect beaming looks of love, 
As fearful o'er the lyre my hand would move ; 
And all unknown the cause, I breath'd the sigh, 
And soft unconscious tears o'erflo\v'd the eye, 
While round me pourM the solemn minstrelsy. 

Oft leading fancy's train she sports with youth, 
Or lights the sage's eye with rays of truth ; 



58 



With reason then she holds her measured tread, 
And seeks the path where wisdom's flowers are 

shed ; 

Next hand in hand with hope her track pursues, 
And brighter worlds in raptur'd vision views j 
Now aids the prayer of piety to breathe, 
Gives light to life, or calms the hour of death. 
O deign, celestial pair ! my hours to cheer, 
Thy soft entrancing music let me hear, 
Awake such sounds as o'er the silent plain, 
In tones harmonious cheerM the shepherd train, 
While Heav'nly splendour through the concave 

gleam'd, 
4nd faith beheld a ruin'd world redeem'd. 



VICISSITUDES OF NATURE. 



SEE from her secret cell, with changeful vest, 
And purple blush, approach returning day. 
With gentle smiles her youthful brow is drest, 
And as she moves upon the sunny ray, 
In sportive wreaths her glowing ringlets play f 



259 



Then coy, and veil'd, her parting vigil keeps, 
Or bathes her forehead in the Ocean spray ; 
Then closely wrapt in twilights' mantle, sleeps, 
Wakes at the call of morn, and as she rises, 
weeps. 

Night changes too ; tho* like a mourner clad, 
In sable suit, she passes o'er the scene, 
Her eye is dark, tho* not forever sad, 
But sparkles when the mild, majestic queen 
Moves from her palace with a step serene; 
And o'er her robe a tinge of silver spreads, 
And tipp'd with rays, her ebon wand is seen, 
While her attendant stars decline their heads, 
Wait for her sceptred nod, and tremble as she 
treads. 

The graceful year in every garb appears, 
First, sad and lonely, wrapt in chilling showers j 
And then a bashful child with artless fears, 
Next as a blooming maiden crown'd with flowers ; 
Now like a matron lulls the infant hours, 
With softest tones, of sweet melodious chime, 
Then weak and hoary with enfeebled powers, 
And bent beneath the heavy hand of time, 
And last with magic strange, renews her youthful 
prime. 

Whether the circling year with glowing locks, 
Or infant smiles, or weary step should rove> 



260 



Or dark with storms that rend the solid rocks, 
Or cloth'd in rays that gild the nodding grove, 
Or in her rapid flight, rejoicing move, 
Still to the mortal eye, each change is fair, 
And still awakes the strain of grateful love, 
From the meek soul that feels its Maker's care, 
And sees Him in His works, and loves to praise- 
Him there. 



MORNING PRAYER. 



GIVER of light ! who point'st the glorious sun 
His destin'd way, and callest every star 
Forth by its name, and causcst day and night 
To know their order, and to speak thy praise ; 
All powerful God ! to whom creation sings 
Her morning matins, let my mingling prayer 
Rise with the chorus, while the trembling dawn 
Dispels the shadows, and the damps of night. 

Go forth, my soul, on high devotion's wing, 
And bear thy first vows to thy Maker's ear, 



261 



E'er nature wakes, or the rejoicing aun 
Looks from his chamber on the rising morn. 

thou ! whose throne is in the circling Heavens, 
Where the vcilM seraphs stand ; thou wilt not 

scorn 

The incense of the heart, for thou dost know 
My frame, and thou rememberest I am dust. 

But yet thine hand did mould this mass of clay, 
And thy breath quicken it : nor should I blush 
To lift my face to thee, to speak thy name, 
And call thee Father, had not sin so stain'd, 
Marr'd, and defac'd thy work. Still be my God, 
Bend to my prayers, and send thy Spirit forth 
To heal, and to enlighten, and to save. 

Oh, as a parent guides and guards a child, 
Oft wandering, yet belov'd, so guide thou me 
This day. From inward foes, and hidden ills, 
From snares of youth, from treachery of man, 
Fruitless resolves, and fancies roving wild, 
From vanity, and pride, and dark deceit, 
Or whatsoever else might w ake the sting 
Of conscience, wound another's peace, or break 
Thy holy law, save me this day, God : 
And let a warning voice say to my soul, 
The pure and watchful eyes of the Higli Judge 
Are on thy ways, and still a viewless pen 
Moves, never weary, to record thy words, 



262 



Thy deeds, and hidden motives, on a page, 
Not perishable, which the flame that burns 
The scorch'd and shrinking Heavens, shall so 

unfold, 

That every eye may read. O God, thou know'st 
All my temptations, my adversities, 
My weaknesses and errors ; suit thy gifts 
Unto my needs, and not to my deserts 
Imperfect. But so guide me on this earth, 
That when I leave it, I may see thy face 
In peace, and sin no more. So shall my prayer 
Rise ceaseless to thee ; and my soul shall rest 
Upon thine arm of love, through every scene 
Of this day's good or ill, or life or death. 
And let my song of praise, O mighty God, 
Rise with acceptance from this house of clay, 
This earthly tenement, soon rent and broke : 
And let me on the cold, dark flood of death 
Be joyful in thee : let me wake the harp 
Of seraph rapture, hymning to the praise 
Of Him who was, and is, and is to come, 
When time shall be no more, and death shall die ; 
And ages after ages rolling on, 
Fill not the circle of Eternity. 



AT MID-DAY. 



THOU art in every place, Being Supreme ! 
Best seen and worship'd, in thy court above, 
Yet here on earth thy countenance doth beam 
With rays of terror, majesty, and love, 
Vnd joys unspeakable thy smile do move ; 
And none may veil him from thy piercing sight, 
Escape thine hand, or from thy presence rove ; 
Or hide in secret cells close wrapt in night, 
For unto thee the darkness shineth as the light. 

Thou dwellest where the curtain'd whirlwinds hide ; 
Where the arm'd thunder walks his lofty round , 
Thou on the tempest of the night dost ride, 
Flames mark thy path, and clouds thy car sur 
round, 

And mighty winds are rous'd, and surging bill- 
lows sound, 

While from thine eye the winged lightnings part j 
Thou in the highest arch of Heaven art found ; 
In the dark regions of the earth thou art, 
And in the humble mansion of the contrite heart. 

With fear I bow me at thine awful seat ; 
How to thy holy presence dare I press ! 



264 



But hark $ a. voice celestial seems to meet 

My waiting ear, and my intrusion bless, 

-** Spread before me your wants and your distress, 

Upon mine arm of strength your burdens cast, 

An intercessor fills the holy place." 

I come ; the hour of terror now is past, 

I trust thou wilt not leave me comfortless at last. 

Oh ! if the storms of life with bitter rage, 
Upon my sad, unshelter'd head should blow, 
If trembling down the cold, dark steep of age, 
My weak and unsupported step should go, 
My heart all sunk with weariness and woe, 
Or wheresoe'er my unknown path shall tend, 
Still let my bosom at thy presence glow, 
Still let my ceaseless prayers to thec ascend, 
And ever to my wants thy kind compassion lend. 



EVENING PRAYER. 



WHILE slow and soft the evening ray expires, 
And lights devotion's meek, unwavering fires, 
While dark rob'd night, on her composing breast, 



205 



Lulls all the vexing cares of earth to rest, 
My soul once more from vain delusions free, 
Lifts up her hopes and her desires to thee ; 
Low at thy much lov'd name her spirits bend, 
Eternal Father, and eternal Friend ! 
Still as thine hand my op'ning journey gilds, 
Thine arm supports me, and thy favour shields ; 
My hoard supplies, my downy couch prepares, 
Gives all my gifis, and comforts all my cares. 
How can my heart such deeds of love forget ? 
How turn away from its increasing debt ? 
How hang on earthly hopes with fruitless pain, 
And wounded oft, so oft return again ? 
Yet while these scenes of joy around me rise, 
My conscious bosom heaves repentant sighs, 
Some turbid springs the chrystal fount pollute, 
Some noxious roots, display their bitter fruit, 
And ere the glow of grateful joy can rise, 
At memory's stern demand it fades and dies j 
" Have not thine eyes been blind, thy feelings cold ? 
Hast thou not wandered from thy shepherd's fold I" 
Oh, raise again thy suppliant ! let her see, 
Her hope renew'd, her pardon seal'd by thee, 
Her foot made firm to press this troubled soil, 
Her arm made strong, for each appointed toil, 
And when the heart shall ask, the knee shall bend, 
Still to those prayers thy favouring ear extend. 

Oh, break these ties of vanity, that bind 
In sway so strict the free, immortal mind* 

24 



266 



Unseal iny eyes, dispel the powers that keep 
The cold, dull heart in this perpetual sleep ; 
Let thy blest name awake my warmest praise, 
Thy presence awe me, and thy comforts raise, 
Thy Spirit cleanse, thy grace destroy my sin, 
Thy mercy soothe me when my days decline, 
Thine arm support me on that chilling flood 
Which shuts my mourning soul from Heaven and 
God. 

Oh, place hefore my eyes in sad array 
The solemn scenes of that departing day. 
The withered form, the weak and powerless hand, 
The chill, cold drops that on the temples stand, 
The faint, lost voice, the long and bursting sigh, 
The last light fading from the started eye, 
The slow, deep groan by racking torture wrung, 
The last, sad dirge by trembling mourner's sung, 
The ghastly cheek, the heaving bosom pain'd, 
The heart-strings rent, the nerve of anguish 

strain'd, 

The death-dews resting on the stiffen'd form, 
The ready pit, the darkness, and the worm ! 

Ev'n at this distant view my spirits fade, 

And life's quick pulse moves fluttering and afraid $ 

But hark ! a secret sound is in my ear, 

" Fear not (it seems to say,) for I am near ; 

For tho* this form of clay may sink in pain, 

From earth first drawn, and bound to earth again, 



267 



Yet no dark vault shall claim the deathless mind, 
No chains of hell the struggling soul shall bind, 
That like a captive naked and afraid, 
Perceives its fetters burst, its ransom paid, 
Its crimes eras'd, its many sins forgiven, 
And short the way to an accepting Heaven." 

This voice, everlasting Friend, is thine ! 
I cannot fear, or murmur, or repine j 
I rise securely, and securely sleep, 
For near my bed thy watchful spirits keep, 
And on my waking eye thine eye is bent, 
And to my feeble steps thine aid is lent, 
And on my ear thy voice of promise sighs, 
And in my heart thy planted hopes arise. 

What shall I dread tho* joy be drown'd in tears, 

And life be dark with frowns, and death with fears ? 

If thou wilt only deign my steps to guide, 

My heart to cheer, and o'er my thoughts preside ; 

Then with firm step each thorny path I'll tread, 

To trials bow my unrepining head, 

Bare my meek breast to each appointed dart, 

With calmness feel the last convulsive start, 

For thou wilt bear my sinking spirit up, 

God of my life, and fountain of my hope. 



PAGE 34 line 1st, for O Thou, read Tliou at. 
48 line 7th, for lay, read lie. 
49 line 7th, for trackess, read trackless. 
67 line 21st, for criteria, read criterion. 
80 line 12th, for Fraklin, read Franklin. 
J09 line 17th, for were, read wove. 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 



HARTFORD. 

Walter Mitchell, 3 
Ephraim Root, 
George Goodwin, Jr. 
Samuel Root, 
Wm. W. Ellsworth, 
Samuel Whiting, 
Lorenzo Bull, 
James S. Seymour, 
Charles Goodwin, 
D. Wadsworth, 10 
Lucius Bull, 
Luther P. Sargeant,- 
Samuel Tinker, 
Edward Caldwell, 
George Chase, 
Samuel G. Goodrich,, 
Noah A. Phelps, 
Henry Holmes, 
Fred.' W. Hotchklss, 
Charles L. Porter, 
John A. Hempsted, 
Arelyn Sedgwick, 
John Bennett, Jun. 
Henry Ml^ean, 
James Butler, 
Thomas Tryon, 
Frederick Bange, 
H. W. Huntington, 
Daniel P. Hopkins, 



George S. Butler^ 
Wanton Ransom, 
Mehitabel Wads- 
worth, 5 

Faith Wadsworth, 5 
Catherine Terry, 5 
Mary A. Cogswell, 2 
James H. Wells, 
James Ward, 
Orra Seymour, 
B. Hudson, 2 
J. Watson, -^^ 
Mrs. L. Watkinson, 
Maria T. Hudson, 2 
Mrs T. Chester, 
Amelia M. Phelps, 2 
Cypriam Nichols, - 
John Caldwell, 3 
Samuel Tudor, Jun. 
William Watson, 
George Goodwin, 2 
Mrs. O. Wutkinson, 
Nancy Watson, 2 
Nbrmand Smith, 
Zachariah Mills, 
George Putman, 
John H. Wells, 
Daniel Crowell, 
\aron Chapin, 
William Galhudet, 



Caleb Goodwin, 
Allyn Goodwin, 
Isabella Curtis, . . 
Dwell Morgan, 
J. K. Scarborough, 
William B. Dewitt, 
Michael Shepard, - 
James Thomas, 
William Lawrence, . 
James Moore, 
L. R. Griswold, 
Sarah C. Day, 
Lydia Coit, 
Mary T. Danforth, 
Benjamin Cramptonj 
A. Bigelow, Jun. 
Frederick Oakes, 
Elizabeth Buck, 
George J. Patten, 2 
Delia Williams, 2 
Eliza L. Royce, 
Martha Chenevard, 
Nathaniel Spencer, 
Mary Ann Lee, 
Harriot Kingsbury, 
Philip Saunders, 
Richard Montague; 
Henry Lathrop, 
David Ladd, 
Milter Fish> 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 



Miss Olcott, 


Geoge A, Steel, 


Amzi Porter, 


Thomas Lloyd, 


uabez R;pley, 


Anson Kilbom, 


Alfred A. Bradley, 


Jolm Trumbull, 


Ab^ail Andrews, 


Edward Perkins," 
Peter Thatcher, 


j Francis Strong, 
Mary Woodbndge, 


Eliza Boradman, 
Elizabeth Cowles, 


Ward &. Bartholo- ? 


T. Glover, 


Hiram Hart, 


mew, 5 


Amos Bull, 


Chauncey Sweet, 


Daniel Dewey, ^_ . 


Betsey Benton, 


Richard Cowles, 


Heman Bunce, 


E. S. Bellamy, 2 


Sidney Hart, 


Wm. Wadsworth, 


A- KJbourn, 


Lucy Scott, 


Charles Shepard r 


Hannah Marsh, 


Charlotte Cowles, 


Abby Beach, 


Jane Sigouniey, 


Alfred Cowles, 


Freeman Shepard, 
Ruth Goodwin, 


Elizabeth Carter, 
Nathaniel Terry, 10 


Truman Gridley, 
John Sweet, 


Daniel Hopkins, 


H. Hudson, 


/Fm. G. Andrus, 


Asa Farwell, 


Mary May, 


Catherine /relies, 


Sarah Hopkins, 
Emily Perkins, 


E. C. Lord, 
Moses Goodman, 


Joseph Burrows, 
George Norton, 


.Mary Ann Bull, 
Ruth Porter, 


icussel Pem~, 
Sarah H. Seymour, 


Samuel Tdletson, 
Edw;ird Porter, 


Delia Bull, 


Edwin Seymour, 


John Fairchild, 


Eunice Wadsworth; 


Jared Scarborough. 


Elizabeth /rhitman. 


Vancy Hopkins, 


East Hurtfod. 


Chester Hamlin, 


John Leffingwell, 


Sarah Belden, 


Gideon Huntley, 


Electa Kimberly, 


Lucretxa Sjiionds, 


.^edediah Hammond, 


George Smith, '" 


Titus Merrill, 


Haruch Huntley, 


Roderick Lawrence, 


Anna Roberts, 


Russell Crane, 


Ela Burnap, 
Joseph Church, 


Eljah Randall, 
Eiisha Anuerson, 


Putnam Churchill^ 

Elizabeth Gay, 


XutJian Morgan, 


Deborah Cotton, 


Susan Strong 1 , 


Tlios. Bclden, Jun. 


Anny Lester, 


Caroline Camp, 


John B. Williams, 


W 

Martha Flagg, 


osiali Bames, 


Susan Goodwin, 


John Ohnsted, 


John Treadwcll. 


S.,ml. Kellogg, Jun. 


Delia Piik.n. 




John King, -. 




Hcrtland. 


R Iph Wells, 


Windsor. 


r ulia Selden. 


H. A. Huntington, 


Xancy Ellsworth, 




Lucy Clapp, 


Xancy Gillet, 


n'ethersfield. 


Isaac Guernsey, 


Henrj- W.ls n, 


^lizabeth Cheste^ 


Joseph Fuller, 


Cleone Warner, 


"harlott Chester,* 


El zabeth Storer, 


Persia Drake. 


iulia Chester, 


Emel.ne Hall, 


East Windsor. 


Rebecca Mitchell, 


Joseph Trumbull, 2 


Miss H. Watson, 


'Ferny Hopkins, 


J. W. Copeland, 




' 'alv n Chap n, 


B. L. Hamlcn, 


Farmington. 


Hrrr.et B. Webb, 


W. A. Glover, 


M. Cowles, 


E. W.ll:;:ms,2d 


ftaac Jones, Jun. 2 


Hannuk Root, 


John Williams, 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES, 



Asher Robbins, 


Samuel S. Stebins, 


T. A. Marshall, 


Stephen M. Chester, 


Samuel I. Hitchcock, 


C. H. Hammond, 


Charles MitchelL 


John W. Strong, 


John Pope, 




Stephen G. Austin, 


T. M. Alston, 


Marlborough. 


T. Smith, 


George Morris, 


Dolly Petlis, 


I. P. Taylor, 


Joseph A. Kerr, 


Jeruslia Foote, 


Oliver E. Wdliams, 


James S. Burr, 


Mary Buell, 


Nathan R. Smith, 


E. F. Wickham, 


Daniel Smith, 


T. T. Whittlesey, 


G. B. Campbell, 




Apollas D. Bates, 


Chauncey I. Foot, 


Sitffield. 


Josiah Hooker, 


Miles Goodveur, 


Lucinda Hathaway, 


John B. Legare, 


John S. WaLh, 


Jonathan Pomeroy, 


J. H. Beuthuysen, 


Charles Jesup, 


Cloe L. Parsons. 


Thomas Turner, 2 


Nathan Smith, 




J. D. Wickham, 


Aeneas Monson, Jr. 


JfEW-HAVEA". 


Joseph Youle, 


George Rich, 


Wm. E. Gallaudet, 


Samuel H. Mead, 


John G. Shoolbred, 


G. W. Broome, 


Alexis Painter, 


Joseph H. Breck, 


Lydia Kingsly, 


Thomas M. Colston, 


Edward Allen, 


Sophia T. Pyncheon, 


Giles 11. Swan, 


R. J. Chesebrough, 


Holmes Maltby, 


Horace H. Still, 


Samuel C. Williams, 


Henry Hubbard,_ 


Samuel Griswold, Jr. 


John H. Kain, 


Sally Warner, 


George S. Robbins,- 


J. A. Fox, 


Nancy W. Goodrich, 


Ezekiel Sanford, 


Thomas Gray, 


Nathan Beers, - 


Simeon T. Kobbe, 


Horatio Gridley, 


Samuel P. Davis, 


William Nevins, 


Frederic White, 


Thomas Miles, 


Urinl Holmes, Jun. 


Horatio Conunt, 


S. G. Chu-ke, - 


Erasmus Norcross, 


T. S. Woodhull, 


Samuel Menvin, 


Elnathan Mitchell, 


George W. Stone., - 


Ijeonard A. Daggett, 


James Hillhouse, 2 


W. T. Gould, 


Isaac Mills, 


Theodocia Woolsey, 


\Vm. Codm.in, 


H. Aug-ur, Jun. 


Elizabeth Woolsey, 


Wm. C. Wetmore, 


John Clark, Jun. 


C. M. Leffingwell, 


Wm. W. Woolsey, 


W. Ilotchkiss, 


Augustus B. Street, 


Edward Clark, 


Jonathan Daggett, 


Genj. M. Woolsey, 


Thomas Munroe, - 


Miss Polly SmLtli, 


Henry E. Dwight^_ 


W C. Woodbr.dge. 


W. W. Forrest, 


Mary U. Lyon, 




Lewis Sc Jones, 


Marj- Dwight, ^ 


Humfihreyan ille. 


Elizabeth Gumming 1 , 


Laury M'oolsey, 


David Humphreys. 


Charles Crocker, 


Julia Ann Porter, ~- 




Giles Mansfield, 


J.imes A. Hillliouse, 


JfEW-LOX'nOJt. 


Peter Fergurson, 


John M. Woolsey, 


Jon. W. Perkins, 


Charles Dummer, 


\ug. L. Hillhouse, 


Ellen E. Perkins, - 


Miss S. Whittlesey, 


Mary Ann Ch:.ppatin 


Mary Perkins, 


Sims White, 


Benjamin Silliman, 2 


Lucretia Perkins, 


Thomas Dwight,^- 


Mrs. E. Trumbull, 2 


\. A. IVrk.ns, 


De.n'v> Kunberly, 


J. Davis, 

.-- 


1* M. WocKlIn-i'I 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 



Rev. Shaw Perkins, 
Elihu Crocker, 
Ann W. Peck, 
Mary W. Coit, 
Horace Munson, 
N. Burdick, Jr. 
Asa Avery, 
Joshua M. Young 1 , 
Alfred Pember. 

Colchester. 
Henry Champion, 
Israel Wells, 
R. Chamberlin, 
Otis Kellogg, 
Lucy Kellogg, 
Rensselaer Rathbun, 
Joseph Kinsman, 
Daniel Kellogg, 2d. 
Ruth Starks, 
Mary Braggins, 
David Deming, 
Nancy Watrous, 
Sarah Isham, 
Alvenus Cone, 
James Rud, 
Polly Tisdel, 
Nelson Bill, 
Charles C. P Goold, 
Wm. Worthington. 

Norwich. 

Thomas Hubbardf 
Calvin Goddard, 
D. L. Co t, 
James Stedman, 
Francis M. Cakwins, 
El.s a Leffingwill, 
Samuel Avery, 
Mary Strong, 
J. Huntington, 
Henry Nevens, 
H. Murray, 
David Austin, 
Luther Spalding, 
J. G. W. Trumbull, 
.Ann H. Lathrop, 



Harry Avery, 
David Nevms, 2 
Edward Thomas, 
George W. Lee, 
Joseph Huntington, 
G. L. L'Hommedieu, 
Ebenezer Bachus, 
Aaron Cleveland, 
Elizabeth Newbury, 
Lydia Spalding, 
Simeon Rud, 
Francis H. Perkins, 
Horace Colton, 
Judah Hart, 
Wm. Loring, 
Samuel Rudd, 
Ehsha Tracy, 
Abigail G. Carew, 
Dorcas Mansfield, - 
Ebenezer Carew, 
Charles J. Lanman, 
Harriet Clark, 
Faith T. Huntington, 
Mary Ann Hillhouse 

MIDDLETO JVJV. 

Elijah Hubbard, 
Mrs. Sebor, 
Mrs. Magill, 
Miss M. Wolcott, 
Mrs. Dekoven, 
Miss M. Alsop, 
Mrs. Shalor, 
John Alsop, 
Lucy Alsop, 
Ehz. Whitlesey, 
Mrs. Stirk, 
Mary Baury, 
Elizabeth Magill, 
Mrs. Macdonough, 
Martha Williams, 
Maria Mather, 
Richard Alsop, 
Mrs. N. Watklnson, 
Mrs. T. A. Mather, 
Lydia Hubbard, 
Eliza Storrs, 



Sally Southmayd, 
Miss C. B. Sage, 
Fane Andrews, 
Mary Hubbard. - 

North-Kittingsiovrth - 
Mabel Kelsey, 
Betsey Pierson. "~" 

FAIRFIELD.. 

Priscilla Ely, 
David Burr, 
Susana Hull, 
Stephen Beers. 

Stratford. 
Mrs. Divereux, 3 
S. W. Johnson, 3 
A. F. Johnson, 2 
Mary L.Rexford, 
Catherine O. Walker 
Mary Ann Booth, 
Elizabeth Lovejoy, 
Matthew R. Dutton, 
Wm. A. Tomlinson, 
Elijah Mai-shall, 
Miss S. How, 
Mrs. Otis, 
Asa Curtis, . . 
M. Nicoll, 
James Baker, 
Ann Poor, , 
Frederick Olmstead. 
Alice Coe, 
Maria C. M'Ewen, 
Sarah Judson, 
Sidney Wetmore., 
Mrs. Rudd. 

JVonvaflc. 
Samuel Burcalf, 
A. & H. Beers, 
Moris Bulkley, 
Daniel Smithj 
Esther M. Cannom 
Txivi Clinton, 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 



Danbury. 


Jesse Sterling, 


Amos Cone, 


John W. Gold, 


Rowland Sherman, 


Rev. D. D. Rosseen., 


Alexander Shaw, 


William Wright, - 


Mabel Dart, 


Z'*x Joyce, 


Agor Beach, 


Amasa Bridges, Jr. 


S. Osburn, .^ 


Wm. Roberts, Jr. 


Martin Shepard, 


Eunice Seeley, 


Timothy Pettit, 


Josiah Strong, Jr; 


Daniel Rowland, 


Eliza Hubbell, 


Ichabod Warner, 


Dyer Whitmore, 


ohn W. Lamb, - 


Sally JFilliams, 


Hariot Whitlcsey, 


Catherine Hubbell, 


Eunice M'Cray, 


Evelina Comstock, 


Mary Ann Foot, 


Nat. Hammond, 


James Warner, 


jucretia Camfieldj 


Solomon Strong, 


Thomas Johnston, 


Mmerra Peit, 


Daniel Lord, Jr. 


Benjamin S. Jarris, 


..aTinia Blackman, 


Eunice Loomiss, 


Elias Sanford, 


^aura Hubbell, 


John Pettit. 


William Andrus, 


J olly Lewis, 




"Samuel Trucely, jr. 
Catherine Cooke, 
Elij:ih Foot, 
Ira Hodges, 
Eliz. Townsend, 
Hezekiah Nickols,. 
John Fn r , 


iaiTiot Brooks, 
larriot Edwads, 2 
H. F. Edwards, 2 
Mrs. C. Cannon, 
Abigail Rochford. 

LITCHFIELD. 


/L'tluOVCF. 

Achsah Loomis;, 
Betsey Duggett, 
Harvey Kingsbury, 
Sophia Ensworth, 
Emilia Loomis, 
Russel Gilbert^ 


Josiah B. Weed, 
Joseph Robinson, - 
Stephen Gregory, jr. 
Oliver Burr, 


Frederick W T olcott, 
Uriel Holmes, 
Morris Woodruff. 


Alanson Fox, - 
Mary BUtckman, 
Ann House, 
Mary Sprague. 


Platt Benedict, 


Sharon. 


Hebron. 


Henry French. 


John Cotton Smith, 2 


Sarah Shepard, - 




Margaret Smith, 


Sally Sumner, 


Tnimbull. 


Helen Smith, - 


Abby Maria Gilbert 


Betsey Slater. 


El;za Canh'eld, 


Andrew Wells, 




Bulah H. Muton, 


Samuel Peters, 


Black Rock. 


Eliza Everston. 


Rubin Godfrey, 


Hetty Sayre. 




Joel Phelps, 




Goshen. 


Henry Strong, 


Bridgeport. 


N. Buel. 


William Scot, 


Porter Sturges, 




Jonathan Page, 


Nathaniel S. Hubbell 


Watertovm. 


Almira Gillet, 


Elijah Waterman, 


John H. DeForest. 


John Groves, 


Mrs. Henman, 




R. Gilbert, 


Rachel King, ~~ 


NewMilford. 


Anna Gilbert, -m- 


Rebecca M. Starr, 


Ann E. Lane. 


Mary M- Peters. 


Abigail Skinner, 






Simeon Buchus, 


BOLTOJY. 


COLUMBIA. 


Is;iac Jones, 


Abner Loom is, 


L. Woodward, 


Christian Mitchell, 
Crane Spinning-, 


Sidly Loomis, 
'Sophia Alvord, 


Sara\ Ann Steel, 
'Alanson Littlej 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 



Rowena Bliss, 
Achs:ih Clark, 
Esther Foot, 
SJas Fuller, 
George Loomis, 
L. Hosmer, 
Joseph Loomis, Jr. 

Brooklyn. 
John Parish, 

Exeter. 
Flavia Marsh, 
Ambrose Williams, 
Sophia Lamb. 



JBOSTOJY. 

airs. M C. Derby, 2 
Ann McLean, 
Anna Lloyd, 
Eliza Sumner, 
Mrs. J. C. Warren, 2 
.Mrs. A. Wells, 2 
Sarah C. Lowell, 
Benjamin Pollard, 
Mrs. Warren, 
Wm. P. Sigourney 2 

Mrs. 

Mrs. B. Joy, 
Mrs. T. Motley, 
.Mrs. R. Derby, 
Catharine Prescott, 
Mrs.C. Stewart, 2 
Lydia Smith, 2 
Mrs. R. S. Gardiner 
Mrs. S. Perkins, 
Mrs. G. Blake, 2 
Eliza H. Bordwm, 
Miss Wiliams, 
Mrs. Codman, 
.Mrs. J. Perkins, 
Mrs. Winthrop, 2 
Sarah B. Dearborn 3 
Sarah B. Sullivan, 
Anslip Ptckman, 



Elizabeth Pickman, 
Martha Pickman, 
Sully D. West, 
Mrs. Humphr) a, 
W. C. Alwyn, 
Ann Porter, 2 
H. C. Sumner, 
Mrs. M. Sumner, 
MrsW.E. Channmg, 
Mrs. S. Pomeroy, 
Mrs. M. C. Olive 
George Cabbot, 3 
H. G. Otis, 3 
Timothy Bigelow, 2 
Wm. Prescott, 2 
Mrs. Horce Holly, 
Benjamin A. Gould, 
Mrs. Samuel May, 
.Mrs. Jane Minot, 
.Mrs. Wm. Minot, 
Mrs. Charles Davis, 
Mrs. Henry Bass, 
.Mrs.W. A. Warren, 
Benjamin Taylor, 
Miss Bremmer, 
! Mary Wheeler, 
John Miller, 
|Daniel Parkman, 
Sarah Lawrence, 
Sarah Richards, 
H. D. Sedgwick, 
Lucretia Knapp, 
Wm. T. Andrews, 
.Mrs. J. Parker, Jun. 
/Mrs. S. G. Perkins, 
Mrs. G. Brenley, 
Doct Jas. Jackson, 
.Mrs. George G. Lee, 
.Mrs. James Dull, 
Mrs. Bussey, 
Wm. Porter, 
Caroline Holley, 
John Dull, 
Samuel H. Walley, 2 
T. Walley, 
E. Tuckerman, jr. 2 
Rev. F. Parkman, 



Jonathan Phillips, 
Rev. Jed. Morse, 2 
Rev. A. Holmes, 
Samuel Salsbury, 2 
A. P. Cleaveland, 
J. A. Cumming, 3 
E. C. Whitman, 
Moses Grunt, Jun. 
Benjamin Allen, 2 
Mrs. Wm. Phillips, 
Saml. Salsbury, Jun. 
Josiah Salsbury, 2 

Charlestmvn. 
Mrs. Bainbridge, 

Cambridge. 
T. T. Kirkland. 

Salem. 
Rebecca Dodgev^*^ 
Judith Norris, 
.Mrs. M. Massey, 
Mrs. M. Sprague, 
Mrs. John Derby, 
Mary Osgood, . 
Mrs. M. H. Tucker, 
Eliza Sheperd, 
Miss H. A. Jinks, 
Sally Ropes, 
Mary Proctor, 
Rebeca Dean, 
J. B. Lawrence, 
John Jinks, 6 
iWm. Dean, 2 

Marble-Head. 
Benjamin J. Reed, " 
Debby Hooper, 
Eunice Hooper, 
Mary I. Hooper, - 
Polly R. Hooper, 
Lydia Blackler, 
Sarah Dana, 2 
Mary Russell, 
jLydia Meek. 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES. 



Medford, 
H. L. Tyler, 
Miss H. Hall, 2 
Mary Hall, 
Hannah C. Hall, 
Miss A. Rose, 
Miss N. Swan, 2 
Mary Stearns, 
E. H. Derby, Jun. 

Plymouth. 
Joshua Thomas. 

Portland. 
S. Longfellow, Jr. 2 

Ifallawell. 
Sam S. fTilde, 2 

Worcester. 
Daniel Waldo, 2 

Springfield. 
George Bliss. 

West Springfield. 
Hannah Kent, 
Fanny Hazen, 
Jere Stebbins. 

Northampton. 
Joseph Lyman, 2 
Cecil Dwight, 
D. C. Bush, 
Francis Whitney, 
Joseph Cook, 
George Parsons. 



NEW-YORK. 

J. Rodman, 
wrs. G. C. Verpknk, 
Anthony Bleeker, 
James Fennow, 
H. Beeverout, Jun. 
Cambriel Wissner, 



William S. Lane, 
P. R. Starr, 
Henry Wheeler, 
Wm. W. Chester, 

E. White, 2 
Amos Palmer, 
nrs. Vandervoort, 
Harriot Brown, 
D. Austin, 
Frederick Sheldon, 
B. E. Rrimner, 

M. Davis, 2 -*^- 
Jonathan Haggerty, 
Amos Butler, 
John B. Flemming, 
P. Flanden, 
Faith J. Huntington, 
Mrs. J. Foot, 
>irs. I. Stuart 
A. O. Stansbury, 2 
Jonathan F. Gould, 
Samuel Whittimore, 
Isaac Margarand, 

F. Seymour, 
Edmund D. Barry. 
William Starr, 
John Juhel, 
James Jones, 

J. Harrison, 
Miss Laight, 2 
Mrs. J. R. Murray, 3 
W. W. Chester, 
Henry P. Rogers, 
John F. Cox, 
J. M. Prentis, 
Elias J. Dayton, 
F. B. Winthrop, S 
Egbert Benson, Jun. 
Samuel B. Murray,. 
J. K. M.lnor, 
John S. Winthrop, 
MISS M. A. Davenport 
Elias E. Boudinot, 
Richard Stockton, 
William G. Bull, 10 
George M. Tracy. 
Thomas Barrow, 



Hudson. 
John Chester, 
Henry Chester. 

Fishkill. 
Mrs. Allen, 2 
Mrs. Verplank, 2 
Emily Verplank, 2 
Mary Verplank, 
J. Verplank, 
S. Verplank, 
Miss J. P. DeWint, 
Elizabeth DeWint. 

Granville. 

Rebecca Woolsey, 

William Caton, Jun. 

Sally Done, 

Henry Slaid, 

William Hollister, 

Xathan Done, 

Maj. Gen. Alexan 
der M'Comb 

Capt.M. T.WoolO 
sey, (Navy.) 5 



an-> 

, 5 



Parish-Villc. 
Maj. H. L. Woolsey. 

Pittsburgh. 
I. L. Woolsey, 
M. L. Woolsey. 

Utica. 
Sophia Clark. 



PORTSMOUTH. 

Thomas L. Elwyn. 

Hanover. 
Miles Olcott. 2 

Rockingham. 
William Hall, Jun. 2 



SUBSCRIBERS NAMES, 



MIDDLE BURY. 


MISS E. A. Ralston, 


Mary Hamilton, 


Frederick Hall. 


El.hu Chauncey, 
Henrietta Chauncey, 


Mary Ann Lyle, 
Ellen Lyle, 


PROVIDENCE. 


Sarah C. Levy, 
Elias I. Dayton, 


M!SS H. Emlin, 
Mary Emlin, 


Daniel Lyman. 


Joseph Hopkinson, 


wiss E. Francis, 


Paris Dyer, 


Henrietta M. Levy, 


George Harrison, 


H iram B;irker, 


Sarah Atherton, 


WilLam Short, 


Mira Elderkin, 


Anna Fox, . 


T. B. Barclay, 


Wm. L'//onedieu. 


Horace Benney, 3 


P. Holl ings worth, 




Maria Benney, 


Mary HolLngsworth 


Neiv-Port. 


Elizabeth Powel 


Bird" Wilson, 


B. Hazard. 


Sophia Harrison, 


Gertrude Meridith, 




Elizabeth P. Fisher, 


Eliz. Macpherson, 


Johnston. 


Mrs. W. Wain, 


Elizabeth Binney, 


Edward Manton. 


Miss Wilcox, 


Mary Binny 2d. 




Charlotte Wiggin,_. 


ELz. B. Hopkmson, 


PHILADELPHIA 


wrs. C. W. Hare, 
Mrs. S. Emlen, 


William Smith, 
E. S. Sergeant, 


Charles Chauncey, 5 


MISS R. Ralston, 


Samuel Shoemaker, 


Mrs. H. Chauncey, 


MISS S. Chester, 


Charles. H Forrest. 


NORWICH. 


John Grey, 


Sterling. 


Epaphras Porter, 


George Hill. 


wary Field. 


Martha Harrington, 






Mary L. Hyde, 


Plainfield. 


o:ra. 


Francis Booth, 


MTS. E. Robinson, 


Fanny Fitch. - 


Sully Goodell, 


George //ill, 




//arrie* Parish, 


Wm, E, Robinson. 











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