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But with a soul that ever felt the sting

Of sorrow, sorruw is a sacred thing:

Not to molest, irritate, or raise Look where he comes in this embowered A laugh at his expense, is slender praise; alcove

He, that has not usurped the name of man, Stand close concealed, and see a statue move: Does all, and deems too little, all be can, Lips busy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, T'assuage ibe throbbings of the festered Arms banging idly down, hands clasped be- part, low,

And stanch the bleedings of a broken heart. Interpret to the marking eye distress, 'Tis not, as heads that never ache suppose, Such as its symptoms can alone express. Forgery of fancy, and a dream of woes; That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Man is a harp whose chords elude the sight, Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Each yielding harmony disposed aright; Could give advice, could censure or com- The screws reversed (a task which if he please mend,

God in a moment executes with ease,) Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Ten thousand thousand strings at once go Renounced alike its office and its sport,

loose, Its brisker and its graver strains fell short; Lost, till be tune them, all their power and Both fail'd beneath a fever's secret sway,

use. And like a suminer-brook are past away. Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair This is a sight for pity to peruse,

As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Till she resemble faintly what she views, Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Nor view of waters turning busy mills, Pierced with the woes that she laments in Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, vain.

Nor gardens interspersed with flowery beds, This, of all maladies that man infest, Nor gales, that catch the scent of blooming Claims most compassion, and receives the groves, Jeast :

and waft it to the mourner as he roves, Job felt it, when he groaned beneath the rod Can call up life into his faded eye, And the barbed arrows of a frowning God That passes all he sees unheeded by: And such emollients as his friends could No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, spare,

No cure for such, till God who makes them, Friends such as his for modern Jobs prepare. heals. Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill, feel,

That yields not to the touch of human skill, Kept snug in caskets of close hammered | Improve the kind occasion, understand steel,

A Father's frown, and kiss his chastening With mouths made only to grin wide and

hand; eat,

To thee the day-spring, and the blaze of noon, And minds, that deem derided pain a treat, The purple evening, and resplendent moon, With limbs of British oak,and nerves of wire, The stars, tbat sprinkled o'er the vault of And wit, that puppet-prompters might in- night, spire,

Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke Shine not, or undesired and hated shine, On pangs enforced with God's severest Seen through the medium of a cloud like stroke.


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Yet seek him, in his favour life is found, But fancy paints some spirit nigh,
All bliss beside a shadow or a sound: Who breathes in rapture o'er ihy strings;
Then heaven, eclipsed so long, and this dull Some minstrel sylph or fairy power,

Whose music charms in lonely hour.
Shall seem to start into a second birth !
Nature, assuming a more lovely face, Æolian barp! the magic swell,
Borrowing a beauty from the works of grace, That lingers. midst thy sounding wire,
Shall be despised and overlooked no more, On whose wild notes I love to dwell,
Shall fill thee with delights anfelt before, Could aught but angel voice inspire ?
Impart to things inanimate a voice,

Could mortal voice so sweetly sing,
And bid her mountains and her hills rejoice; Or raise the soul on fancy's wing?
The sound shall run along the winding vales,
And thou enjoy an Eden ere it fails. Ah! no—No mortal voice e'er song

A strain so soft, a breath so light ;
No chord such witcbing numbers rung,

But what was tuned by airy sprite;

Some seraph wanderer of the sky,
FATHER of heavenl full many a wasted day, Who sighs the note of melody.
And weary, wakeful night, this heart hath


bour no requiem swell,
In one bright vision, waning now away, Borne on the breezes of the night,
And leaving it all desolate, forlorn.

On which the pious crowd would dwell, O with thy gracious light, direct my feet To waft the soul to realms of light,

To a more peaceful way,-a nobler love! E'er threw around sach magic power, Guide thou a wanderer to that bless'd retreat, Or breath'd more sweet in lonely hour. The clouds and cares of this dark world above.

That song is o'er; the breeze of night For Thou, my Lord, hast seen year after year Shall sweep in silence o'er the strings ;

Roll on in sadness, since this heart of mine And, ah! that breath, so soft, so light,

Bow'd to that yoke alike on all severe; Shall mourn no more on zephyrs' wings ; Now, weak and faint, I ask thy hand divine Thy trembling chords no more shall sigh, To fix each rebel thought, and vagrant tear, No fairy midstrel hover nigh. Saviour of all ! apon that cross of thine !

Farewell, sweet harp; for damp decay

Upon thy mouldering chords shall dwell,

And thou shalt breathe no future lay,

And thou shalt raise no future swell;
The breeze flits by, the music's o'er,

The fairy sounds can charm no more.
I never hear that plaintive sigh,

Borne on the trembling zephyrs' wings,





That staring eye of soulless ray,
Which wanders wildly every way;
Those lips which mutter ghastly mirth:
Oh ! 'tis the saddest sight on earth.
I'd sooner see within that eye
The wild-fire of insanity;

It is a fearful thing to see
The vacant smile of idiocy;

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E I'd sooner see within that frame,

With lace, and hat with splendid riband Lycanthrophy, that none can tame.

bound. For such a frame would move me less, A serving maid was she, and fell in love * Than that same form of helplessness. With one who left her, went to sea, and died. A mass of flesh without a mind,

Her fancy followed him through foaming A mockery of human kind;

waves • The shape of man without one, spring To distant shores; and she would sit and Of thought, however wandering;

weep : A living statue, it can weep,

At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too, And laugh, and breathe, and move, and Delusive most where warmest wishes are, sleep.

Would oft anticipate his glad return, But this mere mechanism—the call

And dream of transports she was not to know! Of natural instinct-this is all

She heard the doleful tidings of his death- That gives this mass of moulded clay And never smiled again ! and now she roams Its title to humanity.

The dreary waste; there spends the live-long There's not a gleaming, not a spark

day, Of reason there; all, all is dark.

And there, unless when charity forbids, It is an awful thing to see,

The live-long night. A tattered apron hides, The vacant face of idiocy !

Worn as a cloak, and hardly bides, a gown
More tattered still; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,

And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful


Tho' pressed with hanger oft, or comelier COWPER.

clothes, THERE often wanders one, whom better days Tho' pinched with cold, asks never-Kate Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed is crazed ;

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Though here our prospects end in night,

We meet again in heaven.

Since parting in a Saviour's love,

We part to meet for ever!

Yes, if our souls are raised above,

Tis sweet when thus we sever,



LAND where the bones of our Fathers are sleeping !
Land where our dear ones and fond ones are weeping!

Land where the light of Jehovah is shining ;
We leave thee lamenting, but not with repining.

Land of our Fathers ! in grief we forsake thee;
Land of our Friends! may Jehovah protect thee;

Land of the Church ! may the light shine around thee,
Nor darkness, nor trouble, nor sorrow confound thee.

God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His brightness!
Gird thee with joy ! let thy robes be of whiteness !

God is thy God ! let thy hills shout for gladness !
But ah? we must leave thee--we leave thee in sadness.

Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean;
Dark are our bearts; but the fire of devotion

Kindles within ;-and a far distant nation
Shall learn from our lips the glad song of Salvation.

Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows !
Land of our rest! when a few more to-morrows

Pass o'er our heads, we shall seek our cold pillows,
And rest in our graves, far away o'er the billows.

Jesus, we pray for thy Spirit to lead us,
Jesus, we pray for thy power to succeed us;

Then when thy grace from our toils shall release us,
Thy love in the mansions of glory shall bless us,


OH MY LOV'D RACHEL! name for ever dear,
Nor writ, nor spoke, nor thought without a tear!
Whose heav'nly virtues and transcendent charms,
Have bless'd through many a year my peaceful arms;
Parting with thee, into my cup has thrown,
Life's harshest dregs, else nought had forced a groan :
But all is o'er-these eyes have gazed their last,
And now the bitterness of death is past.

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