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I HEAR thee speak of the better lands; They, whose wounded, bleeding heart, here, Thou call'st its children a happy band; Learn'd how hard it was to part, here, Mother! oh where is that radiant shore,

Hoped, amid the sharpest smart, here, Shall we not seek it and weep no more? For the land of the blessed : Is it where the flower of the orange blows, Softest zephyrs o'er them blow, there; And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle Streams of life immortal flow, there; boughs ?

Those they lost they'll love and know, there, “Not there, not there, my child."

In the land of the blessed.

Is it where the 'feathery palm-trees rise, Finest radiance smiling round them, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies, Still increasing joy hath found them, Or 'midst the green islands of glittering Ever since death's angel crown'd them seas,

For the land of the blessed : Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, Wo and wailing shall be o'er, then ; And strange bright birds, on their starry Weeping shall be known no more, thien; wings,

Let us quickly, sweetly soar, then, Bear the rich hues of all glorious things? To the land of the blessed.

“ Not there, not there, my child !"

Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,

GRINFIELD. And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral There God unfolds his presence, clouded strand

here, Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? And shines eternal day. All, all is there “Not there, not there, my child !" Bright effluence of the uncreated mind;

Infinite beauty, all! A vernal life, Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! A fire ethereal, un perceived itself, Ear hatb not heard its deep songs of joy, Felt in its glorious energy, pervades

And thrills through every part the taintless | That form'd them, and the beatific smile whole :

That ever beams around them. Every heart The air, the soil, the rivers, fruits, and Catches that smile; each eye reflects it; all, flowers,

In body and in spirit, sumless myriads, Instinct with immortality, and touch'd Fill'd with empyreal vigour, fill'd with God, With amaranthine freshness, by the hand And radiant in the Glory of the Lamb!



THERE is there is a joy, though time should bring
Each fleeting moment change upon his wing;
The fair, the fond, the cherish'd sbould depart,
Hope's visions soothe, or torture wring the heart :
0! 'mid this world of sorrowing and mirth,
There is a joy-it is not of the earth!
There is a joy-it is not in the breeze,
The fields, the flowers, the woodland harmonies,
The brightning beam of Summer's gladdeu'd day,
Or bürst of splendor ere it fades away-
How beautifully fades! Then comes the night,
And heaven is filled with million gems of light.

There is a joy-it is not in the star
Trembling in beauty o'er the bills afar !
There is a joy-it is not in the beam
The moon has pour'd o'er mountain, tower, and stream!
There is a joy-and 'tis not in thy song,
Bard of the night! though echo mocks thee long;
(Who hears and loves thee not?) nor in the hush-
The stilliness of night; nor in the blush-
The loveliness of morn! For storm or calm,
Sorrow or mirth, there is a joy, a balm :
And where, oh! where are they? I turn to thee,
Thou book of life, hope, love and liberty!

Gazing on thee, night's radiance waxeth dim,
Ev'n sadness mingles with the warbled hymn;
And yet whose strain was happier than the throng
Of the wild wood ?—but, hark! the seraph-song
Swells on my ear, in blended harp and voice,
As on that night it bade the swains rejoice.
Lo! from its page another world appears,
Undimm'd by griefs and unbedew'd with tears;
A blissful world of harmony and peace;
For there all troubling and all care shall cease;
There the rapt soul enjoy its day of rest-
One long, long day witb endless glory blest !

O! for that clime my pinions let me plume-
Fade fast, thou world of sorrowing and gloom !
Ye lovely, lonely watchers of the night !
Soon far beyond ye may I wing my flight,
And find, exchang'd for all earth's bitter woes,
A home of joy, of refuge and repose.

-This is the joy, young Isadore! believe,
More than the minstrel in his verse can weave;
More than the poet, as his raptur'd eye
Dwells on the earth, the ocean, or the sky,
Can ever feel-joy for the deepest gloom,
Strewing with flowers our pathway to the tomb !

VISION OF INFANTS IN HEAVEN. Came in mine ear, whose secret cells were


To entertain celestial harmonies ;

The small sweet accents of those little chilI saw them in white raiment crown'd with

dren flowers,

Pouring out all the gladness of their souls On the fair banks of that resplendent river, In love, joy, gratitude, and praise to Him ;Whose streams make glad the city of our Him who had lov'd and wash'd them in his God

blood, Waters of life as clear as crystal, welling These were to me the most transporting Forth from the throne itself, and visiting strains Fields of a Paradise that ne'er was lost, Amidst the hallelujabs of all Heaven. Where yet the tree of life immortal grows, And bears its monthly fruits, twelve kinds Tho' lost awhile in that amazing chorus of fruit

Around the throne-at happy intervals Each in its season, food of Saints and Angels, The shrill hosannas of the infant quire Whose leaves are for the bealing of the Singing in that Eternal Temple, brought nations.

Tears to mine eye, which seraphs had been

glad Beneath the shadow of its blessed boughs That melted all my soul, when I beheld

To weep, could they have felt the sympathy I marked those rescued Infants, in their

How condescending Deity thus deigned schools

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings By spirits of just men made perfect, taught

here The glorious lessons of Almighty Love,

To perfect his high praise. The harp of Which brought them thither by the readiest

Heaven path,

Had lack'd its least, but not its meanest string From the world's wilderness of dire tempta

Had children not been taught to play upon it, tions,

And sing from feelings all their own, what Securing thus their everlasting weal.

Nor angels can conceive of creatures, born Yea in the rapture of that hour, tho' songs Under the curse, yet from the curse redeem'd, Of Cherubim to golden lyres and trumpets, And placed at once beyond the power to fall. And the redeemed upon the sea of glass Safety which men nor angels ever knew, With voices like the sound of many waters, Till ranks of these, and all of those had fallen.




Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world as far
As the Universe spreads its flaming wall :
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of Heav'n is worth them all.




The year has seen Its round of seasons, has fulfilled its course, Absolved its destined period, and is borne, Silent and swift, to that devouring gulf, Their womb and grave, where seasons, months, and years, Revolving periods of uncounted time, All merge, and are forgotten.-Thou alone, In thy deep bosom burying all the past, Still art; and still from thine exhaustless store New periods spring, Eternity.-Thy name Or glad, or fearful, we pronounce, as thoughts Wandering in darkness shape thee, Thou strange being, Which art and must be, yet which contradict'st All sense, all reasoning,—thou who never wast Less than thyself, and who still art thyself Entire, though the deep draught which Time has taken Equals thy present store.—No line can reach To thy unfathomed depths. The reasoning sage Who can dissect a sunbeam, count the stars, And measure worlds, is here a child, And, humbled, drops his calculating pen. On, and still onward flows the ceaseless tide, And wrecks of empires and of worlds are borne Like atoms on its bosom.-Still thou art And He who does inhabit thee.


THE IMPORTANCE OF TRIFLES. Soothes not another's rugged path alone,

But scatters roses to adorn his own.

Small slights, contempt, neglect, unmixed

with bate, SINCE trifles make the sum of human things, Make up in number what they want in And half our misery from our foibles springs :

weight: Since life's best joys consist in peace and

These, and a thousand griefs minute as these, ease,

Corrode our comforts, and destroy our peace. And few can save, or serve, but all can

please : Oh ! let th’ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small unkindness is a great offence : Large bounties to bestow, we wish in vain, POWER AND GENTLENESS; But all may shun the guilt of giving pain.

OR THE To bless mankind with tides of flowing

CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET. wealth, With power to grace them, or to crown with

BARTON. health,

NOBLE the mountain-stream, Our little lot denies; but Heav'n decrees,

Bursting in grandeur from its vantageTo all the gift, of minist'ring to ease:

ground; The gentle offices of patient love,

Glory is in its gleam Beyond all flatt’ry, and all praise above; Of brightness ;-thunder in its deafening The mild forbearance of another's fault;

sound ! The taunting word suppress'd as soon as thought;

Mark, how its foamy spray, On these Heaven bade the sweets of life Ting’d by the sun-beams with reflected dyes, depend ;

Mimics the bow of day And crush'd ill-fortune when she gave a Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ;

friend. A solitary blessing few can find;

Thence, in a summer-shower, Our joys with those we love are intertwined; | Steeping the rocks around ;-Oh tell-nie And he whose wakeful tenderness removes

where Th’ obstructing thorn which wounds the Could majesty and power breast he loves,

Be cloth'd in forms more beautifully fair ?

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