MORNING.

HAD I a harp by angels strung,
A seraph's voice, a prophet's tongue,
My soul, to heav'n's high King,
Now, while from ev'ry dewy thorn
The merry birds salute the morn,
Should hallelujahs sing.

But though no saint or seraph's fire
Hath touch'd my lip, or tun'd my lyre,

To animate my lays ;

Do thou from thine ethereal sphere,

In tender mercy deign to hear,

And pardon while I praise.

"Is there a God?" the sceptic criesWho form'd the earth, who built the skies? By whose command divine

Do yonder circling planets run,

And that celestial orb, the sun,

In all its glory shine?

Who gave thee life? whose saving pow'r Upholds thee in affliction's hour,

Nor leaves thy soul to weep?

Whose mighty voice, and sov'reign will,
Bid the tempestuous waves be still,
And calm the roaring deep?

Whose bounteous hand each beauty yields
That gilds the skies, and paints the fields,
And all in heav'n and earth?

Who gives the moon her silver rays,
The morning stars their brighter blaze,
That hail'd Creation's birth?

Who, when the battle's rage begins,
And war, to scourge a nation's sins,
Assumes its giant form,

Directs the carnage from on high,
And bids the warrior stand, or fly?
The Genius of the storm!

Who, when upon the bed of death
The bleeding hero pants for breath
Beneath the fatal blow,

Whispers, in soothing sounds of love,

He shall enjoy, in realms above,
His glories gain'd below?

"Tis God! whose throne is fix'd on high, Lord of the universe, and sky,

Whom earth and heav'n revere; Whose mercy guards us ev'ry hour, Whose beauty blossoms in the flow'r, And crowns the varied year!

Eternal truths though myst'ry veil,
When man hath chang'd his nature frail,
Those truths shall God reveal:

Earth shall to her foundations shake,
When he the book of life shall take,
And break the sacred seal.

A pilgrim in this world of strife,

Thy faith, my staff-thy breath, my life,— Thy hope, and promise giv'n,—

The pow'r of sin and death destroy,

Make doubt, belief; and sorrow, joy;

And earth, a step to heav'n.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

THERE is a debt we all must pay,
The sooner it is paid the better;
Come, tyrant Death, why this delay?
I wish not to remain thy debtor.

Some ask a year, a month, an hour;
Nay, some implore a moment's credit!
And though, like them, I know thy pow'r,
Come when it will, I do not dread it.

Nor houses, lands, nor gold have I,

Let Fortune, jade! say why, and wherefore;

Then what have I to do but die?

With nothing left on earth to care for.

Life is a feast-a strange one too!

To fare but poorly I've been able; Yet seen enough to pall my view— So let me now retire from table.

The careless world looks down with scorn

On intellectual fires;

And he indeed is most forlorn

Whom genius most inspires.

Yet mourn not vainly, suff'ring man,

At this, thy fate o'ercast; Life, good or ill, is but a span, Which cannot always last.

And fondly hope, amidst thy woe,
To make the balance even;

That those whom sorrow marks below,
Are doubly blest in heaven.