XVIII.

For ne'er hath prodigal come round,
Subdued in heart and craving grace,
Whate'er his faults, who hath not found
Forgiveness in the Saviour's face;
At contrite hearts he will not scoff-

Whoever knocks, an entrance wins:
Then let us at the Cross throw off
The burden of our sins;

And though their dye be black as night,
His blood can make-has made them white !

WEEP NOT FOR HER.

A DIRGE.

I.

WEEP not for her!-Oh! she was far too fair, Too pure to dwell on this guilt-tainted earth! The sinless glory, and the golden air

Of Zion, seem'd to claim her from her birth : A spirit wander'd from its native zone, Which, soon discovering, took her for its own : Weep not for her!

II.

Weep not for her!-Her span was like the sky, Whose thousand stars shine beautiful and bright; Like flowers that know not what it is to die ;

Like long-link'd shadeless months of Polar light; Like music floating o'er a waveless lake, While Echo answers from the flowery brake: Weep not for her!

III.

Weep not for her!-She died in early youth,
Ere hope had lost its rich romantic hues ;
When human bosoms seem'd the homes of truth,
And earth still gleam'd with beauty's radiant dews;
Her summer-prime waned not to days that freeze
Her wine of life was run not to the lees:

Weep not for her!

IV.

Weep not for her!-By fleet or slow decay,
It never grieved her bosom's core to mark
The playmates of her childhood wane away,
Her prospects wither, or her hopes grow dark;
Translated by her God, with spirit shriven,

She pass'd as 'twere in smiles from earth to Heaven :
Weep not for her!

V.

Weep not for her!-It was not hers to feel
The miseries that corrode amassing years,

'Gainst dreams of baffled bliss the heart to steel,

To wander sad down Age's vale of tears ;

As whirl the wither'd leaves from Friendship's tree,
And on earth's wintry world alone to be:
Weep not for her!

VI.

Weep not for her!-She is an angel now,
And treads the sapphire floors of Paradise;
All darkness wiped from her refulgent brow,
Sin, sorrow, suffering, banish'd from her eyes;
Victorious over death, to her appear

The vista'd joys of Heaven's eternal year :
Weep not for her !

VII.

Weep not for her !-Her memory is the shrine
Of pleasant thoughts, soft as the scent of flowers;

Calm as on windless eve the sun's decline;

Sweet as the song of birds among the bowers;

Rich as a rainbow with its hues of light;

Pure as the moonshine of an autumn night:
Weep not for her!

VIII.

Weep not for her!-There is no cause for woe;
But rather nerve the spirit, that it walk
Unshrinking o'er the thorny paths below,

And from earth's low defilements keep thee back : So, when a few fleet severing years have flown, She'll meet thee at Heaven's gate-and lead thee on! Weep not for her!

THE FOWLER.

And is there care in Heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,

That may compassion of their evils move?
There is else much more wretched were the case

Of men than beasts. But O! the 'exceeding grace

Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,

And all his works with mercy doth embrace,

That blessed angels he sends to and fro,

To serve on wicked man-to serve his wicked foe!

SPENSER.

I.

I HAVE an old remembrance-'tis as old
As childhood's visions, and 'tis mingled with
Dim thoughts and scenes grotesque, by fantasy
From out oblivion's twilight conjured up,
Ere truth had shorn imagination's beams,
Or to forlorn reality tamed down

The buoyant spirit. Yes! the shapes and hues
Of winter twilight, often as the year

Revolves, and hoar-frost grimes the window-sill,
Bring back the lone waste scene that gave it birth,
And make me, for a moment, what I was
Then, on that Polar morn-a little boy,
And Earth again the realm of fairyland.

II.

A Fowler was our visitant; his talk At eve beside the flickering hearth, while howl'd The outward winds, and hail-drops on the pane Tinkled, or down the chimney in the flame Whizz'd as they melted, was of forest and field, Wherein lay bright wild birds and timorous beasts, That shunn'd the face of man; and O! the joy, The passion which lit up his brow, to con The feats of sleight and cunning skill by which Their haunts were near'd, or on the heathy hills, Or 'mid the undergrove; on snowy moor, Or by the rushy lake-what time the dawn Reddens the east, or from on high the moon In the smooth waters sees her pictured orb, The white cloud slumbering in the windless sky, And midnight mantling all the silent hills.

III.

I do remember me the very time

(Though thirty shadowy years have lapsed between)