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For God is a Spirit! and they, who aright Would perform the pure worship he loveth,
In the heart's holy temple will seek, with delight, That spirit the Father approveth.
And many that prophecy's truth can declare, Whose bosoms have livingly known it;
Whom God hath instructed to worship him there, And convinc'd that his mercy will own it.
The temple that Solomon built to his name, Now lives but in history's story;
Extinguish'd long since is its altar's bright flame, And vanish'd each glimpse of its glory.
But the Christian, made wise by a wisdom divine, Though all human fabrics may falter, Still finds in his heart a far holier shrine, Where the fire burns unquench'd on the altar!
SUGGESTED BY TUB PERUSAL OF AN EPITAPH IN BUBY-CHUBCH-YARD.
When Siloam's tower in fragments strew'd
the ground, And by its fall spread awe and terror round; Think ye that they on whom the ruin fell Were worse than those who lir'd their fate
to tell? I say unto ye, nay! That righteous God, Who rules the nations with his awful nod, Without whose knowledge not a sparrow dies, Looks not on such events with human eyes; The bolt he hurls, by boundless mercy sped, Oft strikes the saint's, but Hpares the sinner's
head; And while frail mortals scan effect and cause, His love pursues its own unerring laws; Gives the glad saint his final recompense, The sinner spares, perchance for penitence. What though the storm might rise, the clouds might lower, And muttering thunders mark the vesperhour; What though the little suppliant might be
taught A form offaith,with numerous errors fraught; Yet He, whose eye is on the heart alone, The guileless homage of this child might own: And, 'mid the terrors of a stormy even, Call,with approving smile,her soul to heaven!
While simple Mary, innocently bold, With virtuous diligence hur vespers told;
Who knows how many, votaries of a creed Which teaches purer faith in word and
deed, With hands uplifted,but with hearts unmov'd, Proffer'd their supplications unapproved? Nay, they might even, when the storm was
o'er, Shortsightedly this damsel's fate deplore; And blindly deprecate her dreadful doom. Thus early crown'd with glorious martyrdom. Not so, sweet girl, would I, a nameless bard, Thy happy, holy destiny regard; To me thou seemst like one, who, early fit For heaven, and heaven alone, wert calls'
to it; By piety and purity prepar'd, And by thy sacred destiny deelar'd In God's all-seeing and unerring eyes, A spotless Lamb, most meet for sacrifice; And, like Elijah's lot in olden time, I own thy end was sudden, but sublime; The car of glory, and the steeds of fire, Bore from Klisa's view his sainted sire: And unto thee, by hallow'd fire from heaves, The boon of immortality was given!
The Epitaph which suggested the preceding is as follows: Here lies interred the body of Mary Singletou, a young Maiden of this Parish, aged nine years, born ot Unman Catholic Parents, aad virtuously brought up; who, being in the act of prayer, repeating her Vespers, was instantaneously killed by a flash of lightning August 16th, 1785.
ADDRESSED TO SOME FRIENDS GOING TO TBI SEA-SIDE.
Sincb Summer invites you to visit once more The haunts she most loves on the ocean's
cool shore, Where billows are foaming, and breezes are
free, Accept at our parting one farewell from me.
My fancy can picture the pleasures in view. Because before now I have shar'd them
with you: But unable this season to taste them again, I must feast on such pleasures as flow from
Let Fancy then give me whnt Fate has
denied, And grant me at seasons to roam by your
side; Nor will I repine while remembrance can be Still blest with the moments I've spent by
The ramble at morning, when morning first wakes,
And the sun through the haze like a beaconfire breaks;
Illuming to sea-ward the billow's white foam,
And tempting the loiterer ere breakfast to roam.
The stroll after breakfast, when all are got
out: The saunter, the lounge, and the looking
about: The search after shells, and the eye glancing
bright, If cornelian, or amber, should come in its
Nor must I forget the last ramble at eve,
When the splendours of daylight are taking their leave;
When the sun's setting beams, with a tremulous motion,
Are reflected far off on the bosom of ocean.
This, this is the time, when I think I have
found The deepest delight from the scenery round: There's a freshness in morning's enjoyments,
but this Brings with it a feeling of tenderer bliss.
I remember an evening, though years are gone by,
Since that evening was spent: to my heart and my eye
It is present, by memory's magical power,
And reflects back its light on this far distant hour.
'Twas an evening the loveliest that Summer had seen,
The sky was unclouded, the ocean serene:
The sun's setting beams, so resplendently bright,
On the billows were dancing like streamers of light.
So soothing the sounds were, which faintly I heard,
They were sweeter than notes of the nightloving bird;
And so peaceful the prospect before me, it seem'd
Like a scene of delight of which fancy had dream'd.
There's a soothing enjoyment the pen cannot paint;
There are feelings which own that all language is faint;
And such on that eve to my heart were made known.
As I mus'd by the murmuring billows alone.
But enough.—May your sea-side excursion
fulfil Every hope you have form'd, be those hopes
what they will; And may I, although absent, in fancy create Those joys which on you in reality wait.
ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEHD.
(Obiit January 9th, 1820.)
We knew that the moment was drawing nigh, To fulfil every fearful token;
When the silver cord must loosen its tie, And the golden bowl be broken;
When the fountain's vase, and the cistern's wheel,
Should alike to our trembling hearts appeal.
And now shall thy dust return to the earth,
Thy spirit to God who gave it; Yet affection shall tenderly cherish thy worth, And memory deeply engrave it,— Not upon tables of brass or stone, But in those fond bosoms where best 'twas known.
Thou shalt live in mine, though thy life be
fled, For friendship thy name shall cherish; And be one of the few, and the dearly Iov'd
dead, Whom my heart will not suffer to
perish: Who in loveliest dreams are before me
brought, And in sweetest hours of waking thought.
But oh! there is one, with tearful eye,
Whose fondest desires fail her; Who indeed is afraid of that which is high, And fears by the way assail her; Whose anguish confesses that tears are vain, Since dark are the clouds that return after rain!
May He, who alone can scatter each cloud.
Whose love all fear dispelleth; Who, though for a season his face he shroud, In light and in glory dwelleth, Break in on that mourner's soul, from
above, And bid her look upwards with holy love. VERSES
TO A YOUNG rniKMl.
If, long ere this, no lay of mine
Has been to thee devoted,
Has idly pass'd un-noted.
To charms more transient tribute due
Has oft been idly chanted;
Have gain'd what folly wanted!
To beauty's song and beauty's smile
And unto many a trilling wile
In praising such, my short-liv'd song
Did all that I desir'd it:
As that which first inspir'd it.
Not such, my friend, the song for thee:
Did I that lyre inherit, Which Cowper woke, its strings should be
Responsive to thy merit.
Still, such a wreath as I can twine,
Could I an apter one assign,
Thou art not one whose path has been
With sky above of blue Berene,
Who tread tuch paths, with graceful glee,
And, fading, may to memory be
Just like the flowers that crown'd them.
But, in the bloom of youth to tread
As through a desert dreary;
And many n care to weary;
With much to jar each mood of joy,
With many a duty to employ
So circumstane'd, to cultivate
And thus to find, in spite of fate,
To do all this, yet still to be,
In social life, a woman,
Is merit far from common.
Nor think this flattery! I've been taught
One maxim worth receiving. Which every passing day has brought
Fresh motive for believing:
That flattery no excuse can find!
'Tis loath'd as sonn as tasted, When offer'd to a well-taught mind;
And on a fool 'tis wasted!
S L E E P.
What is it that stills the sigh of Sorrow.
And forbids her tears to flow?— That allows the desolate-hearted to borrow
A transient relief from woe? It is thou, sweet Sleep! Oh then listen to me! Be it but in thy dreams, while I sing of thee.
Could I embody the thoughts which now Pass my soul's living tablet over,
No being more lovely and fair than thou Before mortal eye could hover:
Not deathly and pale, like a spectre stealing
On the slumb'rer, whose eyes thy power is scaling;—
But a form full of beauty, of joy, and grace.
And features with kindness bright. Such as a Raphael would love to trace;
A creature of glory and light, With a silvery cloud, to chasten each hue Too radiant else, should arise to view.
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OP
Would I deck truth in fiction's graceful dress. Easy it were for votary of the Nine
To find, in fair creation's loveliness,
Apt emblems of a life and death like thine.
The first, a streamlet scattering, thongh unseen.
Its silent virtues, well might represent; The last, a light cloud, lovely and serene.
View'd on the verge of a bright firmament.
But these are poor comparisons.—The stream One summer's radiance may for ever dry;
The cloud, so beauteous in the sunset's gleam. May be forgotten iu night's starless sky. Nntso with thee; thy memory long shall live, Through starless nights, through dark and distant days; Thy virtues—'twere more fitting they should give Impulse to imitation, than to praise.
Indeed, they were not thine! That gentleness, That patient resignation—kindness—truth;
That candour—sympathy with all distress, And quiet cheerfulness,surpassing youth;—
That sclf-forgetfulness—unbounded love: These were not thine, though thou wert lov'd for them; Tnou knewst they were hut lent thee from above; This knowledge was their crown and diadem!
Thou art no longer of this world: and even While yet its path of flowers and thorns was trod
By thee, thy conversation was in heaven, Where thy pure spirit now beholds its God!
ALL IS VANITY.
Oh! what can be more frail
Than all this world can grant us?
Why should its power avail
In vain the chase, when won.
Lur'd by fresh objects on,
We cherish what has cheated!
In childhood, any toy
For one short hour amuses;
And all its store of joy
The boy keeps up the game.
For boyhood's joyous flame
The youth, when beauty's eye
Thinks, with a pensive sigh,
How oft the smile he woo'd,
While, in capricious mood,
And oh! how many a one
Has gain'd, nnd fondly nurs'd it; Then, by that smile undone.
With bitterness has rurs'd it.
Existence further scan,
In all its various stages; View it in ripen'd man,
In hoary-headed sages:—
What pleasure can it give,
And lead us on to live
On bliss to be—to-morrow?
If rapture's brightest hour
If pleasure's fairest flower
Scarce bloom before 'tis faded:
IF proud ambition's steeps
If vales, where soft love sleeps,
If wealth, with all its toys,
If fancy's boasted joys
What can this world bestow
Or compensate the woe
O, man! if to this earth
Each hope it can give birth
And, when that hope is gone,
Thy spirit lean'd upon
A reed, by each wind shaken!
TO A FRIEND,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 1818.
Oncb more, my gentle friend! has time's swift flight (Suspended never) reach'd thy natal day; And that pure friendship which first bade me plight My promise to devote to it a lay, Shall be fulfill'd: what, though perchance it may Bear token of the hour that gives it birth, Yet wilt thou not its sober tone gainsay; For thou bast sojourn'd long enough on earth, Young as thou art, to know the emptiness of mirth.
I mean that inirtli. which,flashing but to fade, Exhil'ratcs not, but soon exhausts the mind;
And. transiently delighting, leaves a shade Of self-cngender'd dreariness behind.
With such my clouded spirit oft has pin'd;
Until, disgusted with the treacherous gleam, In which a moment's bliss it sought to find,
Despair has almost tempted me to deem Joy an unreal shade—delight an empty dream.
Yet is there left us an alternative
In chasten'd cheerfulness, deriving birth From other sources than the world can give, Far, far superior to its heartless mirth: And though at times, while wc remain on earth, Clouds may obscure this "sunshine of the breast," Those who have truly known and priz'd its worth Will own with gratitude, in hours deprest, Its memory boasts that charm left by a blameless guest.
Something of this, dear friend, have we not tasted In hoars gone by 1 Then, since those hours to me Have still a living charm, by time unwasted, Proving that they were never born to be Knjoy'd, and then forgotten: unto thee
O may they seem, as in my heart they are When fond imagination wanders free,
Like a bright beacon, or a cloudless star Flinging o'er ocean's waves its lovely light afar.
This is thy birth-day! and for Friendship's sake, Even in this gloomiest season of the year, Feelings as warm as Spring could ever wake Have chronicled and bid me hold it dear. The heart has in itself a hemisphere That knows not change of season, day or night; For still when thoughts of those wc love are near, Their chcrish'd forms arise before our sight, And o'er the spirit shed fresh sunshine and delight.
Nature, who wore when few months since we met Her summer-garb, a different dress displays; Your garden-walks may now be moss'd and wet; The jasmine's starlike bloom, which, in the rays Of the bright moon scem'd lovely to my gaze. Has faded now; and the green leaves, that grew So lightly on the ncacia's topmost sprays. Have lost, ere this, their glossy verdant hue, Shading no more the path their reliqnes soon must strew.
Is there nought left then, loveliness to lead
Unto the spot my memory loves to trace? Should I now find, were I to come and spend
A day with you, no beauty left to grace Whatseem'd of quiet joy the dwelling-placet
Oh, yes! believe me, much as I admir'd Those charms which change of seasons can efface,
It was not such alone, when home retir'd. That memory cherish'd most, or most the muse inspir'd.
When Nature sheds her leafy loveliness.
She does not die: her vital principle But seeks awhile its innermost recess.
And there securely finds a citadel Which even winter owns inpregnable;
The sap, retreating downward to the root, Is still alive, as spring shall shortly tell.
By swelling buds, whence blossoms soon will shoot, Dispensing fragrance round, and pledge of future fruit.
And thus our best affections, those which
Too deeply in our bosoms soon to die. Spring's opening bloom and summer's azure sky Might borrow from them beauties not their own; But when November-winds are lond and high. And nature's dirge assumes its deepest tone. The joy of social hours in its full charm is known.
For as the sap, whose quickening influence Shall be in spring the birth of future flowers, Confin'd and concentrated, is from thenre More full of life, than in those brighter hours When birds sang sweetly in their shady bowers. And all unclouded was heaven's Tanked dome: Thus is it with the mind's electric powers. Forbid by winter's frowning skies to roam. Their radiance is condens'd, their focus found at Home!
Then stir the cheerful fire! and let its light The rallying point of home-born pleasures be; Where spirit-sparkling eyes, and smiles as bright. Their own fit emblem may delighted see: And let the overflow of innocent glee
Be like the exnb'rance of the Nile, and bless The seeds of future joy's fertility;
That days, in years to come, may bear tli* impress Of hours of blameless bliss and social hap piness.