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THE IVY.

ADDRESSED TU A YOUNG FRIEND.

Dost thou not love, in the season of spring,
To twine thee a flowery wreath,

And to see the benutiful birch-tree fling
Its shade on the grass beneath?

Its glossy leaf, and its silvery stem;

Oh dost thou not love to look on them?

That his light in thy heart become not dim.

And his love be unforgot; And thy God, in the darkest of dan.

will be Greenness, and beauty, and strength to th«!

And dost thou not love, when leaves are
greenest,
And summer has just begun,
When in the silence of moonlight thouleanest,

Where glist'ning waters run,
To see, by that gentle and peaceful beam,
The willow bend down to the sparkling
stream?

And oh! in a lovely autumnal day,

When leaves are changing before thee,

Do not nature's charms, as they slowly decay, Shed their own mild influence o'er thee?

And hast thou not felt, as thou stoodst to gaze,

The touching lesson such scene displays?

It should be thus, at an age like thine;

And U has been thus with me; When the freshness of feeling and heart were mine,

As they never more can be: Yet think not I ask thee to pity my lot, Perhaps I see beauty where thou dost not.

Hast thou seen in winter's stormiest day

The trunk of a blighted oak,
Not dead, but sinking in slow decay,

Beneath time's resistless stroke,
Round which a luxuriant Ivy had grown,
And wreath'd it with verdure no longer its
own?

Perchance thou hast seen this sight, and then,

As I, at thy years, might do,
Pass'd carelessly by, nor turned again

That scathed wreck to view:
But now I can draw from that mould'ring

tree, Thoughts which are soothing and dear to me.

O smile not! nor think it a worthless thing, If it be with instruction fraught;

That which will closest and longest cling, Is alone worth a serious thought!

Should aught be unlovely which thus can shed

Grace on theMying, and leaves not the dead?

Now, in thy youth, beseech of Him
Who givcth, upbraiding not.

AN ODE TO TIME.

Spirit! if I may call thee such,

Beneath whose silent sway Structures, defying grosser touch,

In fragments fall away: Essence, or shadow, whatsoe'er Thou art;—with mingled hope and fear.

I frame this votive lay: For feelings I can ill define With every thought of thee combine.

I court no fabled Muses' aid

To scatter spells around;
For long before their presence made

Parnassus classic ground,
Thou from dark chaos' depths didst spriac
Elate—on thy expanded wing,

Which never since has found,
In all the boundless realms of spare.
One moment's tranquil resting-place.

Let There Be Light!Jehovah said

And with that Hit, Thou,
Thy wings for instant flight outspread,

Becam'st—what thou art now!
A viewless thing, whose very name
Fancy's most daring flights may tame.

And furrow Wisdom's brow:
Given—and recall'd—with vital breath;
Thine entrance—Live! thine exit—Dhitb!

And yet that seeming death, which tells

That we have done with thee; And Thou no less with us—compels

Our Spirits still To Bb! That parting from thee docs but seem Like launching from some shallow stream

Into a soundless sea, Upon whose thought-o'erwhelming brink. Thy Cenl'riea into Momenta ahrink!

But to that soundless, shoreless deep

I now must bid adieu!— Enough it is for mc to keep

My subject theme in view; For more of thought in thee may dwelL Than even Poesy can tell,

Or fancy can pursue:— For, short of Things Eternal, thine Must closest round our heart entwine

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The power of Him. whoso mighty one
On sen and earth shall tread;

With face all radiant as the sun,
A rainbow round his head;

Pillars of fire—his feet shall gleam;

Dark clouds of heaven—his vesture seem; His voice—a sound of dread;

While thunders echoing far away,

Shall publish thy departing sway.

Then the immutable decree.

So long by Heaven deferr'd, Shall, in the destin'd close of Thee,

Fulfil its solemn word:— Through boundless space, by thought untrod,

The DELEGATED VOICE OP GOD

Shall awfully he heard,—
Proclaiming, as foretold of yore,
The Myst'rx Finish's! Time No .more!

THE POET'S LOT.

AskF<t thou what it is to be
A Poet?—I will tell thee what;

And show the thoughtless world, and thee,
His weary lot.

It is to snerifice each good

That Fortune's favour'd minions share; And in unheeded solitude

Her frowns to bear.

It is to nourish hopes that cheat;

Which, when he felt them first heat high, Appenr'd so humble, blameless, sweet,

They could not die.

It is to feel foreboding fears;—
Then fancy them unfounded too,—

And last, with pangs too deep for tears,
To own them true!

It u to cherish in the heart

Feelings the warmest, kindest, best;— To wish their essence to impart

To every breast;—

And then, awaking from such dream,
With anguish not to be controll'd,

To find that hearts which warmest seem
Are icy cold!

Tis like the pelican, to feed

Others from his warm breast; but own, Unlike that bird—the Hard may bleed,

Unthank'd, unknown.

It is to pamper vicious taste.

By spurning Virtue's strict control;

Then be with Fame and Riches graced, And lose his Soh!!

Or while his humble verse defends
Her cause, her loveliness portrays;

To win from her apparent friends
Cold, cautions praise.

It is a thorny path to tread.
By care, by sorrow overcast;

With but one thought its balm to shed.-
This cannot last!

For soon that thorny path is trod;

From Man he has no more to crave ;Grant him thy mercy, gracious God!

Thou, Earth!—a Grave!

ADDITIONAL 8TAKZAS.

If thus disheart'ning may appear.

In dnrker hours, the Poet's doom; Yet brighter glimpses sometimes cheer

His prospects' gloom.

The visions, feelings, thoughts—which nurse
Those moods that wrap his soul in night,

And of this goodly universe
Eclipse the light;—

In happier, more auspicious hours
These, as with energy divine.

Seem gifted with immortal powers.
And, cloudless, shine!

Though few, and for between—the gleams
Of their celestial light may break,—

As angel-forms that bless our dreams
Fade when we wake;—

Not dream-like are the hopes that wait
On paths by loftiest Poets trod.

But glorious, heavenly, pure, and great. And given of God!

Cast not those deathless hopes nway.

Thou who hast known and felt their worth, Nor let despondency gainsay

Their noble birth.

The purer elements that form
A Poet—worthy of the name.

In brightest sunshine—darkest storm.
Are still the same.

Firm faith, meek patience, genuine love,
Unworldly feelings, views sublime,

Aspiring hopes, which soar abovo
The things of Time;—

Such—of the Poet's inmost heart

The ihcrish'd inmates should be known:

And to his mental powers impart
Their master-tone.

Grief, care, and poverty may haunt

His pathway, strewing many a thorn;—

Fashion's neglect, cold folly's taunt,
The worldling's scorn,—

May he his portion;—slow disease
May undermine his outward frame;

And Calumny, more dread than these,
May blight his fame:—

But let him still, with fortitude,
See that his footsteps onward tend;

And strive, with faith and hope endued,
To wait The Bnd!

The threat'ning clouds which darkly lower,
As if to veil his soul in night,

May prove how impotent their power
To quench its light.

At times that light's reviving ray
Shall lend him, even here below,

Glory for gloom, turn night to day,
Give joy for woe.

And in a brighter world than this
What here inspir'd his holiest lays,

May tune his harp to songs of bliss,
And endless praise.

Bard! Prophet! Priest! go on in hope;

Gird up thy loins, thy sorrows bear; Meekly with present trials cope;

Watch unto prayer!

It is a thorny jiatli to trace;

Yet other feet its thorns have trod; Then bear thee up, and humbly place

Thy trust in God!

FLOWERS.

He who delights to trace, with serious

thought, In all lie sees the noiseless steps of Time, Shall lind the outward forms of Nature

fraught With ample food for many a lofty rhyme; Or should he fear such dazzling heights to

climb, And love to tread a less aspiring way,— Leaving untouched the nwful and sublime, And seeking humbler objects to portray, May find in such the theme of many a

pleasing lay.

What though the glorious Sun, enthron'd on high,

Mny more conspicuously (his lesson teach;

Or Moon and Stars, which gem the midnightsky,

A yet more touching homily may preach,

As day to day still utters ceaseless speech, And night to night yet added knowledge

shows,—

Far lowlier objects to the heart may reach, And Wisdom purest precepts may disclose, Cull'd from the Lily's bloom, or gathcr'd

from the Hose!

Yes,—you, delightful handy-works of Him Who arch'd the Heaven's, and spann'd this

solid Earth, Before whose glory day's proud light is dim, And Art's achievements, if not food for mirth, Display at best its barrenness and dearth,— You, too, instruct us, and with line on line, Precept on precept, show us by your birth, Your bud, your blossoming, and your decline. Time's never-ceasing flight, and tell us

truths divine.

You, as the changing Seasons roll along, Still wait on each, and added beauties lend:— Around the smiling Spring a lovely throng With eager rivalry her steps attend; Others with Summer's brighter glories blend; Some grace mild Autumn's more majestic

mien; While some few lingering blooms the brow

befriend Of hoary Winter, and with grace serene Inwreath the King of storms with Mercy's

gentler sheen.

Nor do ye, while ye thus declare the flight
Of Times and Seasons, want yet deeper lore;
In you, with eager and unsated sight,
The gentle Moralist may such explore:—
Even Religion's voice has heretofore
Pointed a moral, and adorn'd a tale
By illustration from your ample store;
Nor could such touching illustration fail
When thus The Saviour preach'd, his text
the lilies pale:

"Consider ye the lilies of the field,
Which neither toil nor spin,—not regal pride.
In all its plenitude of pomp reveal'd,
Could hope to charm, their beauties plac'd

beside: If heavenly goodness thus for them provide, Which bloom to-day, and wither on the

morrow, Shall not your wants be from your God

supplied. Without your vain aaxiety and sorrow?— Oh ye of little faith! from these a lesson

borrow!"

If such the soothing precepts taught from

you, Beautiful blossoms! well may ye appear

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