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Ami takes its name from sufTring's fiercest

hour:— Be tliis thy noblcat fame, imperial Passionflower!

Whatever impulse first conferr'd that name,
Or Fancy's dream, or Superstition's art,
I freely own its spirit-touching claim,
With thoughts and feelings it may well

Not that I would forego the surer chart
Of Revelation for a mere conceit;
Yet with indulgence may The CArisfmn's heart
Each frail memorial of His Mastrr greet,
And chiefly what recals his love's most

glorious feat.

Be this the closing tribute of my strain! Be this, fair flowers! of charms—your last

and best! That when Tub Son Of God for Man was

slain, Circled by you, He sank awhile to rest,— Not the Grave's captive, but a Garden's

guest, So pure and lovely was his transient tomb! And He, whose brow the wreath of thorns

had prcst. Not only bore for us Death's cruel doom, But won (Ac thornless croum of amaranthine



What is lovelier far than the Spring can he, To the gloom of dark Winter succeeding, When the blossoms arc blushing on flower

and tree, And the lambs in the meadows are feeding; While the earth below, and the heavens above. Resound with the anthems of joy and love?

'Tis the Spring of the soul! when on Sin's dark nigbt

A ray from above is descending,

And the tear of contrition, lit up by its light,

With its beauty is silently blending;

When the heart's broken accents of prayer and praise

Are sweeter than Nature's softest lays.

What is stronger and brighter than Summer's sun.

In his noon-tide effulgence shining?

Yet gentler than he, when his goal is won,

And his beams in the west are declining?

More glorious than Summer's most cloudless day,

Whose loveliest splendour soon passes away?

Tis the Christian's zenith,the Summer of him
Whose strength to his God is devoted;
Who, whether his path-way be bright or dim,
By mortals admir'd or unnoted—
From strength to strength, and from grace

to grace, Outshines the Sun in his glorious race.

What is richer than Harvest? what gladdens the heart

Beyond Autnmn, with bounty o'erllowing?

What is wealthier than all the proud trophies of art;

More ripe than the red vintage glowing;

Yet majestic and touching as Autumn's eve,

W hen the Sun's calm glory is taking its leave?

'Tis the Saint's ripe harvest; the gathering-in

To the garner of thanks and of glory;

H is prayer and praise for redem ption from sin;

His hopes, now his locks are hoary,

That the mercy and goodness, vouchsaf'd

him long, May still be his stay, and his even-song.

What is stiller and fairer than Winter's night, When the full moon and stars are unclouded; When earth is bespangled with glory and

light. Though its life deep within it bo shrouded; When all is so calm and so lovely around, That a whisper might startle the car )ty its


'Tis the parting-hour of the Saint, when his

cheek Is ting'd with delightful emotion; When his eye and his smile in silence speak The spirit's sublimest devotion; When his earthly beauty and vigour have

flown, But tho brightness of Heaven is over him



It is an awful thing to die!

But did not Man thy form supply

With terrors not its own. Not thus to life would mortals cling, Nor view thee as a gloomy thing

To waken fear alone.

But we have ransack'd Fancy's realm
For frightfnl symbols to o'erwhclm

Life's nerveless, weakest hour:
At distnnce, we defy thy dart;
When thou draws! nigh, with coward art

Wc aggravate thy power.

Thy form would -we personify,
A hideous monster greet the eye,

Gaunt, ghastly, fleshless, dire;
We give thee emblems, too, as dull—
A scythe, and hones, and naked skull,

Fresh horrors to inspire.

With stifled breath we speak thy name,
Whene'er this perishable frame

Would thy approach declare;
And when we feel that thou art nigh,
We turn away, as if to die

Were more than man could dare.

Not only do we strive to blind
Ourselves,—but, with intentions kind,

From others we conceal
Thy stealthy pace, thy lifted arm,
As if our silence had the charm

Thy sentence to repeal.

Thus to attempt ourselves to cheat,
Is folly's, and not wisdom's feat;

And in another's case,
Twere wiser, kinder, more sincere,
To teach the sufferer without fear

To look thee in the face.

To doubt such courage may be won,
Is more than Reason's voice to shun;

This might excuse supply;
Not so the covert treason shown
To Him, who has thy power o'erthrown,

And taught us how to die.

Thou mayst be terrible, O Death!
To those who hold by vital breath

Each treasure of the heart;
Whose happiness is found below;
Who, with this life, must all forego—

From all they prize must part

But to tho Christian, who, serene,

Has look'd through Faith on things unseen—

Thy solemn, trying hour
Is far from dreadful; for his soul
Knows who can Nature's fears control,

And trusts a Saviour's power.

His treasure is laid up on high,

Where moth and rust can come not nigh,

Nor thieves break through and steal; The only bonds which hold him here Are duty, reverential fear,

And ties that all should feel.

But duty, is he call'd above,
Prompts upward, and perfected love

Con cast out every fear;
And Nature's ties, though strong their force,
Are loos'd by Goo, their purest Source,

Who gave them earth to cheer.

| Then thou, the Inst and deadliest torn Of Man, art laid for ever low,

No longer to appal; From sin redeem'd, with humble trust. The spirit waits to join the just,

Where God is all in all.

And thou art stingless! while the grave No victory over such can crave;—

Through Faith and Hope sublime, Heaven over Earth the triumph gains; Joys yet to be o'er present pains;

Eternity o'er Time!


Too oft on thee, in wayward mood,
Has Satire pour'd its spiteful lays.

And Flattery found its choicest food
In greeting thee with servile praise:

The artless tribute I would raise.
From flattery and from satire free,

In simple truth, alone, essays

To speak my gratitude to Thee.

How vast, how complicate the debt

I owe to thee, 'twere vain to tell:— In childhood, can I e'er forget

The voice, which, like a soothing spell, Beguil'd each grief? how softly fell

On youth's fond ear a gentler tone! How sweet, e'en now, it is to dwell

On thy lov'd voice, and thine alone!

I owe thee much, for I was rear'd

Beneath thy kind and fost'ring care; Thy smiles my earliest joys endear'd;—

As life advane'd more priz'd they were. Prompting me manhood's ills to hear;

And now, of all created things. Thou, chiefly, chidest dark despair.

And unto thee Hope fondly clings.

They feel not thy transcendent worth

Who love thee most in sun-bright hoars: I know thy smile enn heighten mirth.

As day-light gladdens opening flowers; I know that e'en thy playful powers

In sportive mood,—thy look, thy voire. When some light cloud around us lower*.

Can bid Man's grateful heart rejoice.

But 'tis in seasons far more drear.

Of outward, inward gloom combin'd. When sorrow knows no bursting tear.

But dark despair o'erclouds the raind'Tis then in thee the wretched fmil

That purer, gentler power display'd. Which, fond, yet firm, appears design's'

To dissipate each darker shade.

None, none can paint, who hare not known

Such hours, what thou canst then reveal; That charm peculiarly thy own,

Which seems, by art that all can feel, The sufferer from himself to steal;

The balm of sympathy to shed
On wounds which God alone can heal,

And call back hope as from the dead.

'Tis not thy beauty that can give

This influence o'er the mourner's heart; This pure, this high prerogative

Is gain'd thee by no studied art: A fever'd spirit's rankling smart

Heeds not a face, nor form, nor air; The charm that thou canst then impart

Proclaims that something else is there.

It is the patient, quiet power

Of deep affection, given with birth; Thy richest, and thy noblest dower,

Far, far above thy smiles of mirth: That love which knows no wintry dearth

In bleak adversity's chill blast,
But whose meek, self-forgetting worth

Endures unshaken to the last.

Yet though this glorions gift appear

Thy nat'ral birth-right here below, Let meek humility and fear

Its holiest source both feel and know: Mere earthly love may come and go,

As meteors o'er our path may shine; But that which lives through care and woe,

Religion's influence must refine.

This only gives that higher zest

To which thy spirit should aspire; Thy influence o'er Man's grateful breast

By this dominion should acquire: The painter's hues, the poet's lyre,

Thy mortal graces may display; But thou shouldst for thyself desire,

And seek a yet more deathless sway.

Man is immers'd in worldly cares,

And ceaseless conflicts;—science, fame, Commerce,—the world's uncounted snares—

Beset his every earthly aim: Thine is the privilege to claim

A more sequester'd path ;—O! strive To cherish that ethereal flame

Which shall mortality survive.

The busiest life that Man can lead

Has many a moment's breathing space: Seek thou for wisdom, strength to plead

In snch for pure Religion's grace;
Then shalt thou in thy proper place

Meekly the Gospel's power adorn,
And prove, in more than form or face,

Man is, indeed, of Woman born.



Is this, departed scourge of earth!

A Reliqne worthy Thee?
In many it would waken mirth,

Its littleness to see;
While some—that in my peaceful eyes
Such relique shonld be deenfd a prize,

Would more offended be;—
And chide the feeling that would save
One leaf that flutter'd o'er thy grave.

But to a Poet's thoughtful view

This frail memorial teems With feelings, fancies, tender, true,

Worth all ambition's dreams; Nor could a homily express More on the empty nothingness Of conquest's wildest schemes, Than this poor wither'd leaf displays To meditation's thoughtful gaze.

Those who regard with dazzled eye

Thy comet-like career,
May pass this slight memento by

With cold, contemptuous sneer; And think a pyramid's proud height, To awe, and overwhelm the sight,

Shonld be emblazon'd here,
In whose enduring, giant frame,
Fancy might typify thy Fame.

Ill-judging Men !• Thy reliques found

A tomb by Nature plann'd,
And frowning rocks, that hem them round,

Their guardians seem to stand:
Oft, when those cliffs emerge to sight,
Crested with clouds, or tipt with light,

The seaman's outstretch'd hand
Shall show, uprising from the wave,
The lonely isle which is thy grave!

What could Ambition's self desire

To tell its votary's lot?
Where would its wildest dreams aspire,

If this content them not?
Imagination can supply
No cenotaph to heart, or eye,

Like that rock-girdled spot.
Which saw thy sun go down in gloom;
Which was thy prison—is thy tomb!

Had but thy fame (for fame was thine)

Been truly good and great, No monument could Art assign

With such a one to mate: Those who most idolize thy name

Could scarcely wish for thee to claim

Sublimer funeral state, Or mausoleum more august To tell thy death, and guard thy dust.

For me, though through thy stormy day

I reverene'd not thy power,
And mourn'd to see thee cast away

A monarch's noblest dower;
Yet often have I turn'd awhile
To thee on thy far distant isle,

In Fortune's adverse hour;— Nor would I willingly deface This relique of thy resting-place.

'Tis all I wish it:—just enough

To waken thoughts of thee, Which need not dread a Slave's rebuff,

Much less offend Tiik Fheb:
Let those thy eulogies invent
Who to the living tyrant bent

A selfish, servile knee:—
And they who feel not for the dead,
May triumph o'er thy narrow bed.

Rather would I, in thoughtful frame,

O'er this poor relique bend, Which seems to say: "Of earthly fame

Behold the fruitless end:
Alike the monarch and the slave,
The fool and wise, the base and brave,

To silent dust descend:—
I sprang up from a buried Chief,
And am, like him, a wither'd leaf.

Time was, when o'er his crownless head

My beauty lov'd to bow,
Green as the victor-wreaths that shed

Theirs round his living brow;
Glorious and dazzling as they seem'd,
While fickle sunshine round them gleam'd,

They are—what / am now!
The leaf that withers not is known
Upon The Tube or Life alone!"


OH A LINE OF 8ALVAT0R ROSA. iNisci poena, vita labor, neceaee mini.

O! say not that the boon of birth

Is punishment alone: Goo, who bestow'd it, knew its worth;

The gift was all His own— Dcsign'd to servo a noble end. Would but thy thoughts to llim ascend.

Think not that Life is nothing more

Than labour:—hath it not,
'Mid paths by thorns besprinkled o'er,

Full many a flowery spot,
Whence gentle feelings, musings high.
May soar to immortality?

Nor look on Death, Man's latest foe,

As necessary ill: Seek but Thy Savioub's power to know.

And do thy Maker's will— And Death, the end of care and strife, Shall be the door of endless life!


Types of eternal rest—fair buds of bliss. In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week— The next world's gladness imag'd forth in this— Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak!

Eternity in Time—the steps by which %

We climb to future ages—lamps that light Man through his darker days, and thought enrich, Yielding redemption for the week's dull flight.

Wakeners of prayer in Man—hia resting bowers

As on he journeys in the narrow way. Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hoars

Ara waited for as in the cool of day.

Days fix'd by God for intercourse with dust.

To raise our thoughts, and purify our powers— Periods appointed to renew our trust—

A gleam of glory after six days' showers!

A milky way mark'd out through skies else drear, By radiant suns that warm as well as shine— A clue, which he who follows knows no fear. Though briars and thorns around his pathway twine.

Foretastes of Heaven on earth—pledges of joj Surpassing fancy's flights, and fiction'* story— The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy. And the bright out-courts of immortal glory!


WiiniE burns the lov'il licnrth brightest,

Cheering the social breast?
Where beats the fond heart lightest,

Its humble hopes posscss'd?
Where is the smile of sadness,

Of meek-eyed patience born, Worth more than those of gladness,

Which Mirth's bright check adorn?— Pleasure is mark'd by fleetnesa,

To those who ever roam; While grief itself has sweetness

At Home! dear Home!

There blend the ties that strengthen

Our hearts in hours of grief, The silver links that lengthen

Joy's visits when most brief: There eyes, in all their splendour,

Are vocal to the heart, And glances, gay or tender,

Fresh eloquence impart: Then, dost thou sigh for pleasure?

O! do not widely roam; But seek that hidden treasure

At Home! dear Home!

Does pure Religion charm thee

Far more than aught below? Wouldst thou that she should arm thee

Against the hour of woe? Think not she dwelleth only

In temples built for prayer; For Home itself is lonely

Unless her smiles be there: The devotee may falter,

The bigot blindly roam; If worshiplcss her altar

At Home! dear Home!

Love over it presideth,

With meek and watchful awe, Its daily service guideth,

And shows its perfect law; If there thy faith shall fail theo,

If there no shrine be found, What can thy prayers avail thee

With kneeling crowds around? Go! leave thy gift unofler'd,

Beneath Religion's dome.
And be her first-fruits profler'd

At Home! dear Home!


Could Muse of mine give fame to thee,
Thy name unhonour'd shonld not be,
Nor shouldst thou seek the billowy main
Without thy tributary strain.

Shakspeare has shed on Avon's stream
The glory of his quenchless beam;
Nor can the bonny banks of Doo*
Resign their Burns's minstrel-boon.

While flows the winding Oise along,
It murmurs still of Cowpcr's song;
And e'en the Lavant's puny wave
Recals a hapless Poet's grave.

An unromantic stream art thou,
And I a bard of wreathlvss brow;
Yet thou ray Isis art,—my Cam;
And I thy lowly laureat am.

Have I not seen thy waters bright
With the sun's splendour, moon's soft light 1
Have I not heard them, rippling near,
Make sweetest music to mine ear?

Though many a river's banks outvie
Thy own in much that charms the eye,
Yet may thy shelving marge impart
Beauties which win thy minstrel's heart.

In graceful curve thy waters glide,
Ana flowery meadows deck thy side,
With scatter'd copses, bright and green,
And vct'ran trunks where woods have been.

And, worihier still of Poet's lay,
Beside thy winding current stray
Faces as lovely, hearts as kind,
As tuneful verse has e'er enshrin'd.

I sought thy shore a youth unknown,
And much of grief has been my own;
Yet sunny gleams from thee, and thine,
Have oft forbade me fn repine.

Though since I knew thee years have sped,
And life's, and love's first bloom have fled;—
Their memory gives thee added power
To soothe and bless the present hour.

Then roll thy waters to the sea,

But with them bear one strain from me;

Nor ask I sweeter earthly fame,

Than blending with thy own my Name.


Twelve months compose each fleeting year;

And, unto those who rightly scan,
Twelve brief compartments may appear

Compris'd in life's accustom'd span:
Nor need it be a waste of time
To trace this parallel in rhyme.

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