And thou shall break it soon; the grovelling worm
Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free
As his transfigured Lord with lightning form

And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee,

When from the grave He sprung at dawn of morn,
And led through boundless air thy conquering road,
Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new born,
Might fearless follow to their blest abode.

But first, by many a stern and fiery blast,

The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine,
And many a gale of keenest woe be past,
Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,

Till every limb obey the mounting soul,

The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given: He who the stormy heart can so control

The laggard body soon will waft to heaven.

IS done! dread Winter spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year.
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!

How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends
His desolate domain. Behold, fond man!

See here thy pictured life; pass some few years,
Thy flowering Spring, Thy Summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober Autumn fading into age,

And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene. Ah! whither now are fled,

Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes

Of happiness? those longings after fame?

Those restless cares? those busy bustling days?

Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts,
Lost between good and ill, that shared thy life?
All now are vanished! Virtue sole survives,
Immortal never-failing friend of man.

Ye good distressed!

Ye noble few! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,
And what your bounded view, which only saw
A little part, deemed evil, is no more:
The storms of wintry Time will quickly pass,
And one unbounded Spring encircle all.

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O, doubting heart,

Far over purple seas

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die?
Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O, doubting heart,

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays
These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?
O, doubting heart,

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky

That soon-for Spring is nigh

Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.