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That willow from Euphrates' strand, Had sprung beneath bis training hand.

Long as revolving seasons flew,

From youth to age it flourishid; By vernal winds and starlight dew,

By showers and sunbeams nourish'd; And while in dust the poet slept, The willow o'er his ashes wept.

Old Time beheld his silvery head

With graceful grandeur towering, Its pensile boughs profusely spread,

The breezy lawn embowering, Till arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot A grove of scions from one root. Thither, at summer noon, he view'd

The lovely Nine retreating, Beneath its twilight solitude

With songs their poet greeting. Whose spirit in the willow spoke, Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.

Among thy lostiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green-
Thy chosen tree had stood sublime,

The storm of ages braving,
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of time

Its verdant banner waving,
While regal pyramids decay'd,
And empires perish'd in its shade.
An humbler lot, O tree! was thine,

-Gone down in all thy glory;
The sweet, the mournful task be mine,

To sing thy simple story;
Though verse like mine in vain would raise
The fame of thy departed days.
Yet, fallen willow! if to me

Such power of song were given,
My lips should breathe a soul through thee,

And call down fire from heaven,
To kindle in this hallow'd urn
A flame that would for ever burn.

THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A

FOREIGN LAND.

By harvest moonlight there be spied

The fairy bands advancing;
Bright Ariel's troops, on Thames's side,

Around the willow dancing ;
Gay sylpbs among the foliage play'd,
And glow-worms glitter'd in the shade.
One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree

In beauty green and glorious, “ The hand,” he cried, “ that planted thee

O’er mine was oft victorious;
Be vengeance now my calm employ,–
One work of Pope's I will destroy."
He spake, and struck a silent blow

With that dread arm whose motion
Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,

And wields o'er land and ocean The unremitting axe of doom, That fells the forest of the tomb. Deep to the willow's root it went,

And cleft the core asunder,
Like sudden secret lightning, sent

Without recording thunder:
--From that sad moment, slow away
Began the willow to decay.
In vain did spring those bowers restore,

Where loves and graces revellid,
Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,

The thin gray leaves dishevell’d, And every wasting winter found The willow nearer to the ground.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
O, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,

Our forests, our fountains,

Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore ? 0, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed? When shall I return to that lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness moet,The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,

My father, my mother,

My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all ? 0, when shall I visit the land of my birth? _'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

THE DIAL.

Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,

At length the axe assail'd it:
It bow'd before the woodman's rage ;

-The swans of Thames bewail'd it,
With softer tones, with sweeter breath,
Than ever charm'd the ear of death.
O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long

The wondering world enchanted, Amidst thy paradise of song

This weeping willow planted ;

This shadow on the dial's face,

That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Moments, and months, and years away ; This shadow, which, in every clime,

Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime-

What is it?-Mortal man !
It is the scythe of time:
-A shadow only to the eye;

Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;

And still, through each succeeding year
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till nature's race be run,
And time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun

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Nor only o'er the dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Steals moments, months, and years away ; From hoary rock and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,

The scythe of Time destroys. And man at every footstep weeps

O’er evanescent joys ; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn. -Ah! soon, beneath th' inevitable blow, I, too, shall lie in dust and darkness low.

A parent's heart may prove a snare ;

The child she loves so well, Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,

Down the smooth road to hell; Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind: Thus do the blind mislead the blind,

Even with a mother's love.

Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend

His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend

Each frail beholder's doom.
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though time's triumphant Night be shown, The truest index on its face

Points from the churchyard stone.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord, And pour'd upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word ; This was the lesson to her son, -Time is eternity begun:

Behold that mother's love.*

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name!

What is a mother's love?
-A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould ;
The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a mother's love.

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,

By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,

And know the fear of God :
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin eternity in time,

Taught by that mother's love.
That mother's love how sweet the name!

What was that mother's love?
- The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,

That kindles from above
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold:

This was that mother's love.

THE GLOW-WORM.

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the femnate

caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train

To bring a helpless babe to light,

Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,

And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

This is a mother's love.
Its weakness in her arms to bear;

To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from love's own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;
Then while it slumbers watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;

This is a mother's love.
To mark its growth from day to day,

Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray

Of intellectual'fire ;
To smile and listen while it talks,
And lend a finger when it walks ;

This is a mother's love.
And can a mother's love grow cold?

Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,

Nor weep for grief-for joy!
A mother may forget her child,
While wolves devour it on the wild;

-Is this a mother's love?

WHEN evening closes nature's eye,

The glow-worm lights her little spark, To captivate her favourite fly,

And tempt the rover through the dark. Conducted by a sweeter star

Than all that deck the fields above, He fondly hastens from afar,

To soothe her solitude with love. Thus in this wilderness of tears,

Amidst the world's perplexing gloom, The transient torch of Hymen cheers

The pilgrim journeying to the tomb. Unhappy he whose hopeless eye

Turns to the light of love in vain ; Whose cynosure is in the sky,

He on the dark and lonely main.

a

* 2 Tim. i. 6, and iii. 14, 15.

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QIT ATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF METASTASIO.

The tall oak, towering to the skies,
The fury of the wind defies,
From age to age, in virtue strong,
Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O'erwhelm'd at length upon the plain,
It puts forth wings, and sweeps the main ;
The selfsame foe undaunted braves,
And fights the winds upon the waves.

What is the world ?-A wildering maze,
Where sin hath track'd ten thousand ways,

Her victims to ensnare;
All broad, and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,

All ending in despair.
Millions of pilgrims throng those roads,
Bearing their baubles, or their loads,

Down to eternal night:
-One humble path, that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends

From darkness into light.
Is there a guide to show that path ?.
The Bible :--He alone, who hath

The Bible, need not stray:
Yet he who hath, and will not give
That heavenly guide to all that live,

Himself shall lose the way.

THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.

WELL, thou art gone, and I am left:
But O! how cold and dark to me
This world, of every charm bereft,
Where all was beautiful with thee!

Though I have seen thy form depart
For ever from my widow'd eye,
I hold thee in mine inmost heart;
There, there at least thou canst not die.

THE DAISY IN INDIA.

Farewell on earth: Heaven claim'd its own;
Yet, when from me thy presence went,
I was exchanged for God alone:
Let dust and ashes learn content.

Ha! those small voices, silver sweet! Fresh from the fields my babes appear; They fill my arms, they clasp my feet: -“0! could your father see us here !"

Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the learn

ed and illustrious Baptist missionary at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the doctor has been enabled io perpetuate the daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season

HUMAN LIFE.

Job xiv.

How few and evil are thy days,
Man, of a woman born!
Trouble and peril haunt thy ways:
-Forth like a flower at morn,
The tender infant springs to light,
Youth blossoms with the breeze,
Age, withering age, is cropt ere night;
-Man like a shadow flees.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
My mother country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower ;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

And dost Thou look on such a one?
Will God to judgment call
A worm, for what a worm hath done
Against the Lord of all ?
As fail the waters from the deep,
As summer brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep ;
-Dur life is vanity.

Thrice welcome, little English flower,
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Till yonder arching sphere
Shall with a roll of thunder break,
And nature disappear.
-0! hide me, till thy wrath be past,
Thou, who canst kill or save;
Hide me, where hope may anchor fast
In my Redeemer's grave.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be,

The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee,
I find in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand :
0, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk !—that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

Wine, oil, refreshment; he was heal'd;
I had myself a wound conceald;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemmd,
And honour'd him midst shame and scorn:
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd, if I for him would die;
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, “ I will.”
Then in a moment to my view
The Stranger darted from disguise,
The tokens in his hands I knew,
My Saviour stood before mine eyes :
He spake; and my poor name He named;
“Of me thou hast not been ashamed:
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."

THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

" Ye have done it unto me."-Matt. xxv. 40.

Night turns to day :

When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight
Cheer up, cheer up!
Ere long the opening flowers,
With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.

A Poon wayfaring man of grief Hath often cross'd me on my way, Who sued so humbly for relief, That I could never answer, “ Nay;" I had not power to ask his name, Whither he went, or whence he came, Yet was there something in his eye, That won my love, I knew not why. Ince, when my scanty meal was spread, He enter'd ;-Dot a word he spake:Just perishing for want of bread; I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake, And ate,-but gave me part again ; Mine was an angel's portion then, For while I fed with eager haste, That crust was manna to my taste. I spied him, where a fountain burst Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ; The heedless water mock'd his thirst, He heard it, saw it hurrying on: I ran to raise the sufferer up; Thrice from the stream he draind my cup, Dipt, and return'd it running o'er; I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice abroad, and fiew To bid him welcome to my roof; I warm'd, I clothed, I cheerd my guest, Laid him on my own couch to rest; Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd In Eden's garden while I dream'd. Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, I found him by the highway side: I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, Revived his spirit, and supplied

Storms die in calms :

When over land and ocean
Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
Cheer up, cheer up!
The voice of wild commotion

Proclaims tranquillity behind.
Winter wakes spring :-

When icy blasts are blowing
O’er frozen lakes, through naked trees
Cheer up, cheer up!
All beautiful and glowing,

May floats in fragrance on the breeze. War ends in peace :

Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghastly corpses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up !
Where groan’d the field of battle,

The song, the dance, the feast go round. Toil brings repose :-

With noontide fervours beating,
When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
Cheer up, cheer up !
Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,
Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

Death springs to life:

Though brief and sad thy story,
Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
Look up, look up!
Eternity and glory
Dawn through the portals of the tomb

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