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Thou that didst rule the angry hour,

And tame the tempest’s mood.-
Oh! send thy Spirit forth in power,

O’er our dark souls to brood !

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride,

Thy mandates to fulfil,
So speak to passion's raging tide,

Speak, and say—“Peace, be still.”

A MOTHER'S GRIEF.

John Erskine Paul.

How hallow'd are the dwellings of the dead !
There all is calm,—the noise of life hath fled.
There is a stillness in the very air,
Which awes the soul, and melts the thoughts to

prayer.
The monumental piles that rise around
In gloomy state, or heap the shapeless ground,
The broken urn,--the perishable dust,
The tottering tombstone, and the fallen bust,—

All tell how brief is life's allotted span,
How vain is time,-how frail a thing is man!
Oh! let the living pause : and as they read
Learn from the records of the silent dead,
That all is fleet and vanishing below,
And where the dead have gone, themselves must

likewise go.

But mark yon new-form'd grave, that lifts its head Above the thousand hamlets of the dead ! Why weeps the mother there ? 'tis “hallow'd

ground !” For 'neath the turf that wraps that lowly mound Is laid the object of her widow'd care, The dust of him she loved-her only son-is there! In childhood's years, oft had she on her breast Soothed all his cries, and cradled him to rest; And she had hoped, while still, with precept bland, She bade the bud of opening mind expand, That Heaven, in answer to the widow's prayer, Would yet in love her last lone comfort spare, With grateful smiles her kindness to repay, And bless with filial love the evening of her day. But from her sight, her joy, her hope hath goneFor God hath taken, and—God's will be done. Yet hither oft, where the departed sleep, The childless widow strays to watch and weep,

And still, at eve's soft hour, she lingers here,
As loth to wander from a spot so dear.
Yes! when the fire of soul,—the living charm,
That woke to life the dull material form,
To its own native heavens hath burst away,
Still Friendship dotes upon the lifeless clay,
Counts the soil hallow'd where the dead are laid,
And guards their ashes with a holy dread.
But for the mourner is there nought but gloom,
A lone existence, and an early tomb ?
Is there no hope of comfort and of rest,
To calm the tortures of the aching breast?
Oh say not so! in life's bleak wilderness
There is a bud whose fragrance soothes distress :-
From life's dark sky there beams a holy ray,
Which gilds the tear it cannot wipe away-
A blessed hope, to cheer the mourner, given
'Mid death and pain,--the hope of life in heaven.
'Tis this bright hope, which, to the heaven-taught

mind,
Ennobles grief, and proves affliction kind,
Breathes o'er the tomb the sanctity of faith,
And flings a lustre through the shades of death.
And see ! this hope, which time can not destroy,
Hath turn'd the weeper's agony to joy ;-
Already freed in thought from earth's controls,
She feels the transport of embracing souls,

And, like morn's dew beneath the solar ray,
Her tears of grief in rapture melt away;
Upwards from earth she points her glist'ning eye
To realms of bliss beyond the azure sky,
Where sever'd hearts, and parted friends at last,
Their toils, and pains, and tears of sorrow past,
With the soft welcomings of souls forgiven,
Salute each other to the joys of Heaven ;-
And the fond mother, when her griefs are o'er,
Clasps the lost babe she loved, to love for evermore.

SONNET.

Urhite.

What art thou, Mighty One! and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the land,
And thou dost bear within thine awful hand
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet.
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind,
Thou guid’st the northern storm at night's dead

noon,

Or on the red wings of the fierce monsoon
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind,

In the drear silence of the polar span
Dust thou repose ? or in the solitude
Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan
Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood ?
Vain thought! the confines of His throne to trace,
Who glows through all the fields of boundless

space.

STANZAS.

“ Lord, to whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of

eternal life.”John, vii. 68. “ Jesus saith, I am the way, the truth, and the life.”

John, xiv. 6.

To whom, O Jesus, shall we go
The words of heavenly truth to know?
Whom shall we follow, whom obey ?
Thou art “the truth, the life, the way.”

Thou art “the truth"—thy holy word
Rich stores of wisdom doth afford;
Knowledge and grace thy doctrines give,
And bid the soul believe and live.

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