That rose-tree's cluster'd arches! See!
The robin-redbreast, warily,

Bright through the blossoms leaves his nest :
Sweet ingrate! through the winter blest
At the firesides of men,-but shy
Through all the sultry summer hours
He hides himself among the flowers,
In his own wild festivity.

What lulling sound, and shadow cool
Hangs half the darken'd church-yard o'er,
From thy green depths so beautiful,
Thou gorgeous sycamore!

Oft have the holy wine and bread
Been blest beneath thy murmuring tent,
Where many a bright and hoary head
Bow'd at that awful sacrament.

Now, all beneath the turf are laid
On which they sat, and sang, and pray'd.

Above that consecrated tree
Ascends the tapering spire, that seems
To lift the soul up silently

To heaven, with all its dreams;
While in the belfry, deep and low,
From his heaved bosom's purple gleams
The dove's continuous murmurs flow,
A dirge-like song, half bliss, half wo,
The voice so lonely seems.

A PRAYER,

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

O THOU Great Being! what thou art

Surpasses me to know;

Yet sure I am that known to thee
Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before thee stands,
All wretched and distress'd;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey thy high behest.

Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

O, free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves
To bear, and not repine!

PARENTS.

EXODUS XX. 12.

THE Voice of nature, yea, the voice of God,
Commands to honor those that gave us birth,-
Even her, from whose supporting bosom flow'd
By far the sweetest stream that flows on earth;
Whose tongue of kindness never knew a dearth
Of soothing words that could our griefs allay-
Even him who listen'd to our prattling mirth,
Who early taught our infant lips to pray,

And led our tottering steps to walk in wisdom's way.

A parent is indeed a tender friend,

And if once lost, we never more shall find
A bosom that so tremblingly can blend
Its feelings with our own congenial mind;
Our lips may speak their anguish to the wind
That hurries heedlessly and wildly by—
Our hearts, to lonely agony consign'd,
May throb without relief-for no reply

Comes from the mouldering breasts that in their gravebed lie.

And then we pause to think-alas! how late!-
Of deeds that wrung a parent's heart with pain;
And oh! could we but open death's dark gate,
And lead them back into the world again—

Oh! but once more to see their face!-'t is vain!Once more to hear their voice!—'t is sweetly driven Across our fancy, and expires, and then

We wish ourselves away-away to heaven,
To weep upon their breast, and there to be forgiven.

SACRED LYRIC.

WHERE can I go from Thee!

All-present Deity!

Nature, and Time, and Thought, thine impress bear; Through earth, or sea, or sky,

Though wide and far I fly,

I turn, and find Thee present with me there.

The perfume of the rose,

And every flower that blows,

All mark thy love; the clusters of the vale,
The corn that crowns the fields,

The fruits the garden yields,

Proclaim the bounties that can never fail.

The vapor and the cloud,

The thunder bursting loud,
Speak of thy majesty in words of flame;
The ocean as it roars,

Lashing the rocks and shores,
Declares from what a mighty hand it came.

The vasty globes that roll,

Each on his own firm pole,

Through all the boundless fields of space alone,

Prove that, indeed, Thou art
The life-wheel and the heart
Of systems to our little world unknown.

From thee I cannot fly;

Thine all-observing eye

Marks the minutest atom of thy reign;
How far soe'er I go,

Thou all my path wouldst know,
And bring the wanderer to this earth again.

But why should I depart?

'Tis safety where thou art; And could one favor'd spot thy being hold, I, poor, and vain, and weak,

That sacred spot would seek,

And dwell within the shelter of thy fold!

A THOUGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE.

BEYOND, beyond that boundless sea,
Above that dome of sky,

Further than thought itself can flee,
Thy dwelling is on high:

Yet dear the awful thought to me,
That thou, my God, art nigh :-

:

Art nigh, and yet my laboring mind

Feels after thee in vain,

Thee in these works of power to find,
Or to thy seat attain.