If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads, When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart—Beware. With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. If friendless in ovale of tears I stray, Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And with strong confidence lay hold on thee; With equal eye my various krt receive, Resigned to die, or resolute to live; Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God.

I read his awful name emblazoned high With golden letters on the illumined sky; Nor less the mystic characters I see Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree: In every leaf that trembles to the breeze I hear the voice of God among the trees; With thee in shady solitudes I walk, With thee in busy crowded cities talk; In every creature own thy forming power, In each event thy providence adore.

Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear controul.
Thus shall I rest unmoved by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms,
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate,
I stand, and stretch my view to either state:
Teach me to quit this transitory scene
With decent triumph and a look serene;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And having lived to thee—in thee to die.

Barbauld.

ON THE PARTING OF THREE FRIENDS.

In parting, perhaps we are breaking a link

Which will ne'er be united again 1
And firm as that chain is—'tis painful to think

That absence may rend it in twain.

Oh when shall we meet ?—perhaps not until time
Shall have withered our hearts with our bloom,

Oh where—in some strange, and some far distant clime,
Or within the dear circle at home?

When together we dwell, and together decay,

The change then is painful to view!
But oh! it is mournful—to meet and to say,

Was it thou—who last bade me adieu!

We may meet in sorrow—or sickness—or pain,

Or no more, in this world of woe I
But still the fond hope, of once meeting again,

Shall cheer us, wherever we go.

Perhaps in some populous haunt we may meet,
'Mid the laugh—and the song—and the jest,

Or perhaps in some lonely and sylvan retreat,
Where feeling hath room in the breast.

And oh 1 we may meet, when our hearts are less warm,

Have been chilled by adversity's blast! But cold though they be, an invincible charm

Must hallow the scenes that are past.

We shall think on the days, with those friends we hare seen,

And in fancy live o'er them once more;
And sighing, remember that such things hare been,

But will they seem bright as before P

Ah no! even then, to our memory shall steal
Some scenes, which with these may compare;

And many a sorrow, which they did not feel;
And a joy, which they did not share.

Thus in parting, perhaps we are breaking a link

Which will ne'er be united again;
And firm as that chain is—'tis painful to think

That absence may rend it in twain.

Anon.

FAREWELL I BUT WHENEVER, &c.

Farewell! but whenever you welcome the hour,

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower;

Then think of the friend, who once welcomed it too,

And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you:

His griefs may return—not a hope may remain,

Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain,

But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw

Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you.—

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up,

To the highest top sparkle, each heart and each cup,

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,

My soul, happy friends—shall be with you that night,

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,

And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles,

Too blest, if it tells me, that 'mid the gay cheer,

Some kind voice had murmured, ' I wish he were here!'

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features, that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled:
You may break—you may ruin the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Moore.

VOL. II.