Sorrow with me hath done its worst; She whom I love-her face is wan,- Yea, I have given to the dust The babe my bosom doated on: Yet, as upon its clay-cold bed
We wept, sweet voices whispered, how Gladly we'll meet, long ere hath fled One Hundred Years from Now.
'Tis Nature's law-then why repine That man should tread a thorny way? The hopes that now thus darkly shine, Shall yet break out to perfect Day; And O, my spirit! this thy shield Shall be, when bade by griefs to bow- The mystery will be revealed
One Hundred Years from Now.
ODE FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE
BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL.
WHERE rest the mighty Slain, 'Neath monument or mound,
On teeming hill or plain,
That spot is holy ground: Sons of the Warrior! rear The obelisk on high; Sons of the Brave! revere
The deeds that never die.
Bid ye the column tell
That on this place of graves,
The men of valour fell,
Who scorned to live as slaves : God-whose sublime decree, Speaks elements to rest,
Gave victory to the free,
And safety to the oppressed.
Ghosts of the glorious dead! Our venerated sires! Your offspring bless, and shed. On them your sacred fires : At this auspicious hour, On this devoted spot, Glory, we feel thy power- What bosom owns it not!
Rear ye the lettered Rock!- What though it pass away, Though marble ne'er can mock Resistless Time's decay,
The Patriot's deed is known To archives of the sky; Emblazoned on the throne, The record cannot die.
PRAYER WRITTEN DURING A PESTILENCE.
OH Thou Unseen, Almighty God! That rul'st in power alone; Afflicted by thy righteous rod, We come before the throne.
And thou wilt never bid " ‘depart” — When our frail offerings rise; For Thou hast said, the broken heart Is thy own sacrifice.
With earnest tears we intercede
For thy paternal care;
And, self-abased, do humbly plead
In penitential prayer.
Our city weeps in lowly dust,
Bowed by the hand Divine; And still she owns thy dealings just, For judgment, Lord, is thine.
Yet while Thou rid'st in frowning mien, And hold'st the balance true,
Oh God! while thy dread scourge is seen, Let pity triumph too.
Though justice is thy diadem,
And wrath is thine alone,
Yet Mercy shines, the brightest gem Around thy glorious throne.
THERE is a harp whose thrilling sound Is heard among the choirs above; 'Mid the blue arch its notes resound, And heaven repeats the strains of love.
'Tis when some spirit from these spheres, On viewless pinions wings its way, And pure, before the throne appears, In robes of everlasting day.
Hark! the glad shout of sacred joy, In choral numbers loud and long : The angelic hosts their harps employ, The cherub wakes his noblest song.
LADY! while gaily ope's on you The world's alluring witching smile; While flowers of every form and hue Spring forth, your pathway to beguile,- O Lady, in the bursting dawn
Of hope, may real bliss be seen, And bland contentment gild your morn, And peace be yours at fond SIXTEEN.
Life's but a flower, how frail the bloom! It charms without, within is there The worm that's nourished to consume, The foe of beauty, baneful Care : Far from your bosom be the cares That lurk with cold forbidding mien, And, O kind Heaven! avert the snares That folly spreads for gay SIXTEEN.
Though cloudless suns for thee may rise, And bright the joys that for thee shine, O who may tell these beauteous skies, These cloudless suns shall long be thine? Yet long may these your day illume, And may no storm, with rigour keen, Assail the flower that loves to bloom On the fair cheek of sweet SIXTEEN.
The fairy form must lose its grace, The speaking eye must know decay, Time will each youthful charm efface, As evening's robe obscures the day; Yet while meek candour loves to dwell Those lips upon, and truth is seen, Lady, these graces long shall tell The fadeless charms of bright SIXTEEN.
Affection cheers our pathway wild, Yet oft it dies, alas! how soon,- The star that on Love's morning smiled, Shines coldly on its dying noon;
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