FILIAL Devotion! dear the tie
That binds the parent to the child;
'Tis from affection's rich supply,
The streams of bliss flow undefiled;
What youthful mind loves not to dwell
On deeds which care parental prove?
What child whose bosom doth not swell
With gratitude and Filial Love?
If such there be-from haunts of men
Let the unhallowed wretch withdraw,
Fitter to guard the scorpion's den,
Or wait the cruel tiger's law,
How tender are the hourly cares,
That with the mother's love entwine;
How holy are the frequent prayers
The father pours at midnight's shrine;
Filial Devotion! Gratitude!
Emotions to the bosom dear
I would not on the heart intrude,
That never gave to you the tear;
And hast thou, O my spirit, scanned
With equal zeal, His guardian power,
Whose breath supports, whose bounteous hand, Unaided, holds existence' hour?
While, day by day, the full supplies
Thou need'st, are given thee from above;
Wilt thou not humbly recognise
In these, a watchful Father's love?
Recipient of a liberal store,
The pensioner of Mercy's throne,
Wilt thou not contritely adore
The Source of life and love alone?
Great Parent! while I intercede
For daily bread to strengthen me,
May I, with holy fervour, plead
Thy quickening grace to worship Thee.
ONE HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW.
My heart is desolate and sad,-
Others may dream, yet unto me
The visions that my boyhood had,
Are lost in dull reality;
I sometimes wish my soul were not
By sorrow stern, compelled to bow;
Yet wherefore? 'twill be all forgot
One Hundred Years from Now.
The friends I had, the hungry tomb
Hath stolen away, or, bitterer still,
Coldness hath nipped their love in bloom,
And kindly thoughts are turned to ill;
"Tis sad to mourn the buried friend,
Most sad to meet the altered brow;
Yet what of this!-all care will end
One Hundred Years from Now.
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.
On Thou Unseen, Almighty God!
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
Let pity triumph too.
Though justice is thy diadem,
And wrath is thine alone,
Yet Mercy shines, the brightest gem
Around thy glorious throne.
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