They that have mingled tear with tear,
Forget their woes in reckless sleep.
Closed is each ear to human moan,
Save His, who wakes to bitter care;
Hushed is each grief, but His alone
Who weeps for man in midnight prayer.
THE BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.
WHAT story to posterity's dull ear
Tells Egypt's pyramid? Only that men
Some while appeared on God's fair heritage,
As crouching slaves-the million spawned for one—
And he, the poor ambitious fool, that fain
Would live forever, yet unknowing how,
With blood and sweat hewed out this sepulchre-
Oblivion's den; and shrouded is his name
So deep in the cursed tomb, that toiling Age
Has lost its faintest shadow. Not such thou,
Proud Rock! by sons of Independence reared, .
Sculptured by Immortality. Rear high
Thy consecrated head! for thou art based
Upon no common earth; the blood and dust
Of martyrs are beneath thee; on their bones
Stand thou!-forever stand, and tell of Glory.
Forever?-aye, for thus should virtue live:
Live, Monument! though silent centuries heap
On thee their dust-though at fell Ruin's touch,
Thou crumblest-fallest,-not the cenotaph
Of mightiest kings, shall be so eloquent,
Or seem so precious as one stone of thee.
O WHY should care disturb thy breast,
And anxious hopes invade ?
These cares can never yield thee rest,
These brilliant hopes shall fade:
Say, is this world to thee so dear?
Say, traveller, "What dost thou here?"
Why shouldst thou prize these fleeting joys,
And build thy heaven on earth?
Ah, soon each false enjoyment cloys,
And vain is empty mirth;
Say, can they bring true pleasure near?
"What dost thou here?"
Why shouldst thou deem thy lot unkind,
When sorrow's boisterous flood
Has closed around thy 'nighted mind,
But brought thee near to God?
Is He not all? Is heaven not dear?
Say, weeping soul, "What dost thou here?"
TO A YOUNG FRIEND WITH A POCKET TESTAMENT.
THE charter of a nation's weal
Is dear to every patriot's heart,
And he that scorns its sacred seal
In Freedom's flame can share no part;
To young Desire, how choice the deed
That crowns the wishes of the heir;
How earnest, anxious, is his heed
That nought shall the bequest impair;
But dearer than the sacred scroll
That shows a rising nation free;
Dearer than riches to the soul,
Is the bequest of Deity.
This guides the weary wanderer's way,
This tells of a Redeemer's name;
And he that on its truths doth stay,
Shall smile when worlds are wrapt in flame.
THE ocean frowned darkly, the tempest blew,
And the thunders heavily rolled;
The billow, late trembling with cerulean hue,
Now blackening in anger was scrolled.
'Twas sad, for borne on the echo of night,
Came the voice of the furious blast;
"Twas drear, for no ray lent its beacon light,
Save the lightning that fearfully past.
"Twas lonely, for nought could the wind-god descry,
Save the barque that breasted the foam;
In the moanings of midnight, the mariner's cry
Was heard, bewailing his home.
The fires of home burn bright, but ne'er
Shall they shine on the mariner's grave;
The smiles of affection, the prattlers are there,
But the father lies cold in the wave.
WHEN Sorrow casts its shade around,
And pleasure seems our course to shun;
When nought but grief and care is found,
'Tis sweet to say "Thy will be done."
When sickness lends its pallid hue
And every dream of bliss has flown, When quickly from the fading view Recede the joys that once were known,
The soul resigned will still rejoice,
Though life's last sand has nearly run; With humble faith and trembling voice, It still responds, "Thy will be done."
When called to mourn the early doom
Of one Affection held most dear,
While drops upon the closing tomb
The silent, the expressive tear;
Though love its tribute sad will pay,
And earthly streams of solace shun, Still, still the gracious soul will say
In lowly dust, "Thy will be done."
Whatever, Lord, thou hast designed
To bring my soul to thee, its Trust;
If mercies or afflictions kind,
For all thy dealings, Lord, are just—
Take all! but grant in goodness free,
That love which ne'er thy stroke would shun,
Support this heart and strengthen me
To say in faith "Thy will be done."
THERE'S REST FOR THE WEARY.
O THOU that hast strayed in a pathway of sorrow,
Where joy is a stranger and peril is near;
With regret for the past and no hope for the morrow,
The sigh thy companion, thy solace a tear-
Though dark thy horizon, no star of day cheering, Though thy way, long and lonely, no pleasures il
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