Sire of the Universe. MRS MARIA BROOKS. IRE of the universe!—and me SIR Dost Thou reject my midnight prayer? Dost Thou withhold me even from Thee, Thus writhing, struggling 'gainst despair? Thou know'st the source of feeling's gush, Thou know'st the end for which it flows: Then, if Thou bidd'st the tempest rush, Ah, heed the fragile bark it throws ! Fain would my heaving heart be still, But pain and tumult mock at rest; Fain would I meekly meet Thy will, And kiss the barb that tears my breast. Weak I am form'd, I can no more,— Weary I strive, but find not aid; Prone on Thy threshold I deplore, But, oh, Thy succour is delay'd! The burning, beauteous orb of day, What would it were Thy hand withdrawn? Scorch, devastate the teeming whole, Now glowing with its warmth divine! Spirit, whose powers of peace control Great Nature's heart, oh, pity mine! The Moon upon the Spire. Unrest. MRS EMMA C. EMBURY. 227 HEART, weary heart! what means thy wild unrest? Hast thou not tasted of earth's every pleasure? With all that mortals seek thy lot is blest; Yet dost thou ever chant in mournful measure- Heart, weary heart! canst thou not find repose Still dost thou murmur, with repress'd emotion,— Heart, weary heart! too idly hast thou pour'd Heart, weary heart! oh, cease thy wild unrest! And hope to find, where Heaven's pure stars are burning, "Something beyond!" The Moon upon the Spire. ΤΗ HANNAH F. GOULD. HE full-orb'd moon has reach'd no higher And seems, as gliding up the air, She saw the fane; and, pausing there, Would worship, in the tranquil night, Her tribute all around is seen; She bends, and worships like a queen! Pale traveller, on thy lonely way The temple's builders—where are they? And does he sink to rise no more? The Christian's Progress. The pallid king? no spark to save Nor death nor darkness e'er shall see! The Christian's Progress. THR H. KIRKE WHITE. HROUGH sorrow's path, and danger's road, We, soldiers of an injured King, Are marching to the tomb. There, when the turmoil is no more, Our labours done, securely laid The storms of life shall beat. Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane, For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise 229 |