Be proud, as thy deserts are great,—
To thine own praise be true!
Thou too, celestial Muse, come down,
And with kind haste prepare
The laurel for a Delphic crown
To weave thy poet's hair.

THE ASSURANCE OF OVID.

Now have I done my work!-which not Jove's ire
Can make undone, nor sword, nor time, nor fire.
Whene'er that day, whose only powers extend
Against this body, my brief life shall end,
Still in my better portion evermore
Above the stars undying shall I soar!

My name shall never die: but through all time,
Wherever Rome shall reach a conquered clime,
There, in that people's tongue, shall this my page
Be read and glorified from age to age ;—
Yea, if the bodings of my spirit give
True note of inspiration, I shall live!

POST-LETTERS.

LOTTERY tickets every day,―

And ever drawn a blank!

Yet none the less we pant and pray
For prizes in that bank :

Morn by morn, and week by week,

They cheat us, or amuse,

Whilst on we fondly hope, and seek

Some stirring daily news.

The heedless postman on his path
Is scattering joys and woes;

He bears the seeds of life and death,
And drops them as he goes!
I never note him trudging near
Upon his common track,
But all my heart is hope, or fear,
With visions bright, or black!

I hope-what hope I not ?-vague things
Of wondrous possible good;

I dread-as vague imaginings,
A very viper's brood:

Fame's sunshine, fortune's golden dews

May now be hovering o'er,

Or the pale shadow of ill news
Be cowering at my door!

O Mystery, master-key to life,
Thou spring of every hour,
I love to wrestle in thy strife,

And tempt thy perilous power;
I love to know that none can know
What this day may bring forth,
What bliss for me, for me what woe
Is travailing in birth !

See, on my neighbour's threshold stands

Yon careless common man, Bearing, perchance, in those coarse hands,

My Being's altered plan!

My germs of pleasure, or of pain,

Of trouble, or of peace,

May there lie thick as drops of rain
Distilled from Gideon's fleece !

Who knoweth ? may not loves be dead,Or those we loved laid low,

Who knoweth? may not wealth be fled, And all the world my foe?

ALAS, we do but act; we are not free;
The presence of another is a chain

My trammeled spirit strives to break, in vain: How strangely different myself from me! Thoughtful in solitude, serenely blest, Crown'd and enthroned in mental majesty, Equal to all things great, and daring all,

I muse of mysteries, and am at rest; But, in the midst, some dull intruded guest Topples me from my heights, holding in thrall

With his hard eye the traitor in my breast, That before humbler intellects is cow'd, Silently shrinking from the common crowd, And only with the highest self-possest.

ON AN INFANT.*

LOOK on this babe; and let thy pride take heed, Thy pride of manhood, intellect, or fame, That thou despise him not: for he indeed,

And such as he, in spirit and heart the same Are God's own children in that kingdom brigh Where purity is praise,—and where before The Father's throne, triumphant evermore, The ministering angels, sons of light,

Stand unreproved; because they offer ther Mix'd with the Mediator's hallowing pray'ı The innocence of babes in Christ like this: O guardian Spirit, be my child thy care, Lead him to God, obedience and bliss, To God, O fostering cherub, thine and his!

* William Knighton Tupper, the Author's second son