But, sweet Benevolence, regale me well

With those cheap pleasures and light cares of thine,

And meek-eyed Piety, be always near,

With calm Content, and Gratitude sincere.

Rescued from cities, and forensic strife,

And walking well with God in nature's eye,
Blest with fair children, and a faithful wife,
Love at my board, and friendship dwelling nigh,
Oh thus to wear away my useful life,

And, when I'm call'd, in rapturous hope to die,
Thus to rob heav'n of all the good I can,
And challenge earth to show a happier man!

The Mather's Lament.

My own little darling-dead!
The dove of my happiness fled!
Just Heaven, forgive,

But let me not live
Now my poor babe is dead:

No more to my yearning breast
Shall that sweet mouth be prest,
No more on my arm
Nestled up warm

Shall my fair darling rest:

H H

Alas, for that dear glazed eye,
Why did it dim or die?
Those lips so soft

I have kiss'd so oft
Why are they ice, oh why?

Alas, little frocks and toys,
Shadows of bygone joys,-
Have I not treasure

Of bitterest pleasure
In these little frocks and toys?

O harrowing sight to behold
That marble-like face all cold,
That small cherish'd form
Flung to the worm,

Deep in the charnel-mould!

Where is each heart-winning way, Thy prattle, and innocent play?

Alas, they are gone,

And left me alone

То

weep

for them night and day :

Yet why should I linger behind? Kill me too,-death most kind: Where can I go

To meet thy blow

And my sweet babe to find?

Det will I trust in all my fears,
Thy mercy, gracious Lord, appears,
To guide me through this vale of tears,
And be my strength;
Thy mercy guides the ebb and flow
Of health and joy, or pain and woe,
To wean my heart from all below

To Thee at length.

Yes,-welcome pain,-which Thou hast sent,

Yes,-farewell blessings,-Thou hast lent,
With Thee alone I rest content,

For Thou art Heav'n,

My trust reposes, safe and still,
On the wise goodness of Thy will,
Grateful for earthly good-or ill,

Which Thou hast giv'n.
O blessed Friend! O blissful thought!
With happiest consolation fraught,—
Trust Thee I may, I will, I ought,-
To doubt were sin;

Then let whatever storms arise,
Their Ruler sits above the skies,
And lifting unto Him mine eyes,
'Tis calm within.

Danger may threaten, foes molest,
Poverty brood, disease infest,

Yea, torn affections wound the breast
For one sad hour,

But Faith looks to her home on high,
Hope casts around a cheerful eye,
And Love puts all the terrors by

With gladdening power.

1837.

A Dirge for Wellington.—1852.

A boice of lamentation

From the islands of the Sea! Alas, thou sorrowing Nation Bereaved,-Alas for Thee! The wail as of a mother

Weeping for her son,

When shall she bear another
Like that illustrious One?

O Britain, broken-hearted,
Bemoan the bitter day,-
Thy Hero is departed,

Thy Glory rent away,—
Alas! our joys are made to cease,

Our praise of old is fled,

Though first in war, and first in peace,

Our Wellington is dead!

Was he not both our torch of war,

And learning's peaceful lamp,

Achilles in the battle-jar,

And Nestor in the camp ?

Our light is from us taken

To shine in other skies,

And we are left, forsaken

Of the valiant and the wise!