Perchance, O kinder thought and better hope,
Some priest of Isis shrined this root with thee
As nature's hyeroglyphic, her half-guess

Of glimmering faith, that soul will never die.
What emblem liker, or more eloquent
Of immortality, whether the Sphinx,
Scarab, or circled snake, or wide-winged orb,
The azure-colored arch, the sleepless eye,
The pyramid four-square, or flowing river,
Or all whatever else were symbols apt
In Egypt's alphabet, as thou, dry root,
So full of living promise?- yes, I see
Nature's "resurgam" sculptured there in words
That all of every clime may run and read:
I see the better hope of better times,
Hope against hope, wrapped in the dusky coats
Of a poor leek, I note glad tidings there
Of happier things: this undecaying corpse
A little longer, yet a little longer

Must slumber on, but shall awake at last;

A little longer, yet a little longer,

And at the trumpet's voice, shall this dry shape
Start up, instinct with life, the same though changed,
And put on incorruption's glorious garb:

Perchance for second death, perchance to shine,

If aught of Israel's God he knew and lov'd,

Brighter than seraphs, and beyond the sun.

CRUELTY.

WILL none befriend that poor dumb brute,

Will no man rescue him?

With weaker effort, gasping, mute,

He strains in every limb;

Spare him, O spare: - he feels, he feels
Big tears roll from his eyes;
Another crushing blow!-he reels,
Staggers, and falls, and dies.

The merciless is doubly curst,

As mercy is "twice blest;"

Vengeance, though slow, shall come, but first

The vengeance of the breast.

Why add another woe to life,

Man, are there not enough?

Why lay thy weapon to the strife?

Why make the road more rough?

Faint, nunger-sick, old, blind, and ill,

The poor, or man or beast, Can battle on with life uphill, And bear its griefs at least;

Truly, their cup of gall o'erflows'
But, when the spite of men
Adds poison to the draught of woes,
Who, who can drink it then?

Heard ye that shriek? O wretch, forbear,

Heap on, heap on, - fresh torments add,New schemes of torture plan⚫

NO MERCY: Mercy's self is glad

To damn the cruel man.

God! God! thy whole creation groans,
Thy fair world writhes in pain;
Shall the dread incense of its moans
Arise to Thee in vain?

Yours the natural curling tresses,
Prattling tongues, and shyness coy,
Tottering steps, and kind caresses,

Pure with health, and warm with joy.

The dull slaves of gain, or passion,

Cannot love you as they should; The poor worldly fools of fashion Would not love you if they could.

Write them childless, those cold-hearted, Who can scorn Thy generous boon, And whose souls with fear have smarted, Lest-Thy blessings come too soon.

While he hath a child to love him,
No man can be poor indeed;
While he trusts a Friend above him,
None can sorrow, fear, or need.

But for thee, whose heart is lonely,
And unwarm'd by children's mirth,
Spite of riches, thou art only
Desolate and poor on earth.

All unkiss'd by innocent beauty,
All unlov'd by guileless heart,
All uncheer'd by sweetest duty,
Childless man, how poor thou art