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I bent before thy gracious throne,

And asked for peace with suppliant knee;
And peace was given,-nor peace alone,
But peace, and hope, and ecstacy.

WORDSWORTH.

A SON'S LAMENT.

Ir heart-felt pain e'er led me to accuse
The dangerous gift of the alluring Muse,
'Twas in the moment when my verse imprest
Some anxious feelings on a mother's breast.
O thou fond spirit, who with pride hast smiled,
And frown'd with fear on thy poetic child,
Pleased, yet alarmed, when in his boyish time,
He sigh'd in numbers, or he laughed in rhyme;
While thy kind cautions warn'd him to beware
Of penury, the bard's perpetual snare;
Marking the early temper of his soul,

Careless of wealth, nor fit for base control;
Thou tender saint, to whom he owes much more,
Than ever child to parent owed before :

In life's first season, when the fever's flame
Shrunk to deformity his shrivell'd frame,

And turn'd each fairer image in his brain
To blank confusion and her crazy train,

'Twas thine with constant love, thro' lingering years,
To bathe thy idiot orphan in thy tears,
Day after day, and night succeeding night,
To turn incessant to the hideous sight,
And frequent watch, if haply at thy view,
Departed reason might not dawn anew.
Tho' medicinal art, with pitying care,

Could lend no aid to save thee from despair,

Thy fond maternal heart adhered to Hope and Prayer:
Nor pray'd in vain; thy child from Powers above
Received the sense to feel and bless thy love.
O might he thence receive the happy skill,
And force proportioned to his ardent will,
With truth's unfading radiance to emblaze
Thy virtues, worthy of immortal praise !
Nature, who deck'd thy form with Beauty's flowers,
Exhausted on thy soul her finer powers,

Taught it with all her energy to feel

Love's melting softness, Friendship's fervid zeal,
The generous purpose and the active thought,
With Charity's diffusive spirit fraught;

There all the best of mental gifts she placed,
Vigour of judgment, purity of taste,

Superior parts without their spleenful leaven,
Kindness to earth, and confidence in heaven.
While my fond thoughts o'er all thy merits roll,
Thy praise thus gushes from my filial soul.

F

Nor will the public with harsh vigour blame
This my just homage to thy honoured name;
To please that public, if to please be mine,
Thy virtues trained me, let the praise be thine.

HAYLEY.

TO THE MEMORY OF A LADY.

HIGH peace to the soul of the dead,

From the dream of the world she has gone!
On the stars in her glory to tread,

To be bright in the blaze of the throne.

In youth she was lovely; and Time,

When her rose with the cyprus he twined,
Left the heart all the warmth of its prime,
Left her eye all the light of her mind.

The summons came forth,-and she died!
Yet her parting was gentle, for those
Whom she loved, mingled tears at her side-
Her death was the mourner's repose.

Our weakness may weep o'er her bier,
But her spirit has gone on the wing
To triumph for agony here,

To rejoice in the joy of its King.

DR. CROLY.

THE BURIAL ANTHEM.

BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wiped from every eye,

And sorrow is unknown.
From the burthen of the flesh,

And from care and fear releas'd, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er, And borne the heavy load,

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet To reach his blest abode;

Thou'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus

Upon his father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail :

And there thou'rt sure to meet the good,

Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
The solemn priest hath said,

So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

MILMAN.

THE LAST HOUR.

As the light leaf, whose fall to ruin bears
Some trembling insect's little world of cares,
Descends in silence, while around waves on
The mighty forest reckless what is gone-
Such is man's doom: and ere an hour be flown,
Start not, thou trifler, such may be thine own!

MRS. HEMANS.

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