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Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,

That when in transport's young emotion,
I've stolen beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.

Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To rapture's thrill;

'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still!

'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow
In the cold deep,

Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep!

Well!-there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
Oh! most to him,

Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed

Round misery's brim.

Yes-he can smile serene at death:

Kind heaven! do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;

Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.

MOORE.

TO A SICK CHILD.

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy,
And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down and think

Of all thy winning ways,

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy side-long pillowed meekness,

Thy thanks to all that aid,
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears,
These, these are things, that

Dread memories for years.

may

demand

Sorrows I've had, severe ones—

I will not think of now,

And calmly, 'midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;
But when thy fingers press,
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness-
The tears are in their bed.

Ah! first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new,
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too :
My light, where'er I go,
My bird when prison-bound,
My hand-in-hand companion-no—
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say-" he has departed,".
"His voice-his face-is gone,"

To feel impatient hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on,

Oh! I could not endure

To whisper of such woe,
Unless I felt this sleep ensure

That it will not be so.

Yes, still he's fixed and sleeping!
This silence too the while-

Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile

Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
Like parting wings of Cherubim—
Who say-We've finished here.

LEIGH HUNT.

ABRAHAM AND ISAAC.

IN silence towards Moriah's land,
That twain together trod;

The patriarch leading by the hand,
The child he gave to God!

"My father!" spake at length the youth,
"All things prepared I see ;

But where's the lamb, the type of truth,
Which shall the offering be?"

"My son! the lamb God will provide," Calmly, the father said;

So on together still they hied,

And reached the mountain's head!

Behold, the wood in order laid,

The mortal lamb prepared, Each rite of worship duly paidThe fatal knife is bar'd;

(Type of the sacrifice of HIM,

Whose blood, in after years,

Washed from mankind the stains of sin,
And hush'd guilt's boding fears!)

When lo! a voice from Heaven arrests
The Patriarch's uprais'd hand!
That voice his perfect FAITH attests
At whose divine command,

The cherished treasure of his age,
The child that God had giv'n,
In the full strength of faith the sage
Restores, when ask'd, to Heav'n!

Oh! blest obedience! that demands
Our imitation still!

Each sacrifice that Heaven commands,
Undoubting to fulfil !

May we, obedient as the youth,

Have ABRAHAM's faith, to say,

"Lord! when I hear the voice of TRUTH,

I will its call obey!"

FLORENCE WILSON.

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