The elder lispingly attempt to still

The younger's plaint,-languid he raised his head,
And thought he yet could toil, but sunk

Into the arms of death, the poor man's friend.

The coffin is borne out; the humble pomp Moves slowly on; the orphan mourner's hand (Poor helpless child!) just reaches to the pall. And now they pass into the field of graves, And now around the narrow house they stand,

And view the plain black board sink from the sight.
Hollow the mansion of the dead resounds,

As falls each spadeful of the bone-mixed mould.
The turf is spread; uncovered is each head,-

A last farewell: all turn their several ways.

Woes me! those tear-dimmed eyes, that sobbing

breast!

Poor child! thou thinkest of the kindly hand

That wont to lead thee home: no more that hand.

Shall aid thy feeble gait, or gently stroke
Thy sun-bleached head and downy cheek.
But go, a mother waits thy homeward steps;
In vain her eyes dwell on the sacred page,—
Her thoughts are in the grave; 'tis thou alone,
Her first-born child, canst rouse that statue gaze
Of woe profound. Haste to the widowed arms;
Look with thy father's look, speak with his voice,
And melt a heart that else will break with grief.

THE

THANKSGIVING

OFF CAPE TRAFALGAR.

UPON the high, yet gently rolling wave,
The floating tomb that heaves above the brave,
Soft sighs the gale, that late tremendous roared,
Whelming the wretched remnants of the sword.
And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls
The victor bands to mount their wooden walls,
And from the ramparts, where their comrades fell,
The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell:
Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread,
And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped:

The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends ;

Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends;

Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise,
Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies.
Heaven fills each heart; yet Home will oft intrude,
And tears of love celestial joys exclude.
The wounded man, who hears the soaring strain,
Lifts his pale visage, and forgets his pain;
While parting spirits, mingling with the lay,

On halleluiahs wing their heavenward way.

TO

MY SON.

TWI
WICE has the sun commenced his annual round,
Since first thy footsteps tottered o'er the ground,
Since first thy tongue was tuned to bless mine ear,
By faultering out the name to fathers dear.
O! Nature's language, with her looks combined,
More precious far than periods thrice refined!
O! sportive looks of love, devoid of guile,
I prize you more than Beauty's magic smile;
Yes, in that face, unconscious of its charm,
I gaze with bliss, unmingled with alarm.

I