Yet to resign the ampler sway

Of yon fair abbey's outstretch'd lands, For this small cell, this silent bay, And barren beach of drifted sands:

Such a transition must suggest,

Whether thou wert or not-sincere, To thought and feeling many a test, At once protracted and severe.

It might be spleen, it might be pride,
Or monkish bigotry's stern voice
Which bade thee on this step decide ;—
If so who must not mourn thy choice?

That choice might have a nobler source, And from far holier motives spring; Which, bearing blessings in their course, Might prove a pleasing offering.

Thou might'st have proved how little all
Religion's outward pomp and power
The soul from earth can disenthral,
And fit it for its parting hour.

And having thus been taught to trace
Snares in the path thy feet had trod;
Thou sought'st this solitary place,

Here to "

prepare to meet thy God!"

I love to think it thus might be ;—
For e'en the very thought appears
To shed upon this spot, and thee,
A charm my inmost soul reveres.

For though the act which gave it birth,
View'd in itself, I may not prize;
My spirit feels, and owns the worth
Of self-devoting sacrifice!

I love to trace the latent good

Which dwells in widely diff'rent creeds Which still, in thought's divinest mood, With every purer votary pleads.

I love to think that while thine own
Held much by mine rejected,-still
The "tried, the precious corner-stone"

Of each was brought from CALV'RY'S HILL.

Thine may a prouder dome have built,-
An humbler tabernacle-mine;

TO BOTH-the blood which there was spilt
Alone could sanctify the shrine.

'Tis soothing thus to feel, and think, Musing upon this spot, and thee; And fancy on the grave's dread brink

That such thy feelings, thoughts might be.

That here, through many a lonely day,

And many a solitary night,
Thy life and converse might display
The truly Christian anchorite.

Thy matins many a tuneful strain,

From gladsome nature's feather'd throng;

The hoarser music of the main

Thy still more solemn vesper-song.

Thus fancy paints thy parting years,
Their close a calm, and hopeful scene;

And thee, bewail'd by peasants' tears,
A FOLLOWER OF THE NAZARENE !

SONNET

ON LEAVING LEISTON ABBEY.

FAREWELL! beloved asylum, for awhile:

:

I now must turn me to the world again; And in the busier haunts of bustling men Pursue life's daily duties.-Rev'rend pile! Although between us many a weary mile

Must shortly intervene, yet may I, when

I leave the scene which now inspires my pen, Bear with me thoughts that have no worldly guile. The CHAINLESS SPIRIT will at times elope, And visit scenes it prizes; so may mine, In hours of lawful leisure, seek this shrine, To feed each purer feeling, nurse each hope Call'd forth in gentle musings here, to cope With things of earth, and soar to things divine!

THE BUTTERFLY.

BEAUTIFUL creature! I have been
Moments uncounted watching thee,
Now flitting round the foliage green
Of yonder dark, embow'ring tree;
And now again, in frolic glee,

Hov'ring around those opening flowers,
Happy as nature's child should be,
Born to enjoy her loveliest bowers.

And I have gazed upon thy flight,
Till feelings I can scarce define,
Awaken'd by so fair a sight,
With desultory thoughts combine
Not to induce me to repine,

Or envy thee thy happiness;
But from a lot so bright as thine

To borrow musings born to bless.