I thought how much more powerless still
The idle tinkling of the lyre,

Though Genius might combine with Skill
To wake for thee its trembling wire.

Thus thinking, with delight I saw
And felt, if feeling-thought-were mine,
That thou could'st consolation draw
From a deep fountain more divine.

E'en from that hidden, holier spring,
Which, like Bethesda's healing wave,
Owns the descending Angel's wing
Ruffle its waters but to save!

The waters of that far fam'd pool
Were, to the outward eye, as clear,
And to the outward touch as cool,
Before the Visitant drew near.

But while untroubled, they possess'd
No healing virtue !-gentle friend,
Is there no fount within the breast,

To which an Angel may descend?

O'er which, with influence from on high,
A spirit hovers, prompt to bless;
Whose presence, hid from mortal eye,
The waken'd feelings oft confess?

Oh! if thou hast, as I conceive,

Known aught of this reveal'd within;
May strength be given thee to believe
In the Great Sacrifice for Sin.

In Him, now risen and thron'd above,
Whose word the impotent made whole;
Who is no less in boundless love

The Great Physician of the Soul.

Welcome, with humble joy His power;

By present suffering undeterr'd:To know of Grace the healing dower,

The Heart's deep fountain must be stirr'd!

While in unruffled calm it lies,

Its mirror only can display—

However beautiful their dyes,

The forms of things that pass away.

Nor can it, in its natural rest,

However pure to outward view, Be with that holier virtue blest,

Which life and vigour can renew.

But when its troubled waters own
A SAVIOUR'S touch; in every wave
The healing power of Grace is known,
And found omnipotent to save.

A glimpse of glories far more bright
Than earth can give—is mirror'd there;

And grateful love and cloudless light
The presence of its God declare!

E

TO THE MEMORY OF EDWIN PRICE,

OF NEATH ABBEY, GLAMORGANSHIRE: WRITTEN AFTER PERUSING THE ACCOUNT OF HIS LAST ILLNESS, AND DEATH.

THERE needs no more! it is enough

To trace this sketch of thee!

The heart must be "of sterner stuff"
Than poet's, sure, should be,

Which this Memorial fails to melt ;-
Which has not deeply, fondly felt
The truths it well may teach,
How patient gentleness can prove

The power of everlasting love,

And silent suffering preach.

Not lengthen❜d life, had life been given,

Perchance had more avail'd

To show to hearts, with anguish riven, A spirit meekly mail'd;

Mail'd-not in armour forg'd by pride Of human strength, but that supplied To humble prayer alone,

The shield of Faith, the Spirit's sword, The presence of that Conq'ring Lord, Whose arm supports his own.

The spirit of a Man' may bear

The minor ills of life,

Yet well may shrink in dumb despair
From Nature's closing strife ;-
Except in that appalling hour,
Redeeming Grace afford the power
To bless, with parting breath,
HIM" who ascended up on high,
Who robb'd the grave of victory,
And took its sting from death!"