With all his knowledge he is helpless now,
And anguish seems to settle on his brow.
Now first he sees how vain his course has been,
How poor support for the dread closing scene
Is knowledge misapplied. He turns, and turns,
This way and that, while all his bosom burns,
And finds no hope; and soon had come despair,
Had not his anguish found relief in prayer.
Now docile as a child he hears the word,
And yields submissive to the heavenly Lord.
No cavils now, nor captious questions come;
He hears Jehovah speak, and he is dumb,-
Confesses he is impotent and blind,
Content to follow humbly on behind.
He lives,-nor has his life his love belied;
Freed from the power of soul-destroying pride,
He grows in grace. 'Tis true he still delights
At times on glowing wing to take his flights
Into the obscure of thought, and loves to urge
His force of reason 'gainst th' assailing surge;
And pries into the mysteries of grace,
And tries to view them with a steady gaze;
But now for truth, not victory, he strives,
And lowliness, not pride, from all derives ;
Grows stronger by his efforts, and they prove
That one may strive, and yet sincerely love.
WHY, Memory, recall the cheerful hours,
The tranquil time that never can return;
When, gaily wandering in my native bowers,
I once was smiling as the summer morn?
And why recall my early friendships dear,-
Why lead my thoughts to fond illusions past?
They claim the plaintive tribute of a tear;
I weep for dreams of joy that fled so fast.
Ah! still will Fancy all the scenes revive,
The favourite scenes that charm'd my youthful
breast;
She bids them now in softer colours live,
And paints the cottage of domestic rest.
When Pleasure lighted up my sparkling eye,
And on swift pinions flew the social day;
Ah! then I pour'd the simple melody,
To hail the brilliance of the matin ray.
Ah! still retentive only to my woe,
Will Memory trace the picture of my cot;
And while in vain the tears of sorrow flow,
I rove in fancy to the sacred spot:
There fragrant woodbines form'd a mantling bower;
And there I planted the luxuriant vine;
There Love and Friendship bless'd the festive hour,
While every rural happiness was mine.
Ah! thus will" sadly-pleasing" Memory dwell
On all the hopes, the fond illusions o'er;
And still with touching power she loves to tell
Of happy moments to return no more.
Lo! the dream of life is o'er;
Pain the Christian's lot no more!
Kindred spirits! rise with me,
Thine the meed of victory.
Now the angel-songs I hear,
Dying softly on the ear;
Spirit, rise to thee is given,
The light ethereal wing of heaven.
Now no more shall virtue faint,
Happy spirit of the saint;
Thine the halo of the skies,
Thine the seraph's paradise.
COME to me often, sportive Memory :
Thy hands are full of flowers; thy voice is sweet; Thine innocent uncareful look doth meet
The solitary cravings of mine eye;
I cannot let thee flit unheeded by,
For I have gentle words, wherewith to greet
Thy welcome visits. Pleasant hours are fleet;
So let us sit and talk the sand-glass dry,
Dear visitant, who comest, dark and light,
Morning and evening, and with merry voice
Tellest of new occasion to rejoice;
And playest round me in the fairy night
Like a quaint spirit, on the moonlight beams,
Threading the mazy labyrinth of dreams.
MUSE of friendship, wake the lyre,
Strike it with unwonted fire;
Now my brother asks the lay,
The pleasing tribute let me pay.
Let the measure softly flow,
To give him all the thanks I owe ;
To wish him all my heart would say,
All that's happy, all that's gay.
Cherub health, with beaming eye,
Well-deserved prosperity,
Joy and honour, fortune, fame,
All that merit e'er can claim ;
Inward peace, with placid mien,
And domestic joy serene.
May Heaven propitious deign to hear
This, a sister's genuine prayer.
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