How sweet were leisure! could it yield no more Than 'mid that wave-washed churchyard to recline, Or there to pace, and mark the summits hoar Of distant moonlit mountains faintly shine, Soothed by th' unseen river's gentle roar. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The winds that will be howling at all hours, A So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. JAMES MONTGOMERY, THE author of "The World Before the Flood," "Greenland," "The Pelican Island," &c., is the son of a Moravian clergyman, and was born at Irvine, in Scotland, on the 4th of November, 1771. For many years he was editor of a newspaper in Sheffield, where he is still living, regarded by all who know him with respect and affection. He is perhaps the best of the religious poets of England who have written since the time of Cowper. THE GRAVE. THERE is a rest for those who weep, The storm that wrecks the winter sky I long to lay this painful head And aching heart beneath the soil, For Misery stole me at my birth, On thy dear lap these limbs reclined Shall gently moulder into thee; Hark!―a strange sound affrights mine ear, "The grave, that never spake before, "Art thou a wretch of hope forlorn, "Do foul misdeeds of former times Wring with remorse thy guilty breast, And ghosts of unforgiven crimes Murder thy rest? 'Lashed by the furies of the mind, From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee; Ah! think not, hope not, fool! to find A friend in me. "By all the terrors of the tomb, Beyond the power of tongue to tell! By the dread secrets of the womb, "I charge thee, live!-repent and pray : And sin no more. "Art thou a mourner? Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights? Endearing days forever flown, And tranquil nights? "Oh! live; and deeply cherish still "Art thou a wanderer? Hast thou seen O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark? A shipwrecked sufferer hast thou been— Misfortune's mark? Though long of winds and waves the sport, "To friendship didst thou trust thy fame, "Live! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told; Thou hast mistaken solid dross For Friendship's gold. "Go seek that treasure, seldom found, "In woman hast thou placed thy bliss, "Live! 'twas a false, bewildering fire: וי A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, A brighter Maiden's virtuous charms! Blessed shalt thou be, supremely blessed, In Beauty's arms. "Whate'er thou art, whoe'er thou be, 66 'A bruised reed He will not break; Afflictions all his children feel: He wounds them for his mercy's sake ;He wounds to heal! 66 'Humbled beneath his mighty hand, Prostrate his Providence adore: 'Tis done! Arise! He bids thee stand, To fall no more. "Now, traveller in the vale of tears! "There is a calm for those who weep, And while the mouldering ashes sleep "The soul, of origin divine, God's glorious image freed from clay, In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, A spark of day! "The sun is but a spark of fire, A transient meteor of the sky: The soul, immortal as its Sire, |