I gazed upon the graven page,
And saw the living patriot sage.

I turned a leaf; O, failure dire!

Where is the genius, where the fire,
Of him whose hand has dared to trace
Our Patrick Henry's dazzling race?

I felt disgust? No, there was naught That such a feeling could have wrought; A gentle, unassuming air;

A civil thinker, smooth and fair.

I turned the leaves; at every page, Discovered pleasant thoughts and sage; In "linked sweetness," drawn with art, Was every line, and every part.

The style was neither stale nor trite;
It flowed, and filled me with delight;
At times, came lofty, rich and pure;
And heart and head felt both secure.

Aversion fled; and I confess,

His looks were full of loveliness!

Thus genius clothes the form with grace, And Pan puts on Apollo's face!

IX. "WHERE IS GOD?"

(1842.)

Ask of the stars, eternal lights,
Which send their beams abroad;
And in their endless journeyings,
They answer-"Here is God!"

Ask of the misty cloud, that floats
Along the voiceful sky;
Distilling blessings from above,
It answers-" God is nigh!"

Ask of the flower, whose longest life
Is but a summer's day;

Its fleeting breath in fragrance speaks"God's presence I portray.”

Ask of the oak, whose towering form
The storms of ages sway;

He answers, with a murm'ring sound— "God is my strength and stay!"

Ask of the waves, whose thunder-gongs An endless beating keep;

And wave succeeding wave replies"God dwells upon the deep!"

Ask of the booming cataract,

The river's winding maze;

Profound and far its voice proclaims"My organ peals his praise!"

Ask of the bolt that cleaves the sky, The sound that shakes the sphere; And o'er the heaven they both reply-"We come to teach his fear!"

Ask of all nature; from her heart,
She loudly doth declare-

"Lo, God is here! Lo, God is there!
Lo, God is every where!"

HIGH on Endeavor's summit stands The castle fair, not made with hands; Where Perseverance meets Renown, And Patience wears the victor's crown.

Its rugged battlements are high,
Its glit'ring turrets pierce the sky;
And wide its open portals stand,
To welcome Genius with his band.

But bold is he who would essay
To climb the steep and rugged way,

That leads o'er rocks and mountains bare,
Before you reach the castle fair.

Here Fancy, with her winged feet,
Awhile ascends, most gaily fleet;
Till, drawn aside by blooming bowers,
She folds her wings amid the flowers.

Here Worth toils on with steady pace,
But oft despairs to win the race;
And panting Hope, with tearful eye,
Grows faint, and lays her down to die.

Presumption starts with swaggering gate,
With form erect, and look elate;
But lags and droops the weary wight,
Ere he has gained the humblest height.

Thus midst the many scores that start,
With ardent head and eager heart,
Alas! but few the summit gain,
But few the golden wreath obtain!

XI. THE OLD BACHELOR.

(1842.)

I'VE often heard it said and whispered round, That just beyond the precincts of the town, There lives a single man of high renown,

A bachelor.

His reputation is of such a grade,

I thought perhaps he lived in great parade;
So I resolved to call that way, to aid

My knowledge short.

It happened on a bright and sunny day,
That in a ride I chanced to pass that way;
And looking in the fields for oats and hay,
Found only weeds.

His rustic home holds a conspicuous place
Upon a traveled path; its ancient base
Seems quite decayed, and not a tree doth grace
The lonely yard.

That "beauty unadorned's adorned the most,”
Is very true; but sure, a single post,

Or shading leaves enough to screen a ghost,

Were not amiss.

His orchard next I viewed; 'twas large indeed,
And tasseled o'er with many a cumbrous weed;
And here and there the heaps of brush had need
Of cleansing fire.

I gazed around, through every lot and lane;
All spoke in language tacit, but too plain;
And offered no temptation, in the main,
For vanity.

As the old castle faded from my view,
A thought just struck me, not so very new-
Perhaps he'll show the world a book as true

As Solomon's.