And when its first pure praises rang,
The "morning stars together sang."

Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea
And earth and sky a house for thee;
But in thy sight our off'ring stands—
A humbler temple, "made with hands."

HYMN.

[Written to be sung at the Dedication of the House of Industry and Home for the Friendless, December, 1848.]

WHEN God, to shield from cold and storm,

Gave trees to build and fire to warm,
He did not mark for each his part,
But gave to each a human heart.

Each heart is told the poor to aid,-
Not told as thunder makes afraid-
But by a small voice whispering there:
Find thou for God the sufferer's share.

Oh, prompting faint, to careless view,
For work that angels well might do!
But wisely thus is taught below,
Quick pity for another's wo.

The world is stored-enough for all
Is scatter'd wide 'twixt hut and hall;
And those who feast or friendless roam,
Alike from God received a home.

Each houseless one demands of thee,
Can aught thou hast the poor man's be?
And pity breathes response divine,
Take what I have from God that's thine.

For child, for woman's fragile form,
More harsh the cold, more wild the storm;
But most they bless a shelt'ring door,
Whom dark temptations urge no more.

A HOME for these, O God, to-day,
For blessing at thy feet we lay;
And may its shelter, humbly given,
Be but a far-off door to heaven.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE DYING ALCHYMIST.

THE night wind with a desolate moan swept by;
And the old shutters of the turret swung
Screaming upon their hinges; and the moon,
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past,
Struggled aslant the stain'd and broken panes
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came.

The fire beneath his crucible was low;
Yet still it burn'd; and ever as his thoughts
Grew insupportable, he raised himself
Upon his wasted arm, and stirr'd the coals
With difficult energy, and when the rod
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips
Mutter'd a curse on death! The silent room,
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when
Duly the antique horologe beat one,
He drew a phial from beneath his head,