Let them thy Bridal Chaplet twine,
Whose hands are skilful to combine

The buds of hope and flowers of joy; Whose happier lot hath let them know The bowers of Eden where they grow; From whom they shrink not at the touchThe pastime sweet, and meet for such,

Would heart and fancy both employ.

But ask not me the wreath to twine, In whom both grief and sickness join

To render for the task unfit; The cloud hath blotted out my day, My dreams of bliss have fled away; My pleasures, scatter'd to the wind, Have left but loneliness behind,

Where gladness promised once to sit.

And yet for thee a wreath I'll twineSome flowers unfading still are mine

The proffer'd garland thou must tie: 'Midst the abundance that she yields, I glean them not from nature's fields; Nor soar aloft on fancy's wings, To crop them from Parnassian springs:

For both are doomed to fade and die

Come, then, a chaplet I'll prepare, To crown thy heart, not deck thy hairApproach-and take the gift divine; See Sharon's Rose, whose sweets exhale, The lowly Lily of the vale, The flowers of Life's immortal Tree, And Gilead's balm, all tender'd thee

Bind them with faith-the wreath is the

HYMN.

HEMAN S.

OH! thou Creator, Father, Friend,
Source of all blessings mortals prize,
Let nature's praise to thee ascend,
In swelling chorus to the skies.

Most high, ineffable, supreme,
Celestial, awful, brightest, bright;
The cherubim's inspiring theme,
Enrob'd in glory, crown'd with light!
When solemn thunders distant roll,

And when the vivid lightnings dart,
They strike upon th' astonish'd soul,
And speak thy pow'r to ev'ry heart.

MY SISTER'S GARDEN.

ANON.

I SEEK thy garden's narrow bound,
My Mary, with a brother's love,
And watch the flowers that spring around,
And near thy borders gently move.

Thy favourite flowers are dear to me,
Whate'er their form, or varied hue,
And though a thousand more I see,
My heart to them shall still be true.

The smiling sun is come again,

And shines upon thy loved retreat;
O! what can now thy steps detain,

Where linger now thy fairy feet!

This rose for thee its fragrance shed,
The primrose and the eglantine;
The violet in its scented bed,

And all, my sister, all are thine.

No stranger hand shall dare intrude,
To bear thy flowery store away;
I'll chide each footstep wandering rude,
And guard thy border's bright array.

And in the summer's happy hours,
When youthful hearts with joy rebound,
I'll seek again thy favourite flowers,

And hear thy soft voice whispering round.

And though pale winter's form appear,
And chase away the garden's bloom;
The falling leaves shall more endear
The memory of thy early tomb.

Fair flowers! though earth the sweets receive,
And hide you in her quiet breast;
We will not o'er your relics grieve,

Or murmur at your transient rest.
Those thousand dyes that meet my view,
The spring shall wake to life and light;
And every bud and leaf renew,

And every flower that charms my sight. And spring her freshening dews shall shed, My Mary, on thy cold repose,

SACRED HARMONY.

Alas! their influence o'er thy bed,

No infant sweetness shall disclose.

But He who clothes the leafless grove,
And bids the vanished flower return;
0! He will still his creatures love,
And guard thy sad funereal urn.

Then o'er my sister's peaceful sod,

Ished the tears of hope and love:
And while she sleeps in peace with God,
Wait for a happier rest above.

A garland of her loveliest flowers
I lay upon the grassy mound;
Till on her brow in blissful bowers,
A wreath of living sweets be found.

THE EVENING BREEZE.

BOWLES.

211

BLow on, sweet breeze, fulfil thy destined flight, Thou hast not far to go, thou'rt failing now, And soon thy bodiless being shall be lost. Thou hast been a voyager o'er land and sea, By day and night, through tempests and through

calms,

With swift unwearying course, but now thine hour Is almost come, and thou shalt melt away. I know not whence thou art, nor can I tell Whither thou goest:-thou art now, but soon, Oh! soon thou shalt not be! and such am 1!P2

The smiling sun is come again,
And shines upon thy loved retreat;
O! what can now thy steps detain,
Where linger now thy fairy feet!

This rose for thee its fragrance shed,
The primrose and the eglantine;
The violet in its scented bed,

And all, my sister, all are thine.

No stranger hand shall dare intrude,

To bear thy flowery store away; I'll chide each footstep wandering rude, And guard thy border's bright array. And in the summer's happy hours,

When youthful hearts with joy rebout I'll seek again thy favourite flowers,

And hear thy soft voice whispering And though pale winter's form appear, And chase away the garden's bloom; The falling leaves shall more endear The memory of thy early tomb.

Fair flowers! though earth the sweets And hide you in her quiet breast; We will not o'er your relies grieve. Or murmur at your transient rest.

Those thousand dyes that meet my view, The spring shall wake to life and light And every bud and leaf renew, And every flower that charms my

And spring her freshening dews shall she My Mary, on thy cold repose,

Alas! their influence o'er thy bed,

No infant sweetness shall disclose.

But He who clothes the leafless grove,

And bids the vanished flower return; O! He will still his creatures love,

And guard thy sad funereal urn.

Then o'er my sister's peaceful sod,

I'll shed the tears of hope and love; And while she sleeps in peace with God, Wait for a happier rest above.

A garland of her loveliest flowers

I'll lay upon the grassy mound;
Till on her brow in blissful bowers,
A wreath of living sweets be found.

THE EVENING BREEZE.

BOWLES.

BLOW on, sweet breeze, fulfil thy destined flight,
Thou hast not far to go, thou'rt failing now,
And soon thy bodiless being shall be lost.
Thou hast been a voyager o'er land and sea,
By day and night, through tempests and through
calms,

With swift unwearying course, but now thine hour
Is almost come, and thou shalt melt away.
I know not whence thou art, nor can I tell
Whither thou goest:-thou art now, but soon,
Oh! soon thou shalt not be! and such am I!-

P 2

ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

HEMANS.

213

With angel songs an artless voice shall blend, The grateful offering shall to thee ascend. Yes! thou wilt breathe a spirit o'er my lyre, And fill my beating heart with sacred fire!" And when to thee my youth, my life, I've giv'n, Baise me, to join Eliza, blest in heav'n.

THE infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire To swell the adoration of the lyre: Source of all good, oh, teach my voice to sing, Thee, from whom nature's genuine beauties spring; Thee, GoD of truth, omnipotent and wise, Who saidst to chaos, "Let the earth arise." Oh! Author of the rich luxuriant year, Love, truth, and mercy, in thy works appear: Within their orbs the planets dost thou keep, And even hast limited the mighty deep. Oh! could I number thy inspiring ways, And wake the voice of animated praise! Ah, no! the theme shall swell a cherub's note! To thee celestial hymns of rapture float. 'Tis not for me, in lowly strains to sing Thee, GoD of mercy,-heav'n's immortal Kics. Yet to that happiness I'd fain aspire; Oh! fill my heart with elevated fire:

SANCTIFIED AFFLICTION.

ANON.

Ht came, the sweet angel my Father assign'd
To watch o'er my path to the sky,

I knew not if yet from that path I'd declin'd,
Or if only temptation was nigh.

Be touch'd me:-how it shrunk from his touch
But my spirit with ecstasy glow d;

I eng'd to be free, for its prospects were such
As no pains of the body could cloud.

My Father! 1 deem'd thou hadst call'd me to dwell
In the rest thou hast for me above;

But I find myself still in the flesh.-It is well
If I go-if I stay, it is love.

Love ordered the plan, and in love such as thine
How shall I not calmly confide!

Which

spared not to save me a ransom divine, The Lamb who on Calvary died.

O welcome the sufferings whenever they come, That bring with them comforts like these; Let me always be filled with such foretastes of home, And I sigh not for health and for ease.