Flings round the potent spell,

And charms her vot'ries in the hope
That all on earth is happiness and love ?
Oh, no! 'tis not there!

But where do I love to see

The one so dear to me?

It is at the happy hearth of home-
That blissful scene of earthly joys,
Where the fond heart rests
In sweet repose, and tastes
The purity of joyous smiles?
Oh, yes! it is there!

XXX.

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds ;

Thee when young Spring first question'd Winter's

sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark the victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou open'st to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms: brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

XXXI.

SABBATH MORNING.

DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day;

And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,

Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord! To feel devotion's soothing power,

And catch the manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the bless'd abode, Which swells and sinks and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;

That holy, heavenly melody,

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tears would fall; But, on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six-days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn;
The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn,
And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms :
Ours be the prophet's car of fire,
That bears us to a Father's arms.

XXXII.

THE HOLLY TREE.

O, READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves

Order'd by an intelligence so wise,

As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence its leaves are seen,
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,

And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;