A Christian orator shall be thy theme,
One such as Paul had heard, and Cowper praised.
As when of old the Saviour dwelt with men,
And heavenly lessons from his lips there flow'd,
And each man wonder'd that in his discourse
All his own heart and secret thoughts were known;
Hypocrisy unveil'd was seen to blush,
And ruthless villany hung down its head:
The breadth and spirit of the law of God
In varied metaphor he boldly taught,
Nor wonder was it many were displeased.
So have I seen this champion for the truth,
I' th' face of Pharisee and Sadducee,
The humbling doctrines of the word of life
With holy boldness and with zeal declare.
He would not seek to suit their carnal taste,
But, furnish'd from the treasury of God,
With richest store of weapons, such as truth
Prevails with, would he dare the field of contest,
Through nature's varied kingdoms roam, and cull
Whate'er, of vast or beautiful, may prove
His God to man, or may adorn his theme.
His eloquence resistless roll'd along,
Like a swoll'n torrent over hill and dale,
Or like the thunder-cloud in eastern climes,
Which sweeps the air, and, as it flies, proclaims,
In accents such as shake the inmost soul,
The power, the presence, and the truth of God.
His manner simple, natural, and just,
His words fit vehicles of thoughts profound.
Like two-edged swords, wielded by skilful hands,
E'en to the inmost soul they urge their way.
Yet 'twas his constant aim, like John's, to cry
"Behold the Lamb, who bears our sins away."
Whither shall I go from thy Spirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence, &c., Psa. cxxxix.
Ir to the heights of heaven I rise,
Or seek the depths of hell,
Thy presence, Lord, illumes those skies,
These depths thy justice tell.
If, on the morning's wings upborne,
To farthest shores I fly,
'Tis thou who speed'st the wings of morn,
Who can escape thine eye?
The universe is full of thee,
No veil excludes thy sight,
Whose eyes the hills' foundation see,
Darkness to thee is light.
How wondrous was the power display'd
Of a creating God,
When in the womb this frame he made,
And wrought "th' unfeeling clod."
When at this grand machine I gaze,
My spirit's dark abode,
Thy work, O Lord, transcends my praise,
I see the hand of God.
The entrances of light and sound,
Those avenues of thought;
The purple life-stream's mazy round,
To every organ brought;-
The nervous chords, that mystic chain
Which soul to body bind,
And thrill the sense of joy and pain
To the directing mind;
Nutrition's process in the frame,
Its growth and its decay,
How in this clod subsists the flame
Through life's unequal day;
All these engage my wonder; Lord;
I tremble and adore;
O, shouldst thou fail thy help t' afford,
I sink to rise no more.
FAST falls the snow, with stilly silence falls,
And nature has her virgin robe put on.
Here, from the casement of this gothic pile,
'Tis sweet to gaze on the descending cloud.
Yonder the woodman with his shoulder'd axe,
Clothed in a purer robe than monarchs wear,
Hastes him to his warm cot across the moor,
Where his loved partner waits his wish'd return.
And now she trims her fire, then gazes out
Upon the storm, fearful, with moisten'd eye.
The fisherman no longer dares the main,
But tows his boat toward the sandy shore.
The night sets in, and fiercer blows the storm;
No sound is heard, save of the sweeping blast,
And deepest darkness veils the face of heaven.
Now, when the clouds of night o'erhang the sky, Fierce blows the wind, and loud the tempest howls. Here warmly seated by the slumb'ring fire, I sit, and solitary love to muse.
How soothing sounds the murm'ring of the storm,
The whistling wind, and the quick pelting rain,
Still ever and anon beating the lattice,
While every other noise is hush'd in night.
Now rise the latent energies of thought,
Mem'ry recounts her most engaging scenes,
And fancy paints her sweet delusive dreams.
O, ye blest hours, with golden prospects bright,
Days of my youth!-and will ye ne'er return,
To cheer this heart with pleasurable thought?
Now wiser grown, the mind disdains to reap
Delight from scenes which erewhile gave it joy.
MEMORIÆ DOMINE BEAL,
SACRAS VOLUIT AUCTOR.
HEAVEN has resumed its loan, and raised from earth,
To its bright treas'ry in the skies, a soul,
That in this mortal life long time sustain'd
A wife's, a mother's, and a Christian's part.
Till solid, silent worth shall be despised,
Till each kind homely virtue be o'erlook'd,
Till piety shall cease from men, her name,
Whene'er pronounced by such as knew her worth,
Shall long be heard and utter'd with a sigh.
When at the banks of Jordan she arrived,
There not alone she stood, nor unprepared.
The true Elijah's spotless robe she bore,
And cast it on the dark, cold stream of death,
And through the parted wave its bed appear'd.
And dry-shod, (for the ark of God was there,)
The farther shore she reach'd.
Long stems the wave which would impede its course,
Midst "stormy winds and tempest," till she gains
The harbour of repose, when straight the crew
Leave their close prison with exulting joy.
"The wild romance of life is done,
The real hist'ry is begun."-LoGAN.
YES, I've essay'd to strike the lyre,
And wake the ecstasies of thought;
To kindle with the poet's fire,
And long the minstrel's laurels sought.
Yes, I have tried, with fruitless aim,
To bend Ulysses' mighty bow;
And thirsted for an empty name,
And thought I felt my fancy glow.
The bard who soars on steady wing,
Afar can cast his searching eye;
Of the wide scene can boldly sing-
The land, the ocean, and the sky.
Far, like the aeronaut, he eyes
A vast extent of scene below;
And, gazing downward from the skies,
His pen describes the painted show.
Though round the clouds and tempests roll,
Majestic Milton sails along;
Maintains the while an equal soul,
And calmly chants his noble song.
But at Parnassus' rocky base
A herd of pseudo poets crowd; Each in the temple thinks a place Should for his labours be allow'd.
But vain their dreams, their wishes vain,
For who the steep ascent shall dare?
Oppress'd by dulness' massy chain,
They cannot reach the upper air.
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