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A REMONSTRANCE.

Nor time, nor grief, can e'er efface

The brighter hopes that now are thine,
The fadeless love,-all-pitying grace,

That makes thy darkest hours divine!

Not all alone-for thou canst hold
Communion sweet with saint and sage,
And gather gems, of price untold,

From many a pure, untravell'd page:
Youth's dreams, the golden light of age,
The poet's lore, are still thine own:
Then, while such themes thy thoughts engage,
Oh, how canst thou be all alone!

Not all alone: the lark's rich note,
As mounting up to heaven she sings;
The thousand silvery sounds that float
Above-below-on morning's wings:
The softer murmurs twilight brings,-
The cricket's chirp, cicala's glee :-
All earth-that lyre of myriad strings--
Is jubilant with life for thee!

Not all alone: the whispering trees,
The rippling brook, the starry sky,-
Have each peculiar harmonies,

To soothe, subdue, and sanctify :
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh,
For thee hath oft a friendly tone,
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,—
To say, thou art not all alone!

Not all alone: a watchful eye,

That notes the wandering sparrow's fall:

A saving hand is ever nigh,

A gracious Power attends thy call,
When sadness holds thy heart in thrall,
Is oft His tenderest mercy shown:
Seek then the balm vouchsaf'd to all,
And thou canst never be ALONE.

293

JEREMIAH HOLME WIFFEN.
BORN, 1792; DIED, 1836.

WAR.

THE thunder has its lull from riot,
The morning storm its evening quiet;
The raving and rebellious ocean
Its crystal calm, its rest from motion;
The avalanche its silence, when
That thundering ball has rocked the glen;
The purple simoom its light tread,
When prostrate caravans lie dead;
The earthquake, its still under-tone,
Its whispers of the murders done;
And battle-which, in the wide fall
Of nations, blends the rage of all,
Its hush of passions, and the sleep
Of energies once strong and deep.

The earthquake shout, which shook
Of pines, is over; all is still,

Save the cry of the still gale,

yon

hill

Sad as a shrieking spirit's wail;
Save the wild birds' flapping wings,
Now fluttering over lifeless things;
Save the lone gush of mountain springs,
And clamour of cascades that leap,
Stainless, from their aërial sleep;
But rolling redly from the plain
Where lie the proud and mighty slain:
Rigid and nerveless every hand,

That grasped the battle-axe and brand:

Pallid each brow, each glazed eye set,
But scowling fierce defiance yet;
The fiery heart of former years,
With all its wishes, hopes, and fears,
Its pride, its pain, its might, its mirth,
A pulseless ball of wasting earth

WAR.

The plume and scarf, by beauty woven,
Daggled in blood, the helmet cloven;
The pennons proud of yesterday,
Borne by the gallant and the gay,
In life's last agony resigned,
Forlornly waving in the wind.
Another's harp may bear away
The blazon of that fierce affray,
But, freedom! I will never show
Thy dread anatomy of woe.

O war! thou miscreating curse!
Dark juggler of the universe!

How hast thou marred this glorious globe!
Throwing round thee thy scarlet robe,
And masking, with the rainbow's blaze
Of gem-like beauty, thy fierce face.
Thou hast deceived, from time's first ages,
Its mighty captains, lords, and sages,
Till they and the strong multitude
Thy mad, remorseless smiles have wooed:
And, drunk with thy bewildering song,
From horn, or harp, or cymbalon,
Done deeds which might the lion shame,
And make the nations pale to name.
For priests, their mitres are thy mirth,
Thy panders are the kings of earth:
From their high pagods dost thou come
Charioted, with the hideous hum
Of thousands, who, where'er it reels,
Perish beneath thy waggon wheels.

Heaven's angry angel pour wrath on thee, war! Ambition and cruelty harness thy car,

And ruin, and rapine, and fell decay,

Herald thee on thy blighting way.
Thou cancellest treaty at thy nod,
Crumblest the robes of the priest of God.

295

On the palace of kings, and the peasant's cot,
Thou turnest thy visage, and they are not;
Where thy hurricane hurtles, a capital burns;
And infancy's ashes fill innocent urns.

Wrath on thee, war! thou hast given to the tomb
Tens of thousands to dread the day of doom:
Thou hast fixed on the age that is rolling by,
The terrible charm of the rattlesnake's eye:
They have come to thy altar, with fire and spell,
To people the chambers of death and hell.
Yet royalty smiles, and yet beauty vows,

They crown thee with laurel and myrtle boughs,
And minstrels throng to their hallowed spring,
Thy sanctioned homicides to sing;
Dealing to nations a frenzied fire,
Sorrow to mercy, and shame to the lyre.

JOHN BOWRING.

BLESSINGS OF INSTRUCTION.

THE heart has tendrils, like the vine,
Which round another's bosom twine:
Outspringing from the parent tree
Of deeply-planted sympathy,

Whose flowers are hope, its fruits are bliss;
Beneficence its harvest is.

There are some bosoms, dark and drear,
Which an unwater'd desert are;

Yet there a curious eye may trace
Some smiling spot, some verdant place,
Where little flowers, the weeds between,
Spend their soft fragrance all unseen.

Despise them not-for wisdom's toil
Has ne'er disturbed that stubborn soil;

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BLESSINGS OF INSTRUCTION.

Yet care and culture might have brought
The ore of truth from mines of thought;
And fancy's fairest flowers had bloomed,
Where truth and fancy lie entombed.

Insult him not-his blackest crime
May, in his Maker's eye sublime,
In spite of all thy pride, be less
Than e'en thy daily waywardness:
Than many a sin, and many a stain,
Forgotten, and impress'd again.-

There is, in every human heart,
Some not completely barren part,
Where seeds of love and truth might grow,
And flowers of generous virtue blow;

To plant, to watch, to water there,

This be our duty-this our care!

And sweet it is the growth to trace
Of worth, of intellect, of grace,

In bosoms where our labours first

Bid the young seed of spring-time burst;
And lead it on, from hour to hour,
To ripen into perfect flower.

Hast thou e'er seen a garden clad

In all the robes that Eden had ?

Or vale o'erspread with streams and trees,

A paradise of mysteries?—

Plains, with green hills adorning them,
Like jewels in a diadem ?—

These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills,
Which beauty gilds, and music fills,
Were once but deserts-culture's hand
Has scatter'd verdure o'er the land:
And smiles and fragrance rule, serene,
Where barren wilds usurp'd the scene.

297

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