Too certain fate my hopes consumed,
For she was number'd with the dead.

She died deserving to be mourn'd, While parted worth a pang can give. She died-by Heaven's best gifts adorn'd, While folly, falsehood, baseness, live.

Long in their baseness live secure

The noxious weed, and wounding thorn; While, snatch'd by violence ere mature, The lily from her stem is torn.

Yet who shall blame the heart that feels When Heaven resumes the good it gave? Yet who shall scorn the tear that falls

From Friendship's eye, at Virtue's grave?

Friend, parent, sister-tenderest names!
May I, as, pale at Memory's shrine,
Ye pour the tribute anguish claims,
Approach unblamed, and mingle mine.

Long on the joys of vanish'd years
The glance of sadness shall ye cast;
Long, long th' emphatic speech of tears

Shall mourn thy bloom for ever past.

And thou, who from the orient day

Return'st, with hope's gay dreams elate, Falsely secure and vainly gay,

Unconscious of the stroke of fate,—

What waits thee? Not the approving smile
Of faithful love that chases care-
Not the fond glance, o'er-paying toil,
But cold and comfortless despair.

Despair!-I see the phantom roye

On Cail's green banks, no longer bright, And fiercely grasp the torch of love, And plunge it in sepulchral night.

Farewell, sweet maiden; at thy tomb

My silent footstep oft shall stray; More dear to me its hallow'd gloom,

Than life's broad glare, and fortune's day.

And oft, as Fancy paints thy bier,

And mournful eyes thy lowly bed,

The secret sigh shall rise, the tear

That shuns observance shall be shed.

Nor shall the thoughts of thee depart,
Nor shall my soul regret resign,
Till memory perish, till this heart

Be cold and motionless as thine.

SABBATH EVENING.

Edmonston.

Is there a time when moments flow

More lovelily than all beside?

It is, of all the times below,

A sabbath eve in summer tide.

O! then the setting sun smiles fair;
And all below, and all above,
The diff'rent forms of nature wear
One universal garb of love.

And then the peace that Jesus beams, The life of grace, the death of sin, With nature's placid woods and streams, Is peace without, and peace within.

Delightful scene! a world at rest,
A God all love, no grief nor fear;
A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast,
A smile unsullied by a tear.

If heaven be ever felt below,

A scene so heavenly sure as this

D

May cause a heart on earth to know
Some foretaste of celestial bliss.

Delightful hour! how soon will night
Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign;
And morrow's quick returning light
Must call us to the world again.

Yet will there dawn at last the day,
A sun that never sets shall rise;
Night will not veil his ceaseless ray,
The heavenly sabbath never dies!

EARLY RISING AND PRAYER.

Bernard Barton.

WHEN first thy opening eyes receive
The glorious light of day,

Give thy awakening spirit leave

To be as blest as they.

Our outward organs well may

Its duty to the soul;

teach

And thoughts ascend, that need not speech,

Unto their heavenly goal.

For hearts, whose love to God is true,
Should open with the day :

As flowers impearl'd with morning dew

Their tenderest tints display.

Give God thy waking thoughts, that He, Throughout the day, may keep

Thy spirit company, and be

Its guardian while asleep.

Yet sleep not when the sun has risen,
For prayer with day should rise;

And holiest thoughts, set free from prison,
Should soar above the skies.

There are appointed hours between
Our souls and love divine;
Nothing of earth should intervene

To mar their blest design.

The manna's heavenly charm was gone
With morning's stainless dews;
And flowers on which the sun has shone
Their sweetest perfume lose!

Then let not needless slumber glut

Morn's glories by its sin;