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Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear,
Each lonely sigh, each silent tear,
To thine Almighty Friend are known;
And say'st thou, thou art all alone?

THE TIME TO WEEP.

THERE is a time to laugh,

When joy may raise his billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff,—
But O, when is the season not to weep?

Is it when vernal suns

Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf,
Or when the hoar-frost nips the fading ones,
That frailer beings may refrain from grief?

Is it when health and bloom

Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth?
Or when disease is training for the tomb
The heart which cherishes its bitter truth?

Look not upon the brow

That shows no furrow from the plough of years;
There is a bend of peace upon it now—
But oh! futurity is full of tears!

The prattling child at play

May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile;
But could its vision reach beyond to-day,

And read its sorrows, think you it would smile?

Destruction has its home,

And mirth is destined to some favorite spot,
Disease and all his brothers do not roam;
But where-O wretchedness! where art thou not?

Thou hast thy dark abode

In the lone desert-in the prison's cell-
And in the gayest scene, where ever flowed
The tide of wine and music, thou dost dwell.

Thou art where friends are torn

And held asunder by reluctant space ;

And meeting friends-O, do they never mourn
When memory paints thine image on the face?

Thy inmates of the breast

All other passions-are but weak and brief;
Joy, Hope, Pride, Love and Hatred have a rest,
But thou art constant as our breath, O Grief!

Then let the trifler laugh,

And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;
It is far better for the wise to weep.

THE ECLIPSE.

WITHOUT a shade, where beams the orient light? Where blooms the lovely rose without a thorn?

Is there a day without succeeding night?

Is there a man to no misfortune born?

Is there a Sultan free from cares of state?
Is there a Visier free from anxious dread?
Is there a Chieftain, with success elate,
Whose fortune hangs not on a spider's thread?

Is there a sea unruffled by a storm,

Or rock-fenced shore unbeaten by the main ? Is there a sky no tempests e'er deform,

Or cloud that melts not into falling rain?

E'en now the glorious Sun eclipsed I see,

Deep sunk in shadows: lo! his beams decay: Why then should prosperous fortune favor me Through life's dim circle with a cloudless ray? Grant me, just God! a calm, unfetter'd mind, And humble heart, in all to thee resign'd.

MORNING MEDITATIONS.

IN sleep's serene oblivion laid,

I've safely pass'd the silent night; Again I see the breaking shade, Again behold the morning light.

New-born, I bless the waking hour;

Once more, with awe, rejoice to be;
My conscious soul resumes her power,
And soars, my guardian God, to thee.

O guide me through the various maze

My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread;
And spread thy shield's protecting blaze
Where dangers press around my head.

A deeper shade shall soon impend,

A deeper sleep mine eyes oppress :-
Yet then thy strength shall still defend,
Thy goodness still delight to bless.

That deeper shade shall break away;
That deeper sleep shall leave mine eyes;
Thy light shall give eternal day,

Thy love the rapture of the skies.

ON THE CUSTOM OF PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVES OF DEPARTED FRIENDS.

To 'scape from chill misfortune's gloom,
From helpless age and joyless years;
To sleep where flowerets round us bloom ;-
Can such a fate deserve our tears?

Since, in the tomb, our cares, our woes
In dark oblivion buried lie,

Why paint that scene of calm repose
In figures painful to the eye?

To die!-what is in death to fear?
'T will decompose my lifeless frame!
A power, unseen, still watches near,
To light it with a purer flame.

And, when anew that flame shall burn,
Perhaps the dust that lies enshrined, \

May rise, a woodbine, o'er my urn,
With verdant tendrils round it twined.

How would the gentle bosom beat,
That sighs at death's resistless power,
A faithful friend again to meet

Fresh blooming in a fragrant flower!

The love, that in my bosom glows,
Will live, when I shall long be dead,
And, haply, tinge some budding rose
That blushes o'er my grassy bed.

O, thou who hast so long been dear,
When I shall cease to smile on thee,
I know that thou wilt linger here,

With pensive soul, to sigh for me.

Thy gentle hand will sweets bestow,
Transcending Eden's boasted bloom;
Each flower with brighter tints shall glow,
When Love and Beauty seek my tomb.

And, when the rose-bud's virgin breath
With fragrance fills the morning air,
Imagine me released from death,
And all my soul reviving there.

"ANGELS SENT TO MINISTER."

AND is there care in heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?

There is; else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts. But O! the exceeding grace Of highest God! that loves his creatures so,

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