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THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man ;-and WHO WAS HE?
--Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth,
This truth survives alone:-

The weeping minstrel sings,

And, while her numbers flow, My spirit trembles with the strings,

Responsive to the notes of wo. Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,

And wake his wild harp's clearest tones, The chords, impatient to complain,

Are dumb, or only utter moans.
And yet, to soothe the mind

With luxury of grief,
The soul to suffering all resign'd

In sorrow's music feels relief.

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph’d in his breast:
His bliss and wo,-a smile, a tear!
--Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd,—but his delights are fled;
Had friends,-his friends are now no more;
And foes,-his foes are dead.

He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O she was fair-but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre

The winds of dark November stray, Touch the quick nerve of every wire,

And on its magic pulses play; Till all the air around

Mysterious murmurs fill, A strange bewildering dream of sound, Most heavenly sweet,-yet mournful still

. 0! snatch the harp from Sorrow's hand,

Hope! who hast been a stranger long; O! strike it with sublime command,

And be the poet's life thy song.
Of vanish'd troubles sing,

Of fears for ever fled,
Of flowers that hear the voice of spring,

And burst and blossom from the dead:
Of home, contentment, health, repose,

Serene delights, while years increase ; And weary life's triumphant close

In some calm sunset hour of peace ;

He saw whatever thou hast seen ; Encounter'd all that troubles thee; He was-whatever thou hast been ; He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of nim afford no other trace
Than this,—THERE LIVED A MAN!

Of bliss that reigns above,

Celestial May of youth, Unchanging as Jehovah's love,

And everlasting as his truth: Sing, heavenly Hope !--and dart thine hand

O’er my frail harp, untuned so long; That harp shall breathe, at thy command,

Immortal sweetness through thy song. Ah! then, this gloom control,

And at thy voice shall start A new creation in my soul,

A native Eden in my heart.

THE HARP OF SORROW.

POPE'S WILLOW.

I GAVE my harp to Sorrow's hand,

And she has ruled the chords so long, They will not speak at my command ;-

They warble only to her song. Of dear, departed hours,

Too fondly loved to last, The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers,

Snapt in their freshness by the blast: Of long, long years of future care,

Till lingering nature yields her breath, And endless ages of Jespair,

Beyond the judgment-day of death:-

Verses written for an urn, made out of the trunk of the

weeping willow, imporied from the East, and planted by Pope in his grounds at Twickenham, where it flourished many years; but, falling into decay, it was lately cut down.

Ere Pope resign'd his tuneful breath,

And made the turf his pillow, The minstrel hung his harp in death

Upon the drooping willow;

That willow from Euphrates' strand, Had sprung beneath his training hand. Long as revolving seasons flew,

From youth to age it flourishd; By vernal winds and starlight dew,

By showers and sunbeams nourish'd ; And while in dust the poet slept, The willow o'er his ashes wept.

Old Time beheld his silvery head

With graceful grandeur towering, Its pensile boughs profusely spread,

The breezy lawn embowering, Till arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot A grove of scions from one root. Thither, at summer noon, he view'd

The lovely Nine retreating, Beneath its twilight solitude

With songs their poet greeting. Whose spirit in the willow spoke, Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.

Among thy loftiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green-
Thy chosen tree had stood sublime,

The storm of ages braving,
Triumphant o'er the wrecks of time

Its verdant banner waving,
While regal pyramids decay'd,
And empires perish'd in its shade.
An humbler lot, 0 tree! was thine,

--Gone down in all thy glory;
The sweet, the mournful task be mine,

To sing thy simple story;
Though verse like mine in vain would raise
The fame of thy departed days.
Yet, fallen willow! if to me

Such power of song were given,
My lips should breathe a soul through thee,

And call down fire from heaven,
To kindle in this hallow'd urn
A flame that would for ever burn.

THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A

FOREIGN LAND.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

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0, WHEN shall I visit the land of my birth,
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,

Our forests, our fountains,

Our hamlets, our mountains, With the pride of our mountains, the maid I adore ? 0, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead, In the shade of an elm, to the sound of the reed? When shall I return to that lowly retreat, Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,The lambs and the heifers that follow my call,

My father, my mother,

My sister, my brother, And dear Isabella, the joy of them all ? 0, when shall I visit the land of my birth? —'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

THE DIAL.

Deep to the willow's root it went,

And cleft the core asunder, Like sudden secret lightning, sent

Without recording thunder: --From that sad moment, slow away Began the willow to decay. In vain did spring those bowers restore,

Where loves and graces revellid, Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,

The thin gray leaves dishevell’d, And every wasting winter found The willow nearer to the ground.

Hoary, and weak, and bent with age,

At length the axe assail'd it:
It bow'd before the woodman's rage ;

--The swans of Thames bewail'd it, With softer tones, with sweeter breath, Than ever charm'd the ear of death.

This shadow on the dial's face,

That steals from day to day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Moments, and months, and years away ; This shadow, which, in every clime,

Since light and motion first began,
Hath held its course sublime-

What is it?-Mortal man!
It is the scythe of time:
-A shadow only to the eye;

Yet, in its calm career,
It levels all beneath the sky;

And still, through each succeeding year
Right onward, with resistless power,
Its stroke shall darken every hour,
Till nature's race be run,
And time's last shadow shall eclipse the sun

O Pope! hadst thou, whose lyre so long

The wondering world enchanted, Amidst thy paradise of song

This weeping willow planted ;

Nor only o'er the dial's face,

Ten thousand voices answer, “ No!" This silent phantom, day by day,

Ye clasp your babes and kiss; With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o’erflow; Steals moments, months, and years away; Yet, ah! remember this; From hoary rock and aged tree,

The infant, rear'd alone for earth, From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, May live, may die,-to curse his birth; From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

-Is this a mother's love?
From every blade of grass it falls.
For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,

A parent's heart may prove a snare;

The child she loves so well,
The scythe of Time destroys.
And man at every footstep weeps

Her band may lead, with gentlest care, O’er evanescent joys;

Down the smooth road to hell; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn

Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind: Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn.

Thus do the blind mislead the blind, -Ah! soon, beneath th' inevitable blow,

Even with a mother's love. I, too, shall lie in dust and darkness low.

Blest infant! whom his mother taught Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend

Early to seek the Lord,

And pour'd upon his dawning thought
His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend

The day-spring of the word;

This was the lesson to her son,
Each frail beholder's doom.
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

-Time is eternity begun:
Though time's triumphant flight be shown,

Behold that mother's love." The truest index on its face

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
Points from the churchyard stone.

By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,

And know the fear of God:

Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime, A MOTHER'S LOVE.

Begin eternity in time, A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name!

Taught by that mother's love. What is a mother's love?

That mother's love how sweet the same! -A poble, pure, and tender flame,

What was that mother's love? Enkindled from above,

- The noblest, purest, tenderest flame, To bless a heart of earthly mould;

That kindles from above The warmest love that can grow cold;

Within a heart of earthly mould, This is a mother's love.

As much of heaven as heart can hold, To bring a helpless babe to light,

Nor through eternity grows cold: Then, while it lies forlorn,

This was that mother's love.
To gaze upon that dearest sight,

And feel herself new-born,
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone;

THE GLOW-WORM.
This is a mother's love.

The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the femare Its weakness in her arms to bear;

caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train. To cherish on her breast, Feed it from love's own fountain there,

When evening closes nature's eye, And lull it there to rest;

The glow-worm lights her little spark, Then while it slumbers watch its breath, As if to guard from instant death ;

To captivate her favourite fly,

And tempt the rover through the dark. This is a mother's love.

Conducted by a sweeter star
To mark its growth from day to day,

Than all that deck the fields above,
Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray

He fondly hastens from afar,

To soothe her solitude with love.
Of intellectual fire;
To smile and listen while it talks,

Thus in this wilderness of tears,
And lend a finger when it walks ;

Amidst the world's perplexing gloom, This is a mother's love.

The transient torch of Hymen cheers And can a mother's love grow cold ?

The pilgrim journeying to the tomb. Can she forget her boy?

Unhappy he whose hopeless eye His pleading innocence behold,

Turns to the light of love in vain ; Nor weep for grief-for joy!

Whose cynosure is in the sky,
A mother may forget her child,

He on the dark and lonely main.
While wolves devour it on the wild ;
-Is this a mother's love?

* 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15.

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HUMAN LIFE.

Job xiv. How few and evil are thy days, Man, of a woman born! Trouble and peril haunt thy ways: -Forth like a flower at morn, The tender infant springs to light, Youth blossoms with the breeze, Age, withering age, is cropt ere night; -Man like a shadow flees.

THRICE welcome, little English flower!
My mother country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour,
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
S-range as a spirit from the dead,
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.

And dost Thou look on such a one?
Will God to judgment call
A worm, for what a worm hath done
Against the Lord of all ?
As fail the waters from the deep,
As summer brooks run dry,
Man lieth down in dreamless sleep;
-Our life is vanity.

Thrice welcome, little English flower,
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little bere,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear
Than all the torrid zone.

Man lieth down, no more to wake,
Till yonder arching sphere
Shall with a roll of thunder break,
And nature disappear.
-0! hide me, till thy wrath be past,
Thou, who canst kill or save;
Hide me, where hope may anchor fast
In my Redeemer's grave.

Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Of early scenes beloved by me,
While happy in my father's bower,
Thou shalt the blithe memorial be;

3 D

The fairy sports of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends,-with thee,
I find in this far clime.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand:
0, for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May dews of that fair land,
Where daisies, thick as starlight, stand
In every walk that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred from one root.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
To me the pledge of hope unseen;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind how, fresh and green,
I saw thee waking from the dust;
Then turn to heaven with brow serene,
And place in God my trust.

Wine, oil, refreshment; he was beal'd;
I had myself a wound conceal'd;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues 1 stemmd,
And honour'd him midst shame and scorn:
My friendship’s utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd, if I for him would die;
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, " I will.”
Then in a moment to my view
The Stranger darted from disguise,
The tokens in his hands I knew,
My Saviour stood before mine eyes :
He spake; and my poor name He named;
“Of me thou hast not been ashamed:
These deeds shall thy memorial be;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."

THE STRANGER AND HIS FRIEND.

VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

“Ye have done it unto me.”-Matt. XXV. 40.

Cheer up,

Night turns to day :

When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight

cheer up!
Ere long the opening flowers,

With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.
Storms die in calms :-

When over land and ocean
Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
Cheer up, cheer up!
The voice of wild commotion

Proclaims tranquillity behind.
Winter wakes spring :-

When icy blasts are blowing
O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees

cheer up!
All beautiful and glowing,

May floats in fragrance on the breeze.
War ends in peace:--

Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghastly corpses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up!
Where groand the field of battle,
The song, the dance, the feast

go

round.

A poor wayfaring man of grief
Hath often cross'd me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, “ Nay;"
I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went, or whence he came,
Yet was there something in his eye,
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd ;—10t a word he spake:
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all; he bless'd it, brake,
And ate,-but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone;
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on:
I ran to raise the sufferer up;
Thrice from the stream he drain’d my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.
'Twas night; the floods were out; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warm’d, I clothed, I cheerd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the bearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.
Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway side :
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath,
Revived his spirit, and supplied

Cheer up,

Toil brings repose :

With noontide fervours beating,
When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
Cheer up, cheer up !
Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,
Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.

Death springs to life:

Though brief and sad thy story,
Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
Look up, look up!
Eternity and glory
Dawn through the portals of the tomb

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