ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT.

How short the date, how fleet the days,

Since young Alonzo first drew breath! E'er yet a dawn of sense displays,

Thine eyes, sweet babe, are clos'd in death.

O! favour'd high, or e'er a stain

Of actual guilt pollutes thy mind, Thus early freed from grief and pain, To leave a world of woe behind.

Now at thy Saviour's feet in bliss,
With cherubs, grateful anthems raise,
Robed in his spotless righteousness,
Thy only work to chaunt his praise.

While flows the fond maternal tear
O'er soft Affection's sever'd chord,
Let anguish pause, let sorrow hear
The peaceful language of our Lord.

With open arms, for infants spread,
He bid them come with eyes of love;
In tender accents sweetly said,

"With such my courts are fill'd above."

Hence, grief and fond regret away,

From Delia's breast, far, far be driven, To acquiescence yield the sway,

And strive to greet thy babe in heaven:

CREED.

My Lord's own blood was shed, to wash each stain From my polluted soul-"death, where's thy sting?" And incorrupt, this flesh shall rise again;

"Grave, where's thy victory?" for he is king.

Then let the fool deride, the sceptic laugh,

And scorn the word that would each vice control; While they with every wind are blown like chaff, These truths shall be the anchor of my soul.

THE WIDOW'S SON RESTORED.

O THOU who sitt'st enthron'd on high,

Whom erst on earth in humble guise, Oft breath'd the agonizing sigh,

Whence peace and joy to mortals rise; Permit a creature vile to raise

Her trembling voice to sing thy praise.

From death, our ingrate race to save,
With anxious care each rising hour,
To wond'ring man he meekly gave

New trophies of his sovereign power.

The winds and waves obey his voice,
And demons flee with hideous noise.

In ev'ry act of power and grace,
The brightest seraphims admire ;
All breathe sweet mercy-there we trace
No instance of vindictive ire.

He speaks, and blindness opes her eyes,
The dumb rejoice, the dead arise.

Thus when at Nain's gates he met,
With funeral rites, the sorrowing crowd,
A mother's plaints his ears beset,
Her son bereav'd lamenting loud:
The helpless widow, lost to hope,
Sees wrapt in death her only prop.

But soon the sympathetic tear
Springs in the great Immanuel's eyes;
He came and touch'd the death-fraught bier,
And bid th' insensate corse arise:
No more with pale disease at strife,
He starts to health and vigorous life.

Attempt not thou, my feeble muse,
To paint the mother's sweet surprise,
While from the terror-stricken Jews
Resounding acclamations rise.
The wonder flies on wings of fame,
And distant climes adore his name.

If one, releas'd from death's dread power, Could with terrific fear confound,

Ah! who shall stand the awful hour,

When Gabriel's trump shall rend the ground While flames of livid light'ning raves O'er rocking hills and gaping graves?

When in the clouds, with glory crown'd,
The Judge with heaven's bright hosts appear,
With fiery vengeance girt around,

He bids th' affrighted world draw near;
In vain shall he whom crimes appal,
To hide his head on mountains call:

While guilt is doom'd, with piercing cries,
To writhe in chains of penal fire,
Whose worm of conscience never dies,

Nor will the quenchless flames expire;:
Redeem'd by Christ, in endless day,
The just rejoice who lov'd his way.

Ah! who would stake the joys of heaven,
That ceaseless roll, and still begin,
And for a sickly season given,

Enjoy the false delights of sin?
Death is the wages sin must give,
Then hear the word, obey and live.

THE BEATITUDES.

"BLESSED" are they of spirit mild,

Resistless, gentle, undefil'd

By dire revenge, or fury wild
Are uninflam'd;

Nor whom resentment e'er beguil❜d,
Though often blam'd:

With peace benign their souls accord,
And heaven itself is their reward.

"Blessed" are they who sigh and weep
With anguish keen, contrition deep,
With tears the nightly pillow steep,
O'er sins confess'd,

If care for Zion banish sleep,

By foes oppress'd:

Soon shall their tears be turn'd to joy,
And raptur'd strains their tongues employ.

Blessed" are they who, all content

With every dispensation sent,

Nor pride their humbler joys prevent,
With fancied want,

If God a richer store hath lent,

Asham'd to vaunt.

They shall enjoy, while here below,
The purest bliss that mortals know.

"Blessed" are they who ardent crave That food which hungry sinners save