Sway'd by the precepts of her Saviour God,
Meek as the dove, life's thorny way she trod:
Did passion rage, she bid contention cease;
Her soul the shrine of piety and peace.

In pure devotion, joys sublime she found,
And strove to spread its influence far around;
But while to fix each moral truth she sought,
Her every act a better lesson taught.

Haste, gentle peace, in balmy slumbers bind
The venerable friend she left behind;

Though death the tenderest ties of life hath broke,
He stands resign'd beneath the two-fold stroke.

"As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

"Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm; "Though round his breast the rolling clouds are spread, "Eternal sunshine settles on his head."

What though the form belov'd is seen no more,
Each relative will long her loss deplore:

But will the Christian friend to grief give scope,
And deeply mourn 66
as those who have no hope?"

I trust not thus, while faith points out the way,
When friends in Christ will hail a brighter day,
Receive with joy the promis'd crown on high,
"And every tear be wip'd from every eye."

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INQUIRY.

WHERE lives that phantom all pursue

With fond desire-yet known to few,
If ever known below?

Does happiness with riot dwell,

Where echoing peals of laughter swell?

Ah! no.

Where pleasure chaunts her siren song,
While from her soft delusive tongue
The honied poisons flow:

Will happiness not stoop to hear
Her strains, though dangers hover near?

Ah! no.

Where wealth in gaudy trappings flaunts, Who feels no care for mis'ry's wants,

Nor sympathetic glow;

With pride and pomp emblazon'd round,

Will happiness not there be found?

Ah! no.

Where power assumes the sovereign rod, While vassals trembling at a nod,

With reverence lie low;

Is it not happiness to seem

A thing so great, a worm supreme?

Ah! no.

The smooth, the broad, the beaten way,
The new-form'd ethics now display,
Where men unpinion'd go;

Will happiness not surely be

With those from each restraint set free?

But in the breast that never sighs,
For aught a gracious God denies,

Content in weal or woe,

Ah! no.

While pious strains of love arise,
There happiness no longer cries?

Ah! no.

APOSTROPHE TO A DEPARTED FRIEND.

The fleeting spirit seeks that shore,
Where faithless hope deceives no more.

ART thou fled? gone for ever? Imagination shrinks

from the idea, and for a moment refuses to realize it; but it is not the less true. That eye that sparkled with the liquid lustre of delight, or shed the softening dew of distress, is sealed in impenetrable gloom. That arm that has so often been fondly locked within mine, is resting on thy bosom, food for worms. That heart, so late beating with the warm principle of life, "feelingly alive to each fine impulse;" but alas! each vibrating

chord, dissevered by the rude pressure of unrelenting sorrow, now lies cold and torpid in the silent tomb; and ere now the unchanging fiat is passed upon thee, thou art happy or miserable to all eternity. Hardly had the fourth act commenced, when the curtain is dropped, thy final exit is made, while I am left upon the stage a precarious candidate for life, immortal life, or death. And how long? Ah! who can tell? This hand that registers, and this heart that throbs with remembrances of thee, may soon, God only knows how soon, be like thine own; the clock that so faithfully sounds the "knell of departed hours," may, ere it makes its diurnal round, count my last-Awful thought! 'tis now the ghastly hour of midnight-how still! how solemn! what dread-inspiring silence! The dying taper faintly glimmering in its socket, feebly repels the murky shades that hover around, closing up the mind within itself. What a striking emblem of the grave! there we must lie, shrouded in darkness, silent and forgotten, where no returning sun shall cheer the eye, nor voice of friendship transport the

ear.

How uncertain is the approach of death, as to the time! how sure in the event! how astonishing is that stupidity that refuses to prepare for it-that shuts its ears against the warning voice of every newly opened grave, and its eyes from the silent monitions of the ghastly form, once blooming in all the pride of health and beauty! Oh! folly, may you never more find entrance in my heart-may no inducement of false pleasure or interest steal away that time, that should be improved, and sacredly devoted to more solid acquirements, and more lasting advantages, than the idle joys of an hour, or the vain glitter of perishing wealth and

honour. By anticipating this solemn hour, and preparing in the exercises of repentance, love, and new obedience, the cordial of faith that shall divest it of its terrors, and enable the struggling soul, under all the agonies of expiring nature, to sing that triumphant song, "Death where is thy sting! O grave where is thy victory!" The Christian often looks forward to that period with pleasure, considers death as a friend, and thinks with the wise man of old, "the day of his death is better than the day of his birth.”

FRAGMENT.

HARK! the joyful sound-❝ For it hath pleased the

In

Father, that in Him all fulness should dwell." whom? Even in Jesus Christ, our surety, our advocate, our prophet, priest, and king, the Prince of Peace. For the blind, here is eye-salve to make him see. See what? See mercy and justice embracing each other, and a crown of life wooing his acceptance. For the deaf, here are sounds to make his ear tingle, even the ravishing sounds of pardon for sin, and deliverance from death and hell. For the poor, here is an inheritance pure and incorruptible, even the pearl of inestimable price, an interest in the Redeemer's love. For the naked, here are garments out-vieing the sun in splendor, even the robes of infinite righteousFor the sick, here is a physician, whom to know, is life and peace. For the thirsty, here are

ness.

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