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The weeping minstrel sings,

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

Responsive to the notes of wo.

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 :

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.

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.

And yet, to soothe the mind

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

In sorrow's music feels relief.
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 O! snatch the barp from Sorrow's hand,

Hope! who hast been a stranger long; 0! strike it with sublime command,

And be the poet's life thy song.

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.

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 :

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.

Of home, contentment, health, repose,

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

In some calm sunset hour of peace ;

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 few.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace

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.

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That willow from Euphrates' strand,

Among thy loftiest laurels seen, Had sprung beneath his training hand.

In deathless verse for ever green-Long as revolving seasons flew,

Thy chosen tree had stood sublime, From youth to age it flourish'd ;

The storm of ages braving, By vernal winds and starlight dew,

Triumphant o'er the wrecks of time By showers and sunbeams nourish'd;

Its verdant banner waving, And while in dust the poet slept,

While regal pyramids decay'd, The willow o'er his ashes wept.

And empires perish'd in its shade. Old Time beheld his silvery head

An humbler lot, O tree! was thine, With graceful grandeur towering,

-Gone down in all thy glory; Its pensile boughs profusely spread,

The sweet, the mournful task be mine, The breezy lawn embowering,

To sing thy simple story; Till arch'd around, there seem'd to shoot

Though verse like mine in vain would raise A grove of scions from one root.

The fame of thy departed days.

Yet, fallen willow! if to me Thither, at summer noon, he view'd

Such power of song were given, The lovely Nine retreating,

My lips should breathe a soul through thee, Beneath its twilight solitude

And call down fire from heaven, With songs their poet greeting.

To kindle in this hallow'd urn Whose spirit in the willow spoke,

A flame that would for ever burn. Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.



By harvest moonlight there he spied

The fairy bands advancing;
Bright Ariel's troops, on Thames's side,

Around the willow dancing;
Gay sylpbs among the foliage play'd,
And glow-worms glitter'd in the shade.
One morn, while Time thus mark'd the tree

In beauty green and glorious,
“ The hand,” he cried, “ that planted thee

O'er mine was oft victorious;
Be vengeance now my calm employ,-
One work of Pope's I will destroy."

O, 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 ?
10, when shall I visit the land of my birth?

—'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.

He spake, and struck a silent blow

With that dread arm whose motion Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,

And wields o'er land and ocean The unremitting axe of doom, That fells the forest of the tomb. Deep to the willow's root it went,

And clest 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 revella,
Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,

The thin gray leaves dishevellid, 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;

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Nor only o'er the dial's face,

This silent phantom, day by day, With slow, unseen, unceasing pace,

Steals moments, months, and years away; From hoary rock and aged tree,

From proud Palmyra's mouldering walls, From Teneriffe, towering o'er the sea,

From every blade of grass it falls. For still, where'er a shadow sweeps,

The scythe of Time destroys. And man at every footstep weeps

O'er evanescent joys; Like flow'rets glittering with the dews of morn Fair for a moment, then for ever shorn. -Ah! soon, beneath th' inevitable blow, 1, too, shall lie in dust and darkness low.

A parent's heart may prove a spare ;

The child she loves so well, Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,

Down the smooth road to hell; Nourish its frame,-destroy its mind : Thus do the blind mislead the blind,

Even with a mother's love. Blest infant! whom his mother taught

Early to seek the Lord, And pour'd upon his dawning thought

The day-spring of the word ; This was the lesson to her son, -Time is eternity begun: Behold that mother's love.*

Then Time, the conqueror, will suspend

His scythe, a trophy, o'er my tomb,
Whose moving shadow shall portend

Each frail beholder's doom.
O'er the wide earth's illumined space,

Though time's triumphant fight be shown, The truest index on its face

Points from the churchyard stone.

A MOTHER'S LOVE. A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name !

What is a mother's love?
-A noble, pure, and tender flame,

Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold;

This is a mother's love.

Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,

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

And know the fear of God:
Ah! youth, like bim enjoy your prime,
Begin eternity in time,

Taught by that mother's love.
That mother's love how sweet the name!

What was that mother's love?
-The noblest, purest, tenderest flame,

That kindles from above
Within a heart of earthly mould,
As much of heaven as heart can hold,
Nor through eternity grows cold:

This was that mother's love.


The male of this insect is said to be a fly, which the femase caterpillar attracts in the night by the lustre of her train

To bring a helpless babe to light,

Then, while it lies forlorn,
To gaze upon that dearest sight,

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

This is a mother's love.
Its weakness in her arms to bear;

To cherish on her breast,
Feed it from love's own fountain there,

And lull it there to rest;
Then while it slumbers watch its breath,
As if to guard from instant death;

This is a mother's love.
To mark its growth from day to day,

Its opening charms admire,
Catch from its eye the earliest ray

of intellectual 'fire; To smile and listen while it talks, And lend a finger when it walks ;

This is a mother's love.

When evening closes nature's eye,

The glow-worm lights her little spark, To captivate her favourite fly,

And tempt the rover through the dark. Conducted by a sweeter star

Than all that deck the fields above, He fondly hastens from afar,

To soothe her solitude with love. Thus in this wilderness of tears,

Amidst the world's perplexing gloom, The transient torch of Hymen cheers

The pilgrim journeying to the tomb. Unhappy he whose hopeless eye

Turns to the light of love in vain ; Whose cynosure is in the sky,

He on the dark and lonely main.

And can a mother's love grow cold?

Can she forget her boy?
His pleading innocence behold,

Nor weep for grief-for joy!
A mother may forget her child,
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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Tue tall oak, towering to the skies,'
The fury of the wind defies,
From age to age, in virtue strong,
Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

O’erwhelm’d at length upon the plain,
It puts forth wings, and sweeps the main ;
The selfsame foe undaunted braves,
And fights the winds upon the waves.

What is the world ?-A wildering maze,
Where sin hath track'd ten thousand ways,

Her victims to ensnare;
All broad, and winding, and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,

All ending in despair.
Millions of pilgrims throng those roads,
Bearing their baubles, or their loads,

Down to eternal night:
--One humble path, that never bends,
Narrow, and rough, and steep, ascends

From darkness into light.
Is there a guide to show that path ?.
The Bible :--He alone, who hath

The Bible, need not stray:
Yet he who hath, and will not give
That heavenly guide to all that live,

Himself shall lose the way.

WELL, thou art gone, and I am left:
But O! how cold and dark to me
This world, of every charm bereft,
Where all was beautiful with thee!

Though I have seen thy form depart
For ever from my widow'd eye,
I hold thee in mine inmost heart;
There, there at least thou canst not die.


Farewell on earth: Heaven claim'd its own ;
Yet, when from me thy presence went,
I was exchanged for God alone:
Let dust and ashes learn content.

Ha! those small voices, silver sweet! Fresh from the fields my babes appear; They fill my arms, they clasp my feet: -"0! could your father see us here !”

Supposed to be addressed by the Rev. Dr. Carey, the learn

ed and illustrious Baptist missionary at Serampore, to the first plant of this kind, which sprang up unexpectedly in his garden, out of some English earth, in which other seeds had been conveyed to him from this country. With great care and nursing, the doctor has been enabled to perpetuate the daisy in India, as an annual only, raised by seed preserved from season to season


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 Aower!
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,
Strange 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;
-Dur 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 here,
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 ;

Wine, oil, refresbment; he'was heal'd;
I had myself a wound conceal'd ;
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.

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.

In prison I saw him next, condemn'd
To meet a traitor's doom at morn;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
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."

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Night turns to day :

When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight
Cheer up, 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, cheer up!
All beautiful and glowing,
May floats in fragrance on the breeze.

A Poon 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 ;-not 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 hearth 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

War ends in peace:

Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghastly corpses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up!
Where groan'd the field of battle,
The song, the dance, the feast go round.

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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