How far the fears of spirits might infest
The bosom of a child. A likely boy,
The choicest of his flock, a mother's joy,
He took, unscrupulous of means, if he
His ends might gain, and solve the mystery.

Both stood within the mansion of the dead, And while the stripling mused, the teacher fled, Leaving the child, where the dull cresset shone With the dumb relics and his God alone. As the trap-door fell suddenly, the stroke, Sullen and harsh, his solemn revery broke. Where is he? - Barred within the dreadful womb Of the cold earth — the living in the tomb! The opened coffins showed Death's doings, sad — The awful dust in damps and grave-mould clad. Though near the haunt of busy, cheerful day, He, to drear night and solitude the prey! Must he be watcher with these corpses! - Who Can tell what sights may rise? Will reason then be true? Must he, —a blooming, laughter-loving child,Be mated thus? - The thought was cruel, wild! His knees together smote, as first, in fear, He gazed around his prison; — then a tear Sprang to his eyes in kind relief; and said The little boy, "I will not be afraid. Was ever spirit of the good man known To injure children whom it found alone? And straight he taxed his memory, to supply Stories and texts, to show he might rely Most safely, humbly, on his Father's care

Who hears a child's as well as prelate's prayer.
And thus he stood - -on Whitefield's form his glance
In reverence fixed - and hoped deliverance.

Meanwhile, the recreant teacher, where was he? Gone in effrontery to take his tea

With the lad's mother!-Supper done, he told
The feat that should display her son as bold.
With eye indignant, and with words of flame,

How showers that mother scorn, rebuke, and shame!
And bids him haste! and hastes herself, to bring
Him from Death's realm who knew not yet its sting:
And yet believed - so well her son she knew-
The noble boy would to himself be true:

He would sustain himself, and she should find
Him patient and possessed, she trusted well his mind.

The boy yet lives-and from that distant hour Dates much of truth that on his heart hath power; And chiefly this-whate'er of wit is wed To word of his-to reverence the dead.

SATURDAY EVENING.

My God! this hour doth thought invite,
That bird-like would for shelter flee,
Tired with its six-days' weary flight—
To fold its wings, and rest with Thee.

I long to soar above the vain

And false delights that compass me ! Break, Lord, the world's entangling chain, And set the joyful captive free.

'Tis said the time ere that which brings
The early blush of Sabbath light,
Is never vexed by evil things,

Is ne'er disturbed by fiends of night;
So like that hour, I fain would choose
My soul to be its calm delight
So deep-that Folly must refuse
To stay, and Sin be loath to fright.

Sweet Evening! whose delightful air
Already scents of Sabbath gales;
Refresh me! cheer me! and repair
The vigor that so often fails;
And fit me for the morrow's toil
In gardens where the soul inhales
Rich fragrance, gathering flowery spoil
On rosy hills, in lilied vales.

If such the prospects that may pass
Before a pilgrim here below,

Who gazes through the shepherd's glass,
The far celestial scenes to know-
How glorious, waking from the dream
Of life's delusions, care and wo,
Must that high world of beauty seem
Whose earthly glimpses ravish so!

THE SABBATH.

The day that God calls his, make not thine own
By sports, or play, though 'tis a custom grown;
God's day of mercy whoso doth profane,
God's day of judgment doth for him remain.

MS. Poetry of the Seventeenth Century.

Toil! with thy thousand cares, away!

I seek its hallowed rest.

When virgin Earth was young,

The word that blest it came;

With trumpet's voice the mandate rung

From Sinai's hill of flame.

Joy for the Sabbath hours!

My soul, think on thy vow;
Lie trembling, ye tumultuous powers!
Tread softly, worldlings, now!

This Resurrection Morn

Broke ancient Midnight's spell, When ONE of lowly woman horn, Spoiled Death and eager Hell.

Up, for retirement's haunt!

The solemn, secret place,

Where God supplies the spirit's want

With treasures of his grace.

Its hushed and early hour
Invites prevailing men;

The Sabbath day-break! — Oh, there's power
With Him to wrestle then.

Up! where Devotion waits,

Where the bowed heart adores;

Be lifted, oh, ye temple gates!
Be opened, joyful doors!
There, at the organ's peal,
And choir's melodious tone
Of rising anthem, humbly kneel
Before thy Father's throne.

Up! for the paschal feast

The bread and wine are here;
Thou, whom thy heart esteems as least,

Art welcome to the cheer.

The spousals of the King

And Church are held to-day;

Thy willing gift of gladness bring,
And bring thy white array.

The enemy has gained;
Weep, follower, beneath the cross,

The Sabbath is profaned!

Oh, not alone by those :·

Yet darker is the frown:

The CHRISTIAN joins the Sabbath foes,

By him 'tis trodden down!