Who of the saints that ever trod

In outward sheen, this path of sin, That never felt-so strong in GodThe coward weakness full within? Let him still gaze on yon clear sky, As if his mirror there he sought; And challenge Purity to spy

In his soul's core, one careless thoughtSuch dare not I.

Yet, if there's one, who in the strength
Of worldliness, is weak indeed,
Who finds his boasted staff, at length,

Of wise resolves, a broken reed,
And from the midst of battle calls-

While his own goodness sounds retreat

On Mercy, and for succor falls,

A trembling wretch, at Jesus' feet

Oh! such am I.

THE UNFRUITFUL.

WHY on this Zion-hill

Descends no kindly rain-
Precept on precept still
Imparted, and in vain ?
No souls these walls to crowd,
Like doves, or as a cloud?

Its watchman long hath toiled
In Christ, his Master's name;
Yet Error is not foiled,

Nor Satan put to shame.

For weary years the stumbling flock
Have blindly missed salvation's Rock.

With tears and inward strife

And agony of soul,

He's wooed the dead to life,

The broken to be whole.

But tears and prayers and pain

Of spirit, have been vain.

What lacks he? love? - His heart

Beats but to earnest love;

Power?

He hath the art

To bring heaven from above.

No wiser lips God's word hath spoken,

No holier hands God's bread hath broken.

Listen! -ere vows had bound

His labors to this spot, A message had him found

Which he regarded not: By him should be unfurled Peace to the heathen world!

He shunned it. On this hill
No dews of grace descend;
'Tis as Gilboa still,

And shall be till his end,
Who judgment for the Jonah sees,

That to God's will preferred his ease.

FAITHFUL TO HIS CONSTITUENTS.

HE journeyed on, and baited at each house,
Where they do hang out sign to entertain
Both "man and beast." And he was entertained
With certain glasses of burnt brandy, or
Of Hollands, or the best New England rum,
As suited taste; nor boggled he, nor seemed
Squeamish, or hard to be well satisfied.
And thus did he, or if the weather showed
Or cold or moderate, or rain or shine,-
'Twas all the same - his quenchless thirst held good;
And by the time we reached the bustling town, -
Where is the seat of government, to which
The gathered wisdom of the State convenes,
Yearly, to make or mend the laws - I found
My friend, the Representative, was drunk!

I marvelled somewhat at this riddle, till, Waiting a sober hour, I questioned him, And he did thus reply, all unabashed : "My good constituents hate the new plansAnd vile plans are they!-'bout the Temperance cause. And they elected me, for well they knew

I should oppose such notions, and thwart

Endeavors to put down all licenses,

Which curst endeavors are against His will

Who made all things, and who has said that all

The creatures.

Are very good.

-

"too

- surely the "good creature
Faithful those friends to me,

And I must drink,—I love it—for I deem

A man unfit to sit in yon brave State House,
And represent such friends,-who stayed at none
Expedient, or good or bad, to place him there-
Who will not, on occasion, every where
Be faithful to his tried constituents!"

THE OLD NORTH BURIAL GROUND

IN PORTSMOUTH, N. H.

I STAND where I have stood before in boyhood's sunny prime,

The same -yet not the same, but one who wears the touch of Time;

And gaze around on what was then familiar to the eye, But whose inconstant features tell that years have journeyed by,

Since o'er this venerable ground a truant child I played, And chased the bee and plucked the flower, where

ancient dust is laid;

And hearkened, in my wondering mood, when tolled the passing bell,

And started at the coffin's cry, as clods upon it fell.

These mossy tombs I recollect, the same o'er which I pored,

The same these rhymes and texts, with which my

memory was stored;

These humble tokens, too, that lean, and tell where resting bones

Are hidden, though their date and name have perished from the stones.

How rich these precincts with the spoils of ages buried here!

What hearts have ached, what eyes have given this conscious earth the tear

How many friends, whose welcome cheered their now deserted doors,

Have, since my last sojourning, swelled these melancholy stores!

Yon spot, where in the sunset ray a single white stone gleams,

I've visited, I cannot tell how often, in my dreams,That spot o'er which I wept, though then too young my loss to know,

As I beheld my father's form sepulchred far below.

How freshly every circumstance, though seas swept wide between,

And years had vanished since that hour, in vagaries I've seen!

The lifted lid that countenance-the funeral array, As vividly as if the scene were but of yesterday.