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 wise resolves, a broken reed, 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 Its watchman long hath toiled 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: He shunned it. On this hill 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, Both "man and beast." And he was entertained Of Hollands, or the best New England rum, And thus did he, or if the weather showed I marvelled somewhat at this riddle, till, I should oppose such notions, and thwart - Which curst endeavors are against His will Who made all things, and who has said that all too The creatures-surely the "good creature 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. |