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When Friendship weeps the parting hour, The simplest gift that moment given,
Long, long retains a magic power? Still, when it meets the musing view,
Can half the theft of Time retrieveThe scenes of former bliss renew,
And bid each dear idea live? It boots not if the pencill'd rose,
Or sever'd ringlet, meet the eye ; Or India's sparkling gems inclose
The talisman of sympathy! “Keep it-yes, keep it for my sake !"
On fancy's ear still breathes the sound; Ne'er time the potent charm shall break, Nor loose the spell Affection bound !
THE POWER OF GOD.
Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see: Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee! Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. When day with farewell beam delays,
Among the op’ning clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven, Those hues that mark the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine
When night, with wings of stormy gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with a thousand dyes, That sacred gloom, those fires divine, So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh, And every flower the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye; Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.
TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR.
Not seldom, clad in radiant vest,
The smoothest seas will sometimes prove,
The umbrageous Oak, in pomp outspread,
But Thou art true, incarnate Lord;
I bent before thy gracious throne,
TO THE MEMORY OF
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
No lovelier spirit than thine
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
As thy soul shall immortally be;
When we know that thy God is with thee.
May its verdure like emeralds be,
In aught that reminds us of thee.
May spring from the spot of thy rest;
THE SABBATH MORNING. How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum
TO THE MORNING LARK.
THE BIBLE A GUIDE.
Her victims to ensnare;
All ending in despair.
Millions of pilgrims throng these roads,
Down to eternal night.
From darkness into light.
The Bible need not stray.
THE GARDEN. I HAD a Garden when a child;
I kept it all in order; 'Twas full of flowers as it could be,
And London-pride was its border.
The singing birds built in it;
The Woodlark and the Linnet.
A labyrinth-walk so mazy ;
At each end a Michaelmas Daisy.
And two of bright Mezereon;
And a branch of red Valerian;
A Broom, and a Tiger-lily;
The true wild Daffodilly.