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THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

O many-toned and chainless wind,
Thou art a wanderer free;

Tell me if thou its place canst find,
Far over mount and sea?

And the wind murmur'd in reply:
"The blue deep I have cross'd,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost."

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer; have ye a home for those
Whose carthly race is run?

The bright clouds answer'd: "we depart,
We vanish from the sky;

Ask what is deathless in thy heart,

For that which cannot die."

Speak, then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone;

Answer me through life's restless din--
Where is the spirit flown?

And the voice answer'd: "be thou still,
Enough to know is given;

Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil;
Thine is to trust in heaven."

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve,
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave-
Pray: ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

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Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea,-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won,
Breathest now at set of sun;

Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,

Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

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LINES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCHYARD OF RICHMOND, YORKSHIRE.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt let us build,--but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to ambition? Ah! no:

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For see, they would pin him below

To a small narrow cave; and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

THE THREE TABERNACLES.

To beauty? Ah! no: she forgets The charms that she wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

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The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,

But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To riches? Alas! 'tis in vain:

Who hid, in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here, in the grave, are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board,

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to affection and love?

Ah! no: they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve;

Nor a sob, nor a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve:

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear;
Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto death, to whom Monarchs must bow?
Ah! no: for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow;

Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies.

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O THOU! Who sitt'st enthroned on high,
Ancient of days! Eternal King!
May childhood and mortality

Hope thou wilt listen whilst they sing!

We raise our songs, but oh! to thee,
What praise can mortal tongue impart;
Till thou hast tuned to harmony,
That jarring instrument, the heart?

Then, infant warblings in thine ear,
As sweet as angel notes shall roll;
For thou wilt bend from heaven to hear
The still, soft music of the soul.

Oh! teach us some celestial song,
Some note of high and holy joy;
And that shall dwell upon the tongue,
And that shall all our souls employ,

Then, time shall hear, while time is ours,
The song of praise we pour to thee;
And heaven shall lend us nobler powers
To sound it through Eternity!

THE ORPHAN.

II.

O THOU! Who mak'st the sun to rise,
Beam on my soul, illume mine eyes,

And guide me through this world of care;
The wandering atom thou canst see,
The falling sparrow's mark'd by thee,
Then, turning mercy's ear to me,
Listen! listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!

O Thou! whose blood was spilt to save
Man's nature from a second grave;

To share in whose redeeming care,
Want's lowliest child is not too mean,
Guilt's darkest victim too unclean,

Oh! thou wilt deign from Heaven to lean,
And listen! listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!

O Thou! who wilt from monarchs part,
To dwell within the contrite heart,
And build thyself a temple there;
O'er all my dull affections move,
Fill all my soul with heav'nly love,
And, kindly stooping from above,
Listen listen!

Listen to an infant's prayer!

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

BORN, 1802; DIED, 1838.

THE ORPHAN.

ALONE, alone!-no other face

Wears kindred smile, or kindred line;

And yet they say my mother's eyes,

They say my father's brow, is mine;

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