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Banish the thought!-where'er our steps may roam,
O'er smiling plains, or wastes without a tree,
Still will fond memory point our hearts to thee,
And paint the pleasures of thy peaceful home;
While duty bids us all thy griefs assuage,
And smooth the pillow of thy sinking age.

YES, 'twill be over soon.-This sickly dream
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain;
And death my wearied spirit will redeem
From this wild region of unvaried pain.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,-

Yon landscape smile,-yon golden harvest grow,
You sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar
When Henry's name is heard no more below.
I sigh when all my youthful friends caress,

They laugh in health, and future evils brave:
Then shall a wife and smiling children bless,
While I am mouldering in my silent grave.
God of the just-thou gavest the bitter cup;
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.

TO CONSUMPTION.

GENTLY, most gently, on thy victim's head,
Consumption, lay thine hand!-let me decay,
Like the expiring lamp, unseen, away,
And softly go to slumber with the dead.
And if 'tis true, what holy men have said,
That strains angelic oft foretel the day,
Of death, to those good men who fall thy prey,
O let the aërial music round my bed,
Dissolving sad in dying symphony,

Whisper the solemn warning in mine ear:
That I may bid my weeping friends good bye
Ere I depart upon my journey drear:
And, smiling faintly on the painful past,
Compose my decent head, and breathe my last.

TRANSLATED

FROM THE FRENCH OF M. DESBARREUX.

THY judgments, Lord, are just; thou lov'st to wear
The face of pity and of love divine;

But mine is guilt-thou must not, canst not spare,
While Heaven is true, and equity is thine.
Yes, oh my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,
And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done-since 'tis thy glory's due,
Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow;
Smite-it is time-though endless death ensue,
I bless the avenging hand that lays me low.
But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood,
That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning
blood?

POEMS OF A LATER DATE.

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. Who, when Henry reasoned with him calmly asked, "If he did not feel for him?"

Do I not feel?' The doubt is keen as steel. Yea, do I feel-most exquisitely feel;

my

My heart can weep, when from downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved solitary thing;

Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day,
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:

Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel;
Even then I wept I had not power to heal:

Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom, I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the wretched's doom,

Who were my friends in youth ?—the midnight fire
The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir;
To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,

My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will shew,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.

Yes, thou didst wrong me,
; I fondly thought
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To sooth affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine,

Half past Eleven o'clock at Night.

CHRISTMAS-DAY.

1804.

H. K. WHITE.

YET once more, and once more, awake my Harp,
From silence and neglect-one lofty strain,
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,

I ask of thee, for I, with hymnings high,
Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,
Wreath I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy to celebrate the day

Of the Redeemer.-Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the day-spring first
Beam'd from on high!-Now to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate we add
One unit more. Space, in comparison,
How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;
Wars, famines, and the fury Pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppress'd, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance; and the arm of wrong,
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.
So has the year been character'd with woe,
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and
crimes;

Yet 'twas not thus He taught-not thus He lived,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving.-He a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed,-path, though rude,
Yet borne with patience still :-He came to cheer
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,
And on the wandering and benighted mind
To pour the light of truth.-O task divine!
O more than angel teacher! He had words
To sooth the barking waves, and hush the winds.
And when the soul was toss'd with troubled seas,
Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm❜d it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile
At the surrounding wreck.

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,
E

His persecutors-Father, pardon them,
They know not what they do.'

Angels of Heaven,
Ye who beheld Him fainting on the cross,

And did him homage, say, may mortal join
The hallelujahs of the risen God?

Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard
Amid the seraphim in light divine?

Yes He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deigu
For mercy to accept the hymn of faith,
Low though it be and humble.-Lord of Life,
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising sovl.-I mount, I fly
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh disstort, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more

NELSONI MORS.

YET once again, my Harp, yet once again,
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,
I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe.
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth;

Not unrepining, for my froward heart,

Etill turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow
Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts,
Of my not songless boyhood.-Yet once more,
Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,
My long neglected Harp.-He must not sink:
The good, the brave-he must not, shall not sink.
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

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