FOSTER GENIUS.

FOSTER Genius; ye who love it,

Train the shoot of native skill:

Ye can ne'er be genius-makers,

Yet ye may direct the will.

Ye can turn the stream which wanders
In an unfrequented way,
Till it through a country peopled
Rolls, a blessing every day.
Ye can make the drooping spirit,

Cooped up, like a cloistered nun, Stretch her pinions like an eagle, Soar and gaze upon the sun.

Foster Genius, e'en the humblest;

'Tis a little jewel rare :

Purest gold, and gems most precious,

Oft the coarsest covering wear.

Rills, too small for swans to bathe in,

May refresh a tiny lark;

And the light of smallest taper

Can illuminate the dark.

See, that little spark ignoble

Sets a forest all on fire:

Emblem true of low-born genius,
Ever seeking to aspire.

Foster Genius, scatter blessing;
'Tis a high and noble deed;
"Tis a privilege. Ye shall gather

Crops from all its scattered seed.
Foster Genius, Heaven demands it,
Since it kindled first the flame.

Birds were never made for caging,

Souls are made for flight and fame. WATT may thank his steaming kettle, BUNYAN thank his prison hole,

Daisies nursed a BURNS's fancy,

Apples taught a NEWTON's soul.

Foster Genius, and the acorn

Shall become a tree of strength : Mighty things from small have risen ;

Corals stretch an island's length.

Foster Genius, let collision

Bring the latent spark to view;

And, as true men, ever render

Honour where reward is due.

Foster Genius, science asks it;

Lightning words now travel free;

But she points us to the future,

When a thought shall span a sea.

Honour Genius, men of England,
And
your country's name shall live :
Know, ye are more blessed in giving
Than your brothers who receive.

Foster it, and you shall witness

In this age a wonder wrought;

Moral force shall be the weapon,

Which shall battle do for thought.

Give the people education,

Train the shoot of native skill;

True! ye can't be genius-makers,

But ye can direct the will.

LIFE.

THROUGH Our infancy we glide
Calmly as the waveless tide.

Merry CHILDHOOD skips along,

Carolling a constant song.

YOUTH, romantic, loves to go
Dancing like the bounding roe.
MANHOOD'S pace is slow and sure,
Sobered by the slips of yore.
AGE is like a heavy load,

Tottering down a rocky road.

ON A SNOW STORM.

SEE! cherubs drop their feathers from their wings,

And hawthorn twigs resume their blossomings.

THE POET'S GRAVE.

O! BURY me not in the desert's sand,

Where bones lie bleached on either hand;

Where the jackal's tongue, and the vulture's bill, Redden on what the lions kill :

Nor the matted sward of the jungle tear,

Where tigers that crouch in their hungry lair,

And leopards that sportive leap on high,

Would scent out the spot where my bones would lie:

Nor in the lonely forest wild,

Like a savage warrior's stricken child:

Nor in the deep and fretful sea,

Where voracious sharks would feed on me.

Nor under the temple's hallowed dome,
Where sculptured statues guard the tomb ;
And verses vaunt a patriot's praise,

In wanton and untruthful lays :