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Or who can tell if Fortune's hour

(Which once on all doth shine) Be not within this morning's dower,

A prosperous morn of mine?

Ah, cold Reality !--in spite

Of hopes, and endless chance, That bitter postman, ruthless wight,

Has cheated poor Romance ;
No letters! O the dreary phrase:

Another day forlorn :-
And thus I wend upon my ways

To watch another morn.

Cease, babbler !-let those doubtings cease :

What! should a son of heaven With the pure manna of his Peace

Mix up his faithless leaven ? Not so !--for in the hands of God,

And in none earthly will, Abide alike my staff, and rod,

My good, and seeming ill.


ALAS, we do but act; we are not free;

The presence of another is a chain

My trammeled spirit strives to break, in vain : How strangely different myself from me!

Thoughtful in solitude, serenely blest, Crown’d and enthroned in mental majesty, Equal to all things great, and daring all,

I muse of mysteries, and am at rest;

But, in the midst, some dull intruded guest Topples me from my heights, holding in thrall

With his hard eye the traitor in my breast,

That before humbler intellects is cow'd,

Silently shrinking from the common crowd, And only with the highest self-possest.


Look on this babe; and let thy pride take heed,

Thy pride of manhood, intellect, or fame, That thou despise him not: for he indeed,

And such as he, in spirit and heart the same, Are God's own children in that kingdom bright

Where purity is praise,—and where before

The Father's throne, triumphant evermore, The ministering angels, sons of light,

Stand unreproved; because they offer there,

Mix'd with the Mediator's hallowing pray’r, The innocence of babes in Christ like this:

O guardian Spirit, be my child thy care,
Lead him to God, obedience and bliss,
To God, O fostering cherub, thine and his !

* William Knighton Tupper, the Author's second son.


ARE there no sympathies, no loves between us ?

Is my hope vain ?-I have not vext thee long, Nor lent thee thoughts from God and good that wean us,

Nor given thee words that warp from right to wrong:

And if, at times, my too trinmphant song
Hath seem'd self-praise,—doth it indeed demean us
That when a man feels hotly at his heart

The quick spontaneous fire of thoughts and words,
He will not play the hypocrite's ill part,

Flinging aside the meed his Mind affords?

No! with all gratitude and humbleness I claim mine own; nor can affect to scorn A gift, of my Creator's goodness born,

Which is my grace and glory to possess.

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