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With Whitefield's,"—said, he, yielding up his breath,
In life beloved, and not disjoined in death.
Obedient to his wish, in order then

Were all things done; the tomb was oped to ken 5 Of curious eyes,—made ready to enclose

Another tenant in its hushed repose :
And, lighted with a single lamp, whose ray
Fell dimly down upon the mouldering clay,

Was left, prepared, to silence as of night, 10 Till hour appointed for the funeral rite.

It chanced, the plodding teacher of a school,-
A man of whim, bold, reckless, yet no fool,-
Deemed this an opportunity to test

How far the fears of spirits might infest 15 The boson of a child. A' likely' boy,

The choicest of his flock, a mother's joy,
He took, unscrupulous of means, if he
His ends might gain, and solve the mystery.

Both stood within the mansion of the dead,
20 And while the stripling mused, the teacher fled,

Leaving the child, where the dull cresset shone,
With the dumb relics and his God alone.
As the trap-door fell suddenly, the stroke,

Sullen and harsh, his solemn revery broke.
25 Where is he?-Barred within the dreadful womb

Of the cold earth,—the living in the tomb!
The opened coffins showed Death's doings, sad,
The awful dust in damps and grave-mould clad.

Though near the haunt of busy, cheerful day, 30 He, to drear night and solitude the prey !

Must he be watcher with these corpses Who
Can tell what sights may rise? Will reason then be true ?
Must he,-a blooming, laughter-loving child, -

Be mated thus ?-The thought was cruel, wild ! 35 His knees together smote, as first, in fear,

He gazed around his prison ;-then a tear
Sprang to his eyes in kind relief; and said
The little boy, "I will not be afraid.

Was ever spirit of the good man known
40 To injure children whom it found alone ?"

And straight he taxed his memory, to supply
Stories and texts, to show he might rely

Most safely, humbly, on his Father's care,
Who hears a child's, as well as prelate's, prayer.
And thus he stood,—on Whitefield's form his glance

In reverence fixed, -and hoped deliverance. 5 Meanwhile, the recreant teacher,—where was he?

Gone in effrontery to take his tea
With the lad's mother Supper done, he told
The feat that should display her son as bold.

With eye indignant, and with words of flame, 10 How showers that mother's scorn, rebuke, and shame!

And bids him haste ! and hastes herself, to bring
Him from Death's realm, who knew not yet its sting:
And yet believed,—so well her son she knew,-

The noble boy would to himself be true : 15 He would sustain himself, and she would find Him patient and possessed, she trusted well his mind.

The boy yet lives, and from that distant hour Dates much of truth that on his heart hath power;

And chiefly this,—whate'er of wit is wed 20 To word of his, to reverence the dead.



Give me the boon of Love!
I ask no more for fame;
Far better one unpurchased heart
Than Glory's proudest name.
Why wake a fever in the blood,
Or damp the spirit now,
To gain a wreath whose leaves shall wave
Above a withered brow?
Give me the boon of Love!
Ambition's meed is vain;
Dearer Affection's earnest smile
Than Honor's richest train.
I'd rather lean upon a breast
Responsive to my own,
Than sit pavilioned gorgeously
Upon a kingly throne.
Like the Chaldean sage,
Fame's worshippers adore







The brilliant orbs that scatter light
O'er heaven's azure floor ;
But in their


hearts enshrined,
The votaries of Love
Keep e'er the holy flame, which once
Illumed the courts above.
Give me the boon of Love !
Renown is but a breath,
Whose loudest echo ever floats
From out the halls of death.
A loving eye beguiles me more
Than Fame's emblazoned seal,
And one sweet tone of tenderness
Than Triumph's wildest peal.
Give me the boon of Love !
The path of Fame is drear,
And Glory's arch doth ever span
A hill-side cold and sere.
One wild flower from the path of Love,
All lowly though it lie,
Is dearer than the wreath that waves
To stern Ambition's eye.
Give me the boon of Love!
The lamp of Fame shines far,
But Love's soft light glows near and warm,-
A pure and household star.
One tender glance can fill the soul
With a perennial fire ;
But Glory's flame burns fitfully,
A lone, funereal pyre.
Give me the boon of Love!
Fame's trumpet-strains depart,
But Love's sweet lute breathes melody
That lingers in the heart;
And the scroll of fame will burn,
When sea and earth consume;
But the rose of Love, in a happier sphere,
Will live in deathless bloom !





If to my



If I had Jubal's chorded shell,

O'er which the first-born music rolled,
In burning tones, that loved to dwell

Amongst those wires of trembling gold; 5

soul one note were given
Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone
Caught its majestic strain from heaven,

And glowed like fire round Israel's throne;
Up to the deep blue starry sky

Then might my soul aspire, and hold
Communion fervent, strong and high,

With bard and king, and prophet old :
Then might my spirit dare to trace

The path our ancient people trod, 15 When the gray sires of Jacob's race,

Like faithful servants, walked with God!
But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,

That all her tales of triumph told,

And mute is every voice, that gushed 20

In music to her harps of gold;
And could my lyre attune its string

To lofty themes they loved of yore,
Alas! my lips could only sing

All that we were but are no more ! 25 Our hearts are still by Jordan's stream,

And there our footsteps fain would be ;
But oh ! 't is like the captive's dream

Of home, his eyes may never see.
A cloud is on our fathers'

graves, 30

And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill,
And there their sons must stand as slaves,

Or roam like houseless wanderers still.
Yet where the rose of Sharon blooms,

And cedars wave the stately head, 35 Even now, from out the place of tombs,

Breaks a deep voice that stirs the dead.
Through the wide world's tumultuous roar,

Floats clear and sweet the solemn word,

“O virgin daughter, faint no more; 40

Thy tears are seen, thy prayers are heard !
What though, with spirits crushed and broke,

Thy tribes like desert exiles rove,

Though Judah feels the stranger's yoke,

And Ephraim is a heartless dove ?-
Yet,—yet shall Judah's Lion wake,

Yet shall the day of promise come.
Thy sons from iron bondage break,

And God shall lead the wanderers home!”






Wake your harp's music louder,-higher,
And pour your strains along;
And smite again each quivering wire,
In all the pride of song!
Shout like those godlike men of old,
Who, daring storm and foe,
On this blest soil their anthem rolled,
Two hundred years ago!
From native shores by tempests driven,
They sought a purer sky,
And found, beneath a milder heaven,
The home of liberty!
An altar rose,—and prayers,-a ray
Broke on their night of woe,
The harbinger of Freedom's day,
Two hundred years ago!
They clung around that symbol too,
Their refuge and their all;
And swore, while skies and waves were blue,
That altar should not fall.
They stood upon the red man's sod,
'Neath heaven's unpillared bow,
With home,-a country, and a God,
Two hundred years ago!
Oh! 't was a hard unyielding fate
That drove them to the seas,
And Persecution strove with Hate,
To darken her decrees :
But safe above each coral grave,
Each blooming ship did go,
A God was on the western wave,
Two hundred years ago !




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