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To serve therewith my Maker, and present
I fondly ask? hut patience to prevent
Either man's work or his own gifts; who hest
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
LINES BY A LADY BORN BLIND.
If this delicious, grateful flower,
My Father, when our fortune smiled,
THE BLIND ASYLUM.
Stranger, pause!—for thee the day
Stranger, pause!—with softened mind
Earth and seas, and varying skies
Not for them the hliss to trace
Not for them the heart is seen
Helpless as they slowly stray,
Yet for them has Genius kind
Lonely hlindness here can meet
He who deign'd for man to die,
Look where hecomes—in this emhowered
alcove Stand close concealed, and seeastatne move: Lips husy, and eyes fixt, foot falling slow, Anns hanging idly down, hands clasped helow, Interpret to the marking eye distress, •Such as its symptoms can alone express. That tongue is silent now; that silent tongue Could argue once, could jest or join the song, Could give advice, could censure or commend, Or charm the sorrows of a drooping friend. Renounced alike its office and its sport, Its hrisker and its graver strains fell short; Both fail'd heneath a fever's secret sway, And like a summer-hrook are past away. This is a sight for pity to peruse, Till she. resemhle faintly what she views, Till sympathy contract a kindred pain, Pierced with the woes that she laments in
vain. This, of all maladies that man infest, Claims most compassion, and receives the
least: Joh felt it, when he groaned heneath the rod And the harhed arrows of a frowning God; And such emollients as his friends could
spare, Friends such as his for modern Johs prepare. Blest, rather curst, with hearts that never
feel, Kept snug in caskets of close hammered
steel, With months made only to grin wide and
eat, And minds, that deem derided pain a treat, With limhs of British oak,and nerves of wire, And wit, that puppet-prom piers might inspire, Their sovereign nostrum is a clumsy joke On pangs enforced with God's severest stroke
But with a soul that ever felt the sting
loose, Lost, till he tone them, all their power and
use. Then neither heathy wilds, nor scenes as fair As ever recompensed the peasant's care, Nor soft declivities with tufted hills, Nor view of waters turning husy mills, Parks in which art preceptress nature weds, Nor gardens interspersed with flowery heds, Nor gales, that catch the scent of hlooming
groves, And waft it to the mourner as he roves, Can call up life into his faded eye, That passes all he sees unheeded hy: No wounds like those a wounded spirit feels, No cure for such, till God who makes them,
heals. And thou, sad sufferer under nameless ill. That yields not to the touch of human skill, Improve the kind occasion, understand A Father's frown, and kiss his chasteniug
hand; To thee the day-spring, and the hlaze of noon, The purple evening, and resplendent moon, The stars, that sprinkled o'er the vault of
night, Seem drops descending in a shower of light, Shine not, or ondesired and hated shine, Seen through the medium of a cloud like
Yet seek him, in his favour life is found,
Father of heaven I full many a wasted day,
And weary, wakeful night, this heart hath worn
In one hright vision, waning now away, And leaving it all desolate, forlorn. O with thy gracious liaht, direct my feet
To a more peaceful way,—a nohler love! Guide thou a wanderer to that hless'd retreat,
The clouds and cares of this dark world ahove. For Thou, my Lord, hast seen year after year
Roll on in sadness, since this heart of mine
Bow' d to that yoke alike on all severe; Now, weak and faint, I ask thy hand divine To fix each rehel thought, and vagrant tear,
Saviour of all I upon that cross of thine!
THE .EOLIAN HARP.
1 Nrver hear that plaintive sigh,
Borne on the tremhling zephyrs' wings,
But fancy paints some spirit nigh,
Who hreathes in rapture o'er ihy strings; Some minstrel sylph or fairy power, Whose music charms in lonely hour.
iEolian harp! the magic swell,
On whose wild notes I love to dwell,
Conld mortal voice so sweetly sing,
Or raise the soul on fancy's wing?
Ah 1 no—No mortal voice e'er sung
No chord such witching numhers rung,
Some seraph wanderer of the sky,
Who sighs the note of melody.
In vesper hour no requiem swell,
On which the pious crowd would dwell,
E'er threw around such magic power,
Or hreath'd more sweet in lonely hour.
That song is o'er; the hreeze of night Shall sweep in silence o'er the strings;
And, ah! that hreath, so soft, so light, Shall mourn no more on zephyrs' wingi;
Thy tremhling chords no more shall sigh,
No fairy minstrel hover nigh.
Farewell, sweet harp; for damp decay
And thou shalt hreathe no future lay,
The hreeze flits hy, the music's o'er,
The fairy sounds can charm no more.
It is a fearful thing to see The vacant smile of idiocy;
That staring eye of soulless ray,
I'd sooner see within that frame,
Ly can throphy, that none can tame.
For such a frame would move me less,
Than that same form of helplessness.
A mass of flesh without a mind,
A mockery of human kind;
The shape of man without one spring
Of thought, however wandering;
A living statue, it can weep,
And laugh, and hreathe, and move, and
Of natural instinct—this is all
Its title to humanity.
There's not a gleaming, not a spark
Of reason there; all, all is dark.
It is an awful thing to see,
The vacant face of idiocy!
There often wanders one,whom hetter days Saw hetter clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
With lace, and hat with splendid rihand
hound. A serving maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went tosea,anddied. Her fancy followed -him through foaming
waves To distant shores; and she would sit and
weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes arc, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know: She heard the doleful tidings of his death— And never smiled again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the live-long
day, And there, unless when charity forhids, The live-long night. A tattered apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tattered still; and hoth hut ill conceal A hosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs. She hegs an idle pin of all she meets, And hoards them in her sleeve; hut needful
food, Tho' pressed with hunger oft, or comelier
clothes, Tho' pinched with cold, asks never—Kate
Nay, shrink not from that word "Farewell!'1 As if 'twere Friendship's final knell;
Such fears may prove hat vain: So changeful is Life's fleeting day, Whene'er we sever—Hope may say
We part, to meet again!
E'en the last parting Earth can know,
To souls that heavenward soar;
May meet—to part no more! «
When forced to part from those we love,
If sure to meet to-morrow,
And feel a touch of sorrow.
But who can paint the hriny tears
If forced to part for months, for years,
But if our thoughts are fix'd aright, A cheering hope is given,
Though here our prospects end in night,
Yei, if our sonls are raised ahove,
Since parting in a Saviour's love,
THE MISSIONARIES' FAREWELL
Land where the hones of our Fathers are sleeping!
Land of oar Fathers 1 in grief we forsake thee;
God is thy God; thou shalt walk in His hrightness!
Dark is our path o'er the dark rolling ocean;
Hail to the land of our toils and our sorrows I
Jesus, we pray for thy Spirit to lead us,
LORD RUSSELL, ON PARTING FROM HIS LADY.
Oh My Lov'd Rachel! name for ever dear,