PRAYER.

How purely true, how deeply warm,
The inly-breathed appeal may be,
Though adoration wears no form,
In upraised hand or bended knee.
One Spirit fills all boundless space,
No limit to the when or where;
And little recks the time or place
That leads the soul to praise and prayer.

Father above, Almighty one,

Creator, is that worship vain

That hails each mountain as thy throne,
And finds a universal fane?
When shining stars, or spangled sod,

Call forth devotion, who shall dare

To blame, or tell me that a God

Will never deign to hear such prayer?

Oh, prayer is good when many pour
Their voices in one solemn tone;
Conning their sacred lessons o’er

Or yielding thanks for mercies shown. 'Tis good to see the quiet train

Forget their worldly joy and care, While loud response and choral strain Re-echo in the house of prayer.

But often have I stood to mark

The setting sun and closing flower,

When silence and the gathering dark
Shed holy calmness o'er the hour.
Lone on the hills, my soul confessed
More rapt and burning homage there,
And served the Maker it addressed

With stronger zeal and closer prayer.

When watching those we love and prize,
Till all of life and hope be fled;
When we have gazed on sightless eyes,
And gently stayed the falling head;
Then what can soothe the stricken heart,
What solace overcome despair;

What earthly breathing can impart

Such healing balm as lonely prayer?

When fears and perils thicken fast,
And many dangers gather round;
When human aid is vain and past,

No mortal refuge to be found;
Then can we firmly lean on heaven,

And gather strength to meet and bear;
No matter where the storm has driven,
A saving anchor lives in prayer.

Oh, God! how beautiful the thought,
How merciful the blessed decree,
That grace can e'er be found when sought,
And naught shut out the soul from Thee.

The cell may cramp, the fetters gall,

The flame may scorch, the rack may tear;

But torture-stake, or prison wall,

Can be endured with faith and prayer.

In desert wilds, in midnight gloom,
In grateful joy, in trying pain;
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb;
Oh when is prayer unheard or vain?
The Infinite, the King of kings,

Will never heed the when or where;
He'll ne'er reject a heart that brings
The offering of fervent prayer.

SONNET,

WRITTEN AT THE COUCH OF A DYING PARENT.

'Tis midnight! and pale Melancholy stands Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath

Of yew and cypress; the faint dirge of death Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around. She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet, Points to the clinging clay upon her feet,

And whispers tidings of the charnel ground.

Oh! pray thee, Melancholy, do not bring

These bitter emblems with thee; I can bear With all but these, 'tis these, oh God! that wring And plunge my heart in maddening despair, Hence, for awhile, pale Melancholy, go! And let sweet slumber lull my weeping wo,

SONG OF THE IMPRISONED BIRD,

YE may pass me by with pitying eye,

And cry,

"Poor captive thing!"

But I'll prove ye are caged as safely as I,

If ye'll hearken the notes I sing.

I flutter in thrall, and so do all;

Ye have bonds ye cannot escape,
With only a little wider range,
And bars of another shape.

The noble ranks of fashion and birth
Are fettered by courtly rule;

They dare not rend the shackles that tend
To form the knave and fool,

The parasite, bound to kiss the hand

That, perchance, he may lothe to touch;

The maiden, high-born, wedding where she may scorn, Oh! has earth worse chains than such?

The one who lives but to gather up wealth,
Though great his treasures may be,

Yet, guarding with care and counting by stealth,

What a captive wretch is he!

The vainly proud, who turn from the crowd,

And tremble lest they spoil

The feathers of the peacock plume

With a low plebeian soil;

Oh! joy is mine to see them strut

In their chosen narrow space;

They mount a perch, but ye need not search For a closer prison place.

The being of fitful curbless wrath

May fiercely stamp and rave;

He will call himself free, but there cannot be More mean and piteous slave;

For the greatest victim, the fastest bound,
Is the one who serves his rage:

The temper that governs will ever be found
A fearful torture cage.

Each breathing spirit is chastened down

By the hated or the dear;

The gentle smile or tyrant frown
Will hold ye in love or fear.

How much there is self-will would do,
Were it not for the dire dismay
That bids ye shrink, as ye suddenly think
Of "What will my neighbor say?"

Then pity me not; for mark mankind
Of every rank and age;

Look close to the heart, and ye'll ever find,
That each is a bird in a cage.