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Sorrow with me hath done its worst;
She whom I love-her face is wan,-
Yea, I have given to the dust
The babe my bosom doated on:
Yet, as upon its clay-cold bed
We wept, sweet voices whispered, how
Gladly we'll meet, long ere hath fled
One Hundred Years from Now.

'Tis Nature's law—then why repine
That man should tread a thorny way?
The hopes that now thus darkly shine,
Shall yet break out to perfect Day ;
And O, my spirit! this thy shield
Shall be, when bade by griefs to bow-
The mystery will be revealed
One Hundred Years from Now.

ODE FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE

BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL.

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Bid ye the column tell

That on this place of graves, The men of valour fell,

Who scorned to live as slaves : God—whose sublime decree,

Speaks elements to rest, Gave victory to the free,

And safety to the oppressed.

Ghosts of the glorious dead!

Our venerated sires !
Your offspring bless, and shed

On them your sacred fires :
At this auspicious hour,

On this devoted spot, Glory, we feel thy power

What bosom owns it not !

Rear ye the lettered Rock!

What though it pass away, Though marble ne'er can mock

Resistless Time's decay, The Patriot's deed is known

To archives of the sky; Emblazoned on the throne,

The record cannot die.

PRAYER WRITTEN DURING A PESTILENCE.

On Thou Unseen, Almighty God!

That rul'st in power alone ; Afflicted by thy righteous rod,

We come before the throne.

And thou wilt never bid “depart”

When our frail offerings rise ;
For Thou hast said, the broken heart

Is thy own sacrifice.

With earnest tears we intercede

For thy paternal care ;
And, self-abased, do humbly plead

In penitential prayer.

Our city weeps in lowly dust,

Bowed by the hand Divine ;
And still she owns thy dealings just,

For judgment, Lord, is thine.

Yet while Thou rid'st in frowning mien,

And hold'st the balance true, Oh God! while thy dread scourge is seen,

Let pity triumph too.

Though justice is thy diadem,

And wrath is thine alone,
Yet Mercy shines, the brightest gem

Around thy glorious throne,

THERE IS A HARP.

THERE is a harp whose thrilling sound
Is heard among the choirs above ;
'Mid the blue arch its notes resound,
And heaven repeats the strains of love.

'Tis when some spirit from these spheres,
On viewless pinions wings its way,
And pure, before the throne appears,
In robes of everlasting day.

Hark! the glad shout of sacred joy,
In choral numbers loud and long :
The angelic hosts their harps employ,
The cherub wakes his noblest song.

SIXTEEN.

LADY! while gaily ope's on you
The world's alluring witching smile ;
While flowers of every form and hue
Spring forth, your pathway to beguile,-
O Lady, in the bursting dawn
Of hope, may real bliss be seen,
And bland contentment gild your morn,
And peace be yours at fond SIXTEEN.

Life's but a flower, how frail the bloom !
It charms without, within is there
The worm thats nourished to consume,
The foe of beauty, baneful Care:
Far from your bosom be the cares
That lurk with cold forbidding mien,
And, o kind Heaven! avert the snares
That folly spreads for gay SIXTEEN.

Though cloudless suns for thee may rise,
And bright the joys that for thee shine,
O who may tell these beauteous skies,
These cloudless suns shall long be thine ?
Yet long may these your day illume,
And may no storm, with rigour keen,
Assail the flower that loves to bloom
On the fair cheek of sweet SIXTEEN.

The fairy form must lose its grace,
The speaking eye must know decay,
Time will each youthful charm efface,
As evening's robe obscures the day ;
Yet while meek candour loves to dwell
Those lips upon, and truth is seen,
Lady, these graces long shall tell
The fadeless charms of bright SIXTEEN.

Affection cheers our pathway wild,
Yet oft it dies, alas ! how soon,-
The star that on Love's morning smiled,
Shines coldly on its dying noon ;

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