CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

"AND HE AROSE AND REBUKED THE WIND, AND SAID UNTO THE SEA, PEACE, BE STILL.

NIGHT mantles Judea but the star has not shone

On thy bosom, Galilee,—

The tempest is loud, yet the barque alone

Is labouring o'er the sea:

The Master, entranced, rides the turbulent wave, O say, shall its depths yield the Godhead a grave?

Heeds not the Redeemer the thunder's increase?
Shall he not the proud whirlwind disarm?
For see, he has gone to the slumbers of peace,
With Jesus all is calm.

By his waves and his tempest the Maker is tost;
In his innocent dreams the Sleeper is lost.

The disciples in terror have sprung from their rest, Yet vain is the shipmen's skill,

Till aroused He of Nazareth proclaims the behest: "Ye billows, peace, be still!"

The billows obedient have sunk on the shore,
The sea sleeps in murmurs, the tempest is o'er.

O thus, when my soul on life's ocean is tost,
That sea without a calm—

When faith shines but dimly each hope is lost,
And all is rude alarm:

When the waves of remembrance in mountain

wreaths roll,

When the billows of sin have gone over my soul:

At the Cross of the Sufferer while humbled to weep,
I mourn my stubborn will;

Do thou, in compassion, rebuke the deep
And whisper "Peace! be still!"

The billows obedient will die on the shore,

The sea sleep in murmurs, the tempest be o'er.

'TIS WELL THAT YE REJECT THE CUP.

"TIs well that ye reject the cup

Whose dregs are poison all;

Nor round your hearth the beverage sup,
Nor at the banquet hall.

The foaming draught ye dash away
From temperate lips-'twere well

Could ye the thousands check, who stray
Madly, unto that hell.

O God! the generous youth to see,
Their country's truest pride;
Who to that 'whelming vortex flee
And perish in the tide.

O God! the maniac-tribe to know,
That swell the guilty scroll;
And writhe 'neath self-inflicted wo,
The vulture of the soul.

Sword, flesh thy yet unsated blade;
Of thousands drink the gore;
Yet hath the cup inglorious laid

In death, its thousands more.
Arrow of night, seek out the host,
And bid its thickest bow;

Yet shall that chalice trophies boast,
Pestilence, more than thou.

Beware! nor yonder goblet grasp,
Now sparkling to the brim:

Though pearls of price 'twere thine to clasp,
Though gems shone round the rim.

The purple juice mantling aright,

That far its fragrance flings

Avoid it 'tis to reason's sight
A serpent armed with stings.

DEATH OF THE PATRIOTS, JOHN ADAMS AND
THOMAS JEFFERSON, JULY 4, 1826.

THE trump of war rings loudly, yet
Burns brighter Glory's flame;
Where the Sons of Liberty have met
To seal the scroll of fame.

They pause! that band-it is not fear
That bids the life-pulse start;

O, no! the high and resolved are here,
And those of the valorous heart.

They shrink not from the unequal fray,
These noble, godlike men;

And yet, O heaven! to thrust away
Cords that bind not again-

Now cheer ye! cheer ye to the strife!
For God the lot is cast;

To arms! to arms! the combat's rife,
The Rubicon is passed.

Years that have flown, ye gave to birth Deeds of the lofty Brave;

A nation free among the earth,

Sits queen on Slavery's grave. And those renowned, her Men of might, That battled, toiled, and bled, Have gone in the ray of Victory's light To join the martyr-dead.

Blest is their lot, no common mould
Inwraps the veteran's form;
He slumbers, gathered to that fold
Where beats not Sorrow's storm.
But ye, hoar Sires! 'twas fit that ye

Thus hallowed your Proud Day,
When in thunders of that Jubilee
Your spirits passed away.

Yea, while our anthems rolled afar,
And our banners floated high,
Glory sublimely wreathed the car
That bore ye to the sky.

Released, ye wait in flesh not now
The spirit-stirring call;

O, God, 'tis lofty thus to bow,

'Tis glorious thus to fall.

TOUCH not that gift! it is hallowed to feeling,
To the virtues of him that in glory has fled;
An offering, a nation's emotion revealing,
'Tis sacred to fame, it belongs to the dead.

Lay it, ye worthy, with hearts proudly beating,
On altars lit brightly with gratitude's fires;
Bless to his memory the home of kind greeting,
Preserve to his offspring the hall of his sires.

He has fled in his griefs, even now to that spirit,
Haply it lingers around us in love—
Give reverence ye, who this moment inherit
Blessings bequeathed by the sainted above.

Ye unrevealed ages! eternize the glory,
That already a star on your vestibule glows;
Men! letter the rock with the deeds of his story,
Honour the spot where his ashes repose.

* Occasioned by the proposition that the Jefferson Fund should, in consequence of the death of the patriot, be appropriated to other than the original design of liquidating his debts.