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God's handy-work, the world of waters, where
The elements disport, and He is seen
In strength pavilioned, on His cloudy car,
Riding the wild night-storm, and humbling this ter-
The morning smiles, the ocean billow sleeps,-
But where's the tall ship that late ploughed its breast,
The gallant Albion ?-Pity, shuddering weeps ;
No more,-only that on the dark wave's crest
That night, at times, were dimly seen, 'tis said,
Some forms of misery, whose hands in vain
Were lift imploring,—they sank with the dead, -
And piteous cries and shrieks were heard,-'twas
Yet Thou,* the child of feeling, shalt receive
The tribute of warm tears. Around thy name
Mercy will twine her never-fading wreath,
Fairer than trophies won by heirs of fame.
Thou gavest what ocean had denied, a shroud,
With rites of sepulture. I am yet proud
Of mankind, for thy sake; God's benison
On thee!—the deed shall live when thy sand, too,
* Jacob MARK, Esq. U. S. consul at Kinsale.
'Tis sweet in seclusion to look on the past,
In life's sober twilight recal the day-dream;
To mark the smooth sunshine and skies overcast,
That chequered our course as we moved down the
For there yet is a charm in retracing the morn When the star of our pleasure beamed brightly
awhile, And the tear that in infancy watered the thorn, By the magic of memory is changed to a smile.
How faint is the touch, no perspective bestowing,
Nor scenery in nature's true colours arrayed ;
How chaste is the landscape, how vividly glowing,
Where the warm tint of fancy is mellowed by shade!
With cheerfulness then, Retrospection! I'll greet
thee, Though the night-shade be twined in thy bouquet
of sweets, In the eve of reflection this bosom will meet thee, While to the dear vision of childhood it beats.
And the heart that in confidence seeks its review,
And finds the calm impress of innocence there,
With rapture anticipates happiness new,
In hope yet to come, it possesses a share.
If in climes of the blessed affections unite,
And those once dissevered are blended in love ;
If thoughts of the past quicken present delight,
Retrospection adds bliss to the spotless above.
'Tis night; from beauteous Palestine
The song and minstrelsy have flown,
'Tis night; the priest forsakes the shrine,
The holy temple sits alone.
Gone is the boasting Pharisee,
The prayer and daily alms are o'er,
The unbelieving Sadducee
Offends the sacred court no more.
Hushed are the strains that bade rejoice,
Silent the weary and opprest;
Lost is the maid and matron's voice
For Solyma hath sunk to rest.
But where is Jesus? where is He
The man afflicted and forlorn, -
Co-equal with the Deity,
The object of rebuke and scorn ?
No follower of the Lord is here ;
For Him no eyes their vigils keep ;
They that have mingled tear with tear,
Forget their woes in reckless sleep.
Closed is each ear to human moan,
Save His, who wakes to bitter care ;
Hushed is each grief, but His alone
Who weeps for man in midnight prayer.
THE BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT.
What story to posterity's dull ear
Tells Egypt's pyramid ? Only that men
Some while appeared on God's fair heritage,
As crouching slaves—the million spawned for one-
And he, the poor ambitious fool, that fain
Would live forever, yet unknowing how,
With blood and sweat hewed out this sepulchre-
Oblivion's den; and shrouded is his name
So deep in the cursed tomb, that toiling Age
Has lost its faintest shadow. Not such thou,
Proud Rock! by sons of Independence reared,
Sculptured by Immortality. Rear high
Thy consecrated head! for thou art based
Upon no common earth ; the blood and dust
Of martyrs are beneath thee; on their bones
Stand thou !—forever stand, and tell of Glory.
Forever?-aye, for thus should virtue live:
Live, Monument! though silent centuries heap
On thee their dust—though at fell Ruin's touch,
Thou crumblest-fallest,—not the cenotaph
Of mightiest kings, shall be so eloquent,
Or seem so precious as one stone of thee.
O why should care disturb thy breast,
And anxious hopes invade?
These cares can never yield thee rest,
These brilliant hopes shall fade:
Say, is this world to thee so dear?
Say, traveller, “What dost thou here ?”
Why shouldst thou prize these fleeting joys,
And build thy heaven on earth?
Ah, soon each false enjoyment cloys,
And vain is empty mirth ;
Say, can they bring true pleasure near ?
Immortal! say, “What dost thou here?”
Why shouldst thou deem thy lot unkind,
When sorrow's boisterous flood Has closed around thy ’nighted mind,
But brought thee near to God? Is He not all ? Is heaven not dear? Say, weeping soul, “What dost thou here?”