TO A YOUNG FRIEND WITH A POCKET TESTAMENT.

THE charter of a nation's weal

Is dear to every patriot's heart,
And he that scorns its sacred seal

In Freedom's flame can share no part;

To young Desire, how choice the deed
That crowns the wishes of the heir;
How earnest, anxious, is his heed

That nought shall the bequest impair;

But dearer than the sacred scroll
That shows a rising nation free;
Dearer than riches to the soul,
Is the bequest of Deity.

This guides the weary wanderer's way,
This tells of a Redeemer's name ;
And he that on its truths doth stay,

Shall smile when worlds are wrapt in flame.

THE WRECK.

THE ocean frowned darkly, the tempest blew,
And the thunders heavily rolled;

The billow, late trembling with cerulean hue,
Now blackening in anger was scrolled.

'Twas sad, for borne on the echo of night,

Came the voice of the furious blast;
'Twas drear, for no ray lent its beacon light,
Save the lightning that fearfully past.

'Twas lonely, for nought could the wind-god descry,
Save the barque that breasted the foam;
In the moanings of midnight, the mariner's cry
Was heard, bewailing his home.

The fires of home burn bright, but neʼer
Shall they shine on the mariner's grave;
The smiles of affection, the prattlers are there,
But the father lies cold in the wave.

THY WILL BE DONE.

WHEN Sorrow casts its shade around,
And pleasure seems our course to shun;
When nought but grief and care is found,
'Tis sweet to say "Thy will be done."

When sickness lends its pallid hue

And every dream of bliss has flown, When quickly from the fading view Recede the joys that once were known,

The soul resigned will still rejoice,

Though life's last sand has nearly run; With humble faith and trembling voice, It still responds, 66 Thy will be done."

When called to mourn the early doom
Of one Affection held most dear,
While drops upon the closing tomb
The silent, the expressive tear;

Though love its tribute sad will pay,

And earthly streams of solace shun,
Still, still the gracious soul will say
In lowly dust, " Thy will be done."

Whatever, Lord, thou hast designed
To bring my soul to thee, its Trust;
If mercies or afflictions kind,

For all thy dealings, Lord, are just—

Take all! but grant in goodness free,
That love which ne'er thy stroke would shun,
Support this heart and strengthen me
To say in faith " Thy will be done."

THERE'S REST FOR THE WEARY.

O THOU that hast strayed in a pathway of sorrow,
Where joy is a stranger and peril is near;
With regret for the past and no hope for the morrow,
The sigh thy companion, thy solace a tear-

Though dark thy horizon, no star of day cheering, Though thy way, long and lonely, no pleasures illume;

Yet in faith turn thy vision to solace appearing,
For a ray of tranquillity shines from the tomb.

There's bliss yet in store, let reflection still cheer thee,

There's rest for the weary, unfading and true;

On the ocean of life, though the billows are near thee, Look afar where the haven of peace is in view!

'Tis free from the tempest that here hath long shrouded

Thy day, and the false light that shone to decoy ;
Its waters of life reflect skies still unclouded,
And Jesus the Lamb is its light and its joy.

'CHARLES H. PARKER.

PARKER! there are flowers for thee-
Friendship's hand shall wreathe them:
Parker! there are songs for thee-
Memory shall breathe them!
Hasten, maidens! to his tomb,
All that's lovely there reposes-
Strew the turf with Flora's bloom,
Strew the bed with early roses!

Thine was pleasure's halcyon morn,
Thine were skies unclouded;
Weep! for soon the smiling dawn
Was in darkness shrouded;

Thine was talent, worth was thine,
Thy bosom, feeling's portal-
Who shall weep?-at yonder shrine
Thou flourishest immortal.

There are tears when manhood sleeps
With corruption blended;

There is balm when friendship weeps
Genius, worth, ascended!

Yes, we wept, when thou didst not-
Shade! forgive the error;

Yea, we trembled, thou couldst not,
At the king of terror.

Farewell, farewell-Spirit! yet
Say, 'tis not forever;
Farewell, farewell!-'tis to meet,
Meet, where none can sever;
Skies shall vanish, earth decay-
Honour, Virtue, fly not;
Worlds on worlds shall roll away,
GENIUS, FEELING, DIE NOT!

CHILESE WARRIOR'S SONG.

HARK! comrades, hark! the trumpet's swell
Proclaims the note of war;

The death-drum roll and bugle tell
The din of battle far: