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TO A YOUNG FRIEND WITH A POCKET TESTA
TAE charter of a nation's weal
Is dear to every patriot's heart,
In Freedom's flame can share no part;
To young Desire, how choice the deed
That crowns the wishes of the heir ;
That nought shall the bequest impair;
But dearer than the sacred scroll
That shows a rising nation free ;
Is the bequest of Deity.
This guides the weary wanderer's way,
This tells of a Redeemer's name;
Shall smile when worlds are wrapt in flame.
The ocean frowned darkly, the tempest blew,
And the thunders heavily rolled;
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 ;
Was heard, bewailing his home.
The fires of home burn bright, but ne'er
Shall they shine on the mariner's grave;
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, “ 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 TAOU that hast strayed in a pathway of sorrow,
Though dark thy horizon, no star of day cheering, Though thy way, long and lonely, no pleasures il
Yet in faith turn thy vision to solace appearing,
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:
Memory shall breathe them!
All that's lovely there reposes
Strew the bed with early roses !
Thine was pleasure's halcyon morn,
Thine were skies unclouded;
Was in darkness shrouded ;
Thine was talent, worth was thine,
Thy bosom, feeling's portal
Thou flourishest immortal.
There are tears when manhood sleeps
With corruption blended ;
Genius, worth, ascended !
Shade! forgive the error ;
At the king of terror.
Farewell, farewell—Spirit! yet
Say, 'tis not forever ;
Meet, where none can sever ;
Honour, Virtue, fly not;
GENIUS, FEELING, DIE NOT!
CHILESE WARRIOR'S SONG.
HARK! comrades, hark! the trumpet's swell
Proclaims the note of war ;
The din of battle far: