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TO A YOUNG FRIEND WITH A POCKET TESTA

MENT.

TAE 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 ne'er

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, “ 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,
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 il

lume;

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:

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