Go forward in thy Master's name,
The earth with a rich harvest waves,
The sickle bring, thy task-work claim,
And bear to Heav'n the golden sheaves.
Go forward in thy Master's name,
Till death thy bridal lamp shall trim; Then joyful quit thy toil-worn frame,
On life's last sigh-BREAKS HEAVEN'S FULL
SURE COMFORT.
CARE may my suffering heart oppress;
Wants may increase, and means grow less;
Riches and comfort may take wing,
And joy be dried up at its spring;
Hope too, may veil her starry brow,
And midst life's whirlwinds fade from view:
Health may give place to quick decline,
And weakness and disease be mine;
These limbs may press a dying bed,
By nurse or friend unvisited;
Relations too be all estranged,
And yearning love to hatred changed.
Sinking unheeded and alone,
All sympathy and solace gone:
Snatching with fevered hands at death—
And grappling hard for every breath!
Still midst the valley's deepest shade,
My soul shall triumph undismayed;
One thought alone all comfort gives,
"I know that my Redeemer lives !”.
After an absence of several years on account of ill-health.
ONCE more, my birth-place, yes! once more
I trace thy beauties o'er and o'er,
Once more-Alas, why starts the tear?
Can each known place be now less dear,
For when I used to gaze on thee
My heart was ever full of glee;
But now though every
charm appears
I cannot see thee-but with tears!
Oh, mem'ry, mem'ry, ever true-
How all the past springs to my view!
Unbounded feeling scorns control,
Hangs o'er each scene, and melts
How oft along those banks I've rov'd—
This was the walk I always lov'd!
There Tyne's dark waters murmur by,
And num'rous vessels meet the eye,
While lofty woods on either side
Wave gently o'er the rolling tide.
Such scenes perchance may tame appear
To him who daily wanders here,
Who never knew how absence chains
The heart unto its native plains,
Or how a wand'rer's bosom warms
To gaze on home, and all its charms.
I've ranged o'er Cumbria's towering hills,
And drank of her pure mountain rills;
Ullswater's banks I've rambled round,
And heard its mystic echoes sound;
On Derwentwater's trembling breast
I've seen the sun delighted rest;
Have rov'd by beauteous Windermere,
Its winding shores, and waters clear ;
By Thames' majestic tide have strayed;
And Windsor's famed retreats surveyed:
But, Oh, where'er my footsteps roam,
I find no charms to vie with home!
And now, how pleasing 'tis to dwell
'Mid scenes in boyhood loved so well,
To linger with affection's gaze
On the retreats of earlier days,
And pause beneath the self-same tree
That in my childhoood waved o'er me!
Life's earliest scenes I now survey,
But my companions-where are they?-
No more, no more, my soul's deep sigh
Too well proclaims the sad reply;
Oh, some are in yon Church yard lying,
Long have the winds been o'er them sighing,
For ev'n the stones that bear their name,
With moss o'ergrown, scarce seem the same;
And one-my Henry, where art thou?
Where glows thy ardent spirit now?
Art thou on India's distant coast,
Or on the wide Atlantic toss'd,
Or is thy mortal struggle o'er?
My heart forebodes—we meet no more!
Alas, the friends I prized the most
Were ever those I soonest lost.
And Mary too-Oh, barb'rous Death!
How couldst thou twine thy cypress wreath
'Midst those dear locks, which clustering hung
Around a brow so fair and
Like the wild harp,* when Zephyr sighs
And calls forth all its melodies,
Her charms woke transport through my frame,"
And my heart thrill'd with Mary's name.
Oh, she was fair, and well might seem
A raptured Poet's Muse and Theme,
Her eye was of heaven's deepest blue,
Her cheeks excelled the morning's hue,
Her face with soft expression shone,
Her voice was like that harp's sweet tone
When Zephyr breaths along the strings,
With summer's fragrance on his wings!
Alas, sweet maid, with aching breast
I linger round thy place of rest,
I gaze upon the little mound,
With blue-bell and with daisy crowned,
And sadly wish that I could share
The tranquil home of peace that's there.
Ah! like the snow drop pure and mild,
Upon life's early spring she smiled,
But ere the summer fervours come
The earth she graced becomes her tomb,
And the worm's dwelling-Beauty's Home!
Oh, Life! the wretch who trusts in thee
Clings to the deadly Upas tree,
Sweet is thy morn with promise beaming,
A thousand splendours round it streaming;
Heaven seems to mix with earth awhile,
And triumph in its virgin smile;
|