Thou art not penitent, alas!

The world hath wounded thee, And thou in anguish ill concealed Art fain to turn and flee.

Thou hast in Pleasure's maddening cup -
That cup too deeply quaffed-
The pearl of thy existence thrown,
And drained it at a draught!
Unmourned and unrepressed, behold
Life's energies decline-

Worn, wasted in unholy fires :
And what reward was thine?

The world once worshipped, spurns thee now,
Rejects thee-casts thee hence-
And thou art nursing injured pride,
And dream'st of penitence!

Let but the temptress smile again,
Thou wouldst her influence own,
Forgetting in that charmed embrace
The evil thou hadst known.

Thou bringest not a broken heart
To offer at the throne,.

Of Him who has in love declared
The broken heart his own.

Thy heart is hard-thou who hast long
The path of error trod ;.

Deem'st thou that weak and wicked thing
An offering meet for God?

Go, if thou canst, when Flattery's voice.
Is stealing on thine ear,

In tones so sweet an angel might,

Forgetting, turn to hear

Go, rather list the voice within,
And bow beneath the rod,
And recognise with soul subdued
The chastening of thy God!

Go to the wretch who may have wrought
Irreparable ill,

To thee, or those more deeply dear,

More fondly cherished still;

Approach, though it may seem like death
To look on him, and live,
And while Revenge is wooing thee,
Say firmly, "I forgive."

Go, when to deep idolatry
Thy heart is darkly prone-

That heart whose steadfast hope should still
Be fixed on God alone:

Go, rend the image from its shrine,
And hurl the idol hence,

And bring it bleeding back to Him:
This-this is penitence!

CHEERFULNESS.

A GENTLE heritage is mine,
A life of quiet pleasure;

My heaviest cares are but to twine,
Fresh votive garlands for the shrine

Where 'bides my blossom's treasure;
I am not merry, nor yet sad,

My thoughts are more serene than glad.

I have outlived youth's feverish mirth,
And all its causeless sorrow :

My joys are now of nobler birth,
My sorrows too have holier birth,

And heavenly solace borrow;
So, from my green and shady nook,
Back on my by-past life I look.

The past has memories sad and sweet,
Memories still fondly cherished,
Of love that blossomed at my feet,
Whose odours still my senses greet,

E'en though the flowers have perished:

Visions of pleasure passed away

That charmed me in life's earlier day.

The future, Isis-like, sits veiled,

And none her mystery learneth;

Yet why should the bright cheek be paled,
For sorrows that may be bewailed
When time our hopes inureth?

Come when it will, grief comes too soon-
Why dread the night at highest noon?

I would not pierce the mist that hides
Life's coming joy or sorrow;
If sweet content with me abides
While onward still the present glides,
I think not of the morrow;
It may bring griefs-enough for me
The quiet joy I feel and see.

THE HEARTH OF HOME.

THE storm around my dwelling sweeps,
And while the boughs it fiercely reaps,
My heart within a vigil keeps,

The warm and cheering hearth beside;
And as I mark the kindling glow
Brightly o'er all its radiance throw,
Back to the years my memory flows,
When Rome sat on her hills in pride;
When every stream, and grove, and tree,
And fountain had its deity.

The hearth was then, 'mong low and great, Unto the Lares consecrate :

The youth, arrived to man's estate,

There offered up his golden heart;
Thither, when overwhelmed with dread,
The stranger still for refuge fled-
Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed,
Till he might fearless thence depart:
And there the slave, a slave no more,
Hung reverent up the chain he wore.

Full many a change the hearth hath known;
The Druid fire, the curfew's tone,
The log that bright at yule-tide shone,
The merry sports of Hallowe'en :
Yet still where'er a home is found,
Gather the warm affections round,
And there the notes of mirth resound-
The voice of wisdom heard between:
And welcomed there with words of grace,
The stranger finds a resting place.

Oh, wheresoe'er our feet may roam,
Still sacred is the hearth of home;
Whether beneath the princely dome,
Or peasant's lowly roof it be,
For home the wanderer ever yearns;
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns,
Like to the wife of old, he turns
Fondly the eyes of memory:

Back where his heart he offered first-
Back where his fair, young hopes he nursed.

My humble heart though all disdain,
Here may I cast aside the chain
The world hath coldly on me lain-

Here to my Lares offer up

The warm prayer of a grateful heart:
Thou that my household Guardian art,
That does to me thine aid impart,

And with thy mercy fill'st my cup-
Strengthen the hope within my soul,
Till I in faith may reach the goal!

TO MARY.

I'LL think of thee,-when morn her gems is flinging,
In diamond showers, o'er the emerald sea;

And the tiny birds their matin hymns are singing,
In strains of wild and thrilling melody;
When smiling Nature wakes from sweet repose,
And the fickle zephyr woos the blushing rose.

I'll think of thee,-when the queen of night is sleeping
In tranquil beauty, on the ocean's heaving breast;

And the star of eve, its lonely vigil keeping,

In mimic glory dances o'er the wavelet's foamy crest; When no storm-clouds are mirrored in the sparkling waves, And the fierce winds slumber in their secret caves.

I'll think of thee,-when summer's glowing wreath hath faded;
And autumn's pale frost hath chilled the starry bloom
Of the fragile gems that once the broad magnolia shaded
From the noontide's scorching ray; their doom

Is sealed, they sleep in darkness in the wild-wood shade;
And autumn mourns o'er the wreck her breezy fingers made.

I'll think of thee,-when joy's bright sun is beaming,
In radiant glory, o'er life's tempestuous sea;

And the wind-harp's silvery tone, heard in my youthful dreaming Comes back in murmured melody to me;

When the halcyon hours float by on time's glittering wings,
And memory from the past her garnered treasure brings.

I'll think of thee,-when o'er my soul is stealing
The ebon shades of care and deep distress;
And through the chambers of my heart is pealing
The farewell tones of hope and happiness;
When all is woe and wretchedness with me,
And my fettered spirit longeth to be free.

LINES TO

O! FOR a drop from Lethe's stream,
An offering to my burning heart;
Which through the dim perspective sees
The hour when we are doomed to part.

Ay, we must part! along the deep,
A sigh, a prayer, have come to me;
They call the truant wanderer back
To rest-if rest there is for thee.

I would forget that I must part
From scenes I love so fondly now;
But memory has entwined a wreath,
And placed it fluttering on my brow.

Soon shall I breathe the still, warm air,
That fans the soft retreat of flowers,
Where genial sunbeams ever stay
To while away the tedious hours.

Winter, with cold and withering form,
Invades no spot of that fair clime;
No blasting winds rush o'er the fields,
Dispersing sweets or summer time.

Soft o'er their streams the south wind moves,
With perfumes fed, and breath of flowers,

Inhaled in Cashmere's scented vale,

The loveliest of terrestrial bowers.