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THOMAS CHATTERTON.

BORN, 1752; DIED, 1770.

RESIGNATION.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys; To thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the power of human skill-
But what th' Eternal acts is right.

Oh teach me in the trying hour,

When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy pow'r,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but thee,
Encroaching sought a boundless sway;
Omniscience could the danger see,
And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain,

For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,

My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resign'd,

I'll thank th' inflicter of the blow, Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow.

WISDOM COMES TOO LATE IN OLD AGE.

The gloomy mantle of the night,

Which on my sinking spirits steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,
Which God, my East, my Sun reveals.

99

GEORGE CRABBE.

BORN, 1754; DIED, 1832.

WISDOM COMES TOO LATE IN OLD AGE.
WE'VE trod the maze of error round,
Long wand'ring in the winding glade;
And now the torch of truth is found,
It only shows us where we stray'd:
Light for ourselves, what is it worth,
When we no more our way can choose?
For others when we hold it forth,
They, in their pride, the boon refuse.

By long experience taught, we now
Can rightly judge of friends and foes;
Can all the worth of these allow,
And all the faults discern in those;
Relentless hatred, erring love,

We can for sacred truth forego;
We can the warmest friend reprove,

And bear to praise the fiercest foe: To what effect? our friends are gone, Beyond reproof, regard, or care, And of our foes remains there one,

The mild relenting thoughts to share?

Now 'tis our boast, that we can quell
The wildest passions in their rage,
Can their destructive force repel,
And their impetuous wrath assuage:

Ah! virtue, dost thou arm,

when now

This bold rebellious race are fled; When all these tyrants rest, and thou

Art warring with the mighty dead? Revenge, ambition, scorn, and pride, And strong desire, and fierce disdain, The giant brood by thee defied,

Lo! Time's resistless stroke hath slain.

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PRAYER FOR A FAMILY.

O THOU dread Power, who reign'st above,
I know thou wilt me hear;

When for this scene of peace and love
I make my prayer sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare!
To bless his little filial flock,
And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush;

Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

The beauteous, seraph sister-band,

With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,

Guide thou their steps alway!

THE SABBATH AS A DAY OF REST.

When soon or late they reach that coast,

O'er life's rough ocean driven, May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, A family in heaven!

101

JAMES GRAHAM E.

BORN, 1765; DIED 1811.

THE SABBATH AS A DAY OF REST.

BUT chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground

Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree:
But on this day, enbosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face, and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day:
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While, wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

SABBATH MORNING.

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,

The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms,--the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased: all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe; the toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;

And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

LITTLE CHILDREN BROUGHT TO JESUS, "SUFFER that little children come to me, Forbid them not." Embolden'd by his words, The mothers onward press; but finding vain Th' attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes To strangers' hands; the innocents alarm'd, Amid the throng of faces all unknown,

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