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Such scene as this; or stand as I do now

Mid proofs of love which evermore endures,— Nor tell this false frail world, he ne'er shall bow To its vain threats, or court its vainer lures: Alas! too seldom, ev'n the purest soul

With pow'r to scorn, and spring from its control.

PARK.

STANZAS.

Oh! brightly glides the silent stream,
Along the air no breeze is flowing;
Serenely shines the young moonbeam,
And all the eastern stars are glowing.
No living leaf's among the trees,
Save on the aspin's lightest bough;
The northern lights are o'er the seas,-
The mist sits on the dim hill's brow,-
And all is calm, but thee my Soul
Oh! all is calm but thee!

The birds have sung themselves to sleep;
Nor ev'n the forest owls are hooting:
While oft, along night's shadowy steep,
With silent glance the stars are shooting.
And sleep is in the city's bounds,
As well as on the dusky hill,

The curfew's voice no longer sounds,—
The hum of multitudes is still,-

And all at rest, but thee my Soul,
Oh! all at rest but thee!

Yet not far distant is the clime

Where this bright frame of things must sever,

And the disorder'd stream of Time

Leap o'er its bound, and break for ever

Then mountains shall be wrapt in flame,
The spheres conclude their ancient song;
Cities lie waste without a name,

Stars mingle in the ruin's throng,-
And all decay but thee my Soul,
Oh! all decay but thee!

PARK.

RACHEL

I will not weep, my boy, for thee,-
Though thou wert all the world to me!
I would not wish thee wak'd again,
To strive, like me, with want and pain.
I will but close that still bright eye,
And kiss that brow so pale and high,
And those pure lips, whose tones divine
Caught their first words, first pray'rs from mine
And fold thee to this bosom lone,

Which thou hast left as cold's thine own,-.
And thus, implore the God who takes,—
To help the heart thine absence breaks!
My boy, my boy,- this darken'd earth
Shall never more to me seem fair;
And I shall stand, 'mid all its mirth,

Like something which should not be there!
Yet 'twas to heav'n thy soul was borne,
And wherefore should thy parent mourn?
Perhaps in mercy, He reprov'd

The selfish zeal with which I lov'd.

I'll mourn no more! my God, thou know'st
The wealth my desolate heart has lost!
Oh! shield me from repining cares,
When other parents point to theirs ;
Bring back that light I now behold,-
Oh these lov'd features,-calm and cold,—

That deathless smile, which whispers me
He died in peace and joy with Thee!
My boy, my boy,-sustaining Pow'r
Thy sinking Mother well may crave,-
For welcome shall be that blest hour,
Which sees her share thy lonely grave!

PARK.

STANZAS TO.

The world's forgotten while I gaze on thee.
And, sweet as echoes from a lonely shore,
Thy pensive accents render back to me,
Feelings of bliss I deem'd for ever o'er.

On thee the broken hearted too might gaze,
And half forget that e'er they wish'd to die;
Nor sin itfelf,-from Earth could e'er erase
All Eden,-while thy pure soul lit that eye.
Pure as the dew, absorb'd in heaven's light,
Ere yet it mingles in the darker show'r,—
That soul contrasts my own to deeper night,
And makes me but an infant in thy pow'r.

Thy bloom is deathless. Neither time nor woe
Shall see thy Soul's unclouded beauty flit;
Nor age can ever dim those eyes, whose glow
Comes from a shrine which God himself hath lit!

PARK.

THE MYSTERY OF A FUTURE STATE, NO ARGU. MENT AGAINST IT.

STILL Seems it strange, that thou shouldst live for ever?

Is it less strange, that thou shouldst live at all?

This is a miracle; and that no more.
Who gave beginning, can exclude an end;
Deny thou art, then, doubt if thou shalt be.
A miracle, with miracles inclos'd,

Is man! and starts his faith at what is strange?
What less than wonders from the Wonderful?
What less than miracles from God can flow?
Admit a God-that mystery supreme!
That cause uncaus'd! all other wonders cease;
Nothing is marvellous for him to do:
Deny him-all is mystery besides.

We nothing know, but what is marvellous :
Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.
So weak our reason, and so great our God,
What most surprises in the sacred page,
Or full as strange, or stranger, must be true.
Faith is not reason's labor, but repose.

YOUNG.

THE CONTEMPLATIST: NIGHT PIECE.

THE Queen of Contemplation, Night,
Begins her balmy reign;
Advancing in their varied light

Her silver-vested train.

'Tis strange, the many marshall'd stars
That ride yon sacred round,
Should keep, among their rapid cars,
A silence so profound!

A kind, a philosophic calm

The cool creation wears!

And what day drank of dewy balm,
The gentle Night repairs.

Behind their leafy curtains hid,
The feather'd race how still!

How quiet now the gamesome kid
That gambol'd round the hill!

The sweets, that, bending o'er their banks,
From sultry Day declin'd,

Revive in little velvet ranks,

And scent the western wind.

The Moon, preceded by the breeze
That bade the clouds retire,
Appears among the tufted trees,
A Phoenix' nest on fire.

But soft-the golden glow subsides!
Her chariot mounts on high!
And now, in silver'd pomp she rides
Pale regent of the sky!

Where Time upon the wither'd tree
Hath carv'd the moral chair,
I sit from busy passions free,
And breathe the placid air.

The wither'd tree was once in prime;
Its branches brav'd the sky!
Thus, at the touch of ruthless Time,
Shall Youth and Vigour die.

I'm lifted to the blue expanse:
It glows serenely gay!

Come, Science, by my side advance,
We'll search the Milky Way.

Let us descend-The daring flight
Fatigues my feeble mind:

And science, in the maze of light,
Is impotent and blind.

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