Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,
Manifold motions making little speed,

And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.




O'ER wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm


And sun thee in the light of happy faces;

Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it,—so
Do these upbear the little world below
Of Education,-Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks, I see them grouped in seemly show,
The straitened arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that, touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow.
O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.

But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit and half-supplies;-
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to

Yet haply there will come a weary day,

When overtasked at length

Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.

Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting, does the work of both.

E colo descendit γνῶθι σεαυτόν.—Juvenal. Γνώθι σεαυτόν !—and is this the prime And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time!Say, canst thou make thyself?-Learn first that trade;

Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made. What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine


What is there in thee, Man, that can be known?—
Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought,

A phantom dim of past and future wrought,
Vain sister of the worm,-life, death, soul, clod—
Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God!

Beareth all things.—2 Cor. xiii. 7.

"GENTLY I took that which ungently came," And without scorn forgave;-Do thou the



wrong done to thee think a cat's eye spark

Thou would'st not see, were not thine own heart


Thy own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, Fear that the spark self-kindled from within, Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, Or smothered stifle thee with noisome air.

Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds,
And soon the ventilated spirit finds

Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenned,
Or worse than foe, an alienated friend,
A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side,
Think it God's message, and in humble pride
With heart of oak replace it; thine the gains-
Give him the rotten timber for his pains!



OW seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,

If any man obtain that which he merits,


any merit that which he obtains.


For shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain !

What would'st thou have a good great man obtain ?
Place-titles-salary-a gilded chain-

Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ?-
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man?-three treasures, love and

And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;And three firm friends, more sure than day and night

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.



NOW! it is gone. Our brief hours travel post,
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or
How ;-

But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
To dwell within thee-an eternal Now!



GOD'S child in Christ adopted,-Christ my all,— What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply,


Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call

The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father?-
Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee-
Eternal Thou, and everlasting we.

The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death:
In Christ I live in Christ I draw the breath
Of the true life!-Let then earth, sea, and sky
Make war against me! On my front I show
Their mighty master's seal. In vain they try
To end my life, that can but end its woe—
Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies?—
Yes! but not his 'tis Death itself there dies.


QUE linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt


Do morti ;-reddo cætera, Christe! tibi.


STOP, Christian Passer-by-Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.-
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;

That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise-to be forgiven for fame

He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!

9th November, 1833.

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