MRS. SUSAN HUNTINGTON.

BORN 1791. DIED 1823.

Written after reading Buchanan's Christian Researches.

WHEN I on fancy's pinion ride,
Far o'er the ocean's rolling tide,
To India's burning shore,

Where the chain'd soul in thraldom sleeps,
And Satan his dark empire keeps,

My eye a pitying torrent weeps,

Of grief unfelt before.

There, whelm'd in superstition's night,
Unknown the Gospel's cheering light,
The fetter'd spirit lies;

Left to dim Nature's twinkling ray,
Which can but feeble light convey,
It sinks, to doubt and sin a prey,
Nor longs, nor seeks, to rise.

Yet reason there, a Sovereign owns,
But, stupid, bows to stocks and stones,
(A path she's ever trode.)
Reason reduced, can never climb
To truths so glorious, so divine,
As in the sacred Gospel shine,
Without the aid of God.

And say, O Christian! can you view
The wretched Heathen's guilt and woe,
Nor drop one pitying tear?

Think-that, though sunk in sin and shame,
On you the Indian has a claim;
He bears a brother's sacred name:

Behold him! comfort, cheer.

Yes, let the Gospel's gladdening voice
His realms illume, reform, rejoice.

Go, tell him Jesus reigns:

Bid him forsake his impious rites;
Tell him that God his love invites;
Tell him in MERCY He delights,

And waits to break his chains.

And think, how high your joy will rise,
When, throned in bliss above the skies,
You meet the ransomed throng,
And see, with song of holiest fire,
The Indian foremost in the choir!
How will it raise your rapture higher,
And swell your joyous song?

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On the Death of an Infant Son.

АH! where is he, with the eyes so blue,
And the shining yellow hair,

And the lofty brow, still serenely mild,
And the cheek so angel fair?

Oh, spirit loved! who, like vision of light,
Stole across my path, in that fearful night
When the storm was high, and thy sire far away,
And smiled through the darkness,-how short was thy
stay!

Like fleeting cloud, that by tempest is driven

Athwart the stormy sky,

Or dew-drop that's wept, at close of even,

From nature's humid eye.

That cheek was fair; but 'tis deadly pale,
The last living tint has fled;

And the cherish'd form, on this bosom that slept,
In the damp tomb rests its head.

Soon was finish'd thine errand to this distant shore,
And thy mission of love, dearest babe, soon was o'er.
In my soul's saddest hour of distress wert thou given,
To assuage the deep anguish, then vanish to heaven.

Though oblivion's dews settle fast on thee, now;
There's one heart shall forget thee, never;
And the stroke that shall end all my sorrows below,
Shall unite us again for ever.

LORD BYRON.

BORN 1788. DIED 1824.

The Destruction of the Assyrians.

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd on the face of the foe as he pass'd,
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

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"We wept when we remembered Zion.”

OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell;
Mourn where their God hath dwelt, the godless dwell!

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice

The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice?

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest!
The wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah! no; Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see! they would pin him below

To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah! no; she forgets The charms which she wielded before: Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas! 'tis in vain,
Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin lid.

To the Pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board,

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah! no; they have wither'd and died,
Or fled with the spirit above,-

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love or fear;
Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only

one here.