When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended, Sweet the hope, that To-morrow my wand'rings will

cease;

That at home then, with care sympathetic attended, I shall rest unmolested, and slumber in peace!

Or, when from the friends of my heart long divided,
The fond expectation with joy how replete !
That from far distant regions, by Providence guided,
To-morrow shall see us most happily meet!

When six days of labour, each other succeeding, With hurry and toil have my spirits oppress'd, What pleasure to think, as the last is receding, To-morrow will be a sweet sabbath of rest.

And when the vain shadows of life are retiring,
When life is fast fleeting, and death is in sight,
The Christian, believing, exulting, aspiring,
Beholds a To-morrow of endless delight!

*

MISS PARKEN.

WHERE IS THE SEA? *

SONG OF THE GREEK ISLANDER IN EXILE.

WHERE is the sea? I languish here
Where is my own blue sea?

With all its barks in fleet career,
And flags, and breezes free.

"The

* A Greek islander, being taken to the Vale of Tempe, and called upon to admire its beauty, only replied, sea where is it?

I miss that voice of waves which first
Awoke my childhood's glee;

The measur'd chime—the thundering burst
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtle's breath may rise,
Soft, soft your winds may be:

Yet

my

sick heart within me dies Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute
I hear the whispering tree;
The echoes of my soul are mute :
Where is my own blue sea?

MRS. HEMANS.

GOD GLORIFIED IN THE WORKS OF CREATION.

WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil;

When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's

toil;

When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood,

In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good.

The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade;

The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade,

The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on

his way,

The moon and stars, their Master's name in silent pomp display.

Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the

sky,

Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny? No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be,

Then, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honour Thee.

The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer fade,

The autumn droop in winter, the birds forsake the shade;

The winds be lull'd-the sun and moon forget their old decree,

But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord! will cling to Thee.

GELERT.*

HEBER.

THE spearman heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smil❜d the morn,
And many a brach, and many a hound,
Attend Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a louder cheer;
"Come, Gelert! why art thou the last,
Llewellyn's horn to hear?

*The story of this ballad is traditional in a village at the foot of Snowdon, where Llewellyn had a house; the greyhound, named Gelert was given him by his father-in-law, King John, in the year 1205. The place to this day is called Beth Gelert, or the grave of Gelert.

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam?

The flow'r of all his race!

So true, so brave, a lamb at home-
A lion in the chase!"

That day Llewellyn little lov'd
The chase of hart or hare,

And scant and small the booty prov'd;
For Gelert was not there

Unpleas'd, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gelert he espied,
Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gain'd the castle-door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound was smear'd with gouts of
His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gaz'd with wild surprise,
Unus'd such looks to meet ;
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd, and lick'd his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd,
(And on went Gelert too,)
And still where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his view!

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
The blood-stain'd cover rent,
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent,

He call'd his child-no voice replied;
He search'd-with terror wild;
Blood! blood! he found on ev'ry side,
But nowhere found the child!

gore,

"Monster! by thee my child's devour'd!" The frantic father cried,

And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plung'd in Gelert's side!-

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart ;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.

Arous'd by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumb'rer waken'd nigh;
What words the parent's joy can tell,
To hear his infant cry!

Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub boy he kiss'd.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread-
But the same couch beneath

Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewellyn's pain,
For now the truth was clear;
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe,
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.