Green, now, the grass waves o'er his head, And tall the tomb-weeds grow.

Along life's road no parent's hand
My homeless footsteps led;
No mother's arm in sickness soothed,
And raised my throbbing head.

But other hearts, Lord! thou hast warmed
With tenderness benign;

And in the stranger's eye. I mark
The tear of pity shine.

The stranger's hand by thee is moved
To be the orphan's stay;

And better far, the stranger's voice
Hath taught us how to pray.

Thou putt'st a new song in our mouth,

A song of praise and joy,

0

may we not our lips alone,
But hearts, in praise employ !

To Him who little children took,
And in his bosom held;

And blessing them with looks of love,
Their rising fears dispelled;

To Him, while flowers bloom on the bank,

Or lambs sport on the lea;
While larks with morning hymns ascend,
Or birds chant on the tree;

To Him let every creature join
In prayer, and thanks, and praise:
Infants, their little anthems lisp;
Age, hallelujahs raise!

VERSES

Grahame.

BY THE LATE PRINCESS AMELIA,

DAUGHTER OF GEORGE III.

Unthinking, idle, wild, and young,

I laughed, and talked, and danced, and sung,
And, proud of health, of freedom vain,
Dreamt not of sorrow, care, or pain;
Concluding, in those hours of glee,
That all the world was made for me.

But when the days of trial came,
When sickness shook this trembling frame,

When folly's gay pursuits were o'er,
And I could dance and sing no more,
It then occurred how sad 'twould be
Were this world only made for me.

HEAVEN.

Weep, mourner, for the joys that fade, Like evening lights away;

For hopes that like the stars decayed,

Have left thy mortal clay;

Yet clouds of sorrow will dispart,

And brilliant skies be given,

And though on earth the tear may start, Yet bliss awaits the holy heart

Amid the bowers of heaven,

Where songs of praise are ever sung,
To angel-harp, by angel-tongue.

Weep, mourner, for the friends that pass

Into the lonesome grave,

As breezes sweep the withered grass
Along the whelming wave;

Yet though thy pleasure may depart,
And darksome days be given,
And lonely though on earth thou art,
Yet bliss awaits the holy heart,
When friends rejoin in heaven;
Where streams of joy glide ever on,
Around the Lord's eternal throne.

VOL. I.

LINES,

Knox.

Written by Lord Byron, a few weeks before his Death, on the blank leaf of a Bible.

Within this awful volume lies
The mystery of mysteries;
Happiest they of human race
To whom their God has given grace
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, to force the way;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Than read to doubt, or read to scorn.

ON PRAYER.

I.

What various hindrances we meet

In coming to a mercy-seat!

Yet who that knows the worth of prayer,
But wishes to be often there ?

II.

Prayer makes the darkened cloud withdraw, Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw,

Gives exercise to faith and love,

Brings every blessing from above.

III.

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight; Prayer makes the Christian's armour bright; And Satan trembles when he sees

The weakest saint upon his knees.

IV.

While Moses stood with arms spread wide, Success was found on Israel's side;

But when through weariness they failed,
That moment Amalek prevailed.