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L

THE HAVEN.

WHEN the dangerous rocks are pass'd,—
When the threatening tempests cease,—
O! how sweet to rest at last

In a silent port of peace!

Though that port may be unknown,

Though no chart its name may bear,
Brightly beams its light on one,

Bless'd to find his refuge there.

Life! thou art the storm-the rock;
Death! the friendly port thou art ;—
Haven from the tempest's shock,
Welcoming the wanderer's heart.

Yes, I see from yonder tomb
Promised peace and tranquil rest :
Death! my haven! I shall come;
Soothe me on my mother's breast!

GRAVE OF A CHRISTIAN.

THERE is a spot-a lovely spot,
Embosom'd in a valley's dell;
The eye of splendor marks it not,
Nor travellers of its beauties tell.

The hazel forms a green bower there;
Beneath, the grassy covering lies;
And forest flowers, surpassing fair,
Mingle their soft and lovely dyes.

Morn decks the spot with many a gem,
And the first break of eastern ray
Lights up a spark in each of them

That seems to hail the opening day.

When first that beam of morning breaks,
The fancy here a smile may see,
Like that when first the saint awakes
At dawn of immortality.

The free birds love to seek the shade,
And here they sing their sweetest lays;
Meet requiem!-He who there is laid
Breathed his last dying voice in praise.

And here the villager will stray,
What time his daily work is done,
When evening sheds the western ray
Of sweet departing summer sun.

On lovely lips his name is found,

And simple hearts yet hold him dear;
The Patriarch of the village round,-
The Pastor of the chapel near.

The holy cautions that he gave,

The prayers he breathed,-the tears he wept,Yet linger here, though in his grave

Through many a year the saint has slept.

And oft the villager has said,—
"O, I remember, when a child,

He placed his hand upon my head,

And bless'd me then, and sweetly smiled.

"'T was he that led me to my God,
And taught me to obey his will:
The holy path which he has trod,
O! be it mine to follow still."

GRAVE OF THE RIGHTEOUS! surely there
The sweetest bloom of beauty is:

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I sleep in couch as fair,
And with a hope as bright as his!

THE HERMIT.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the
grove ;-

'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ;

No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man:—

"Ah, why thus abandon'd to darkness and wo,
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew thy sad lay:

Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to

mourn:

O soothe him, whose pleasures, like thine, pass away—

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Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

Now, gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon, half extinguish'd, her crescent displays:

But lately I mark'd, when, majestic on high,

She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again : But man's faded glory no change shall renew! Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"T is night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn:

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save: But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn! O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!"

'T was thus, by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me and sorrow behind:

"O pity, great Father of light,” then I cried, "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee!

Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride;

From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free."

And darkness and doubt are now flying away,-
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn;
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth, Love, and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are
blending,

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

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