Each fluttering hope, each anxious fear, THE TIME TO WEEP. THERE is a time to laugh, When joy may raise his billows like the deep, Is it when vernal suns Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf, Is it when health and bloom Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth? Look not upon the brow That shows no furrow from the plough of years; The prattling child at play May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile; And read its sorrows, think you it would smile? Destruction has its home, And mirth is destined to some favorite spot, Thou hast thy dark abode In the lone desert-in the prison's cell- Thou art where friends are torn And held asunder by reluctant space ; And meeting friends-O, do they never mourn Thy inmates of the breast All other passions-are but weak and brief; Then let the trifler laugh, And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep, THE ECLIPSE. WITHOUT a shade, where beams the orient light? Where blooms the lovely rose without a thorn? Is there a day without succeeding night? Is there a man to no misfortune born? Is there a Sultan free from cares of state? Is there a sea unruffled by a storm, Or rock-fenced shore unbeaten by the main ? Is there a sky no tempests e'er deform, Or cloud that melts not into falling rain? E'en now the glorious Sun eclipsed I see, Deep sunk in shadows: lo! his beams decay: Why then should prosperous fortune favor me Through life's dim circle with a cloudless ray? Grant me, just God! a calm, unfetter'd mind, And humble heart, in all to thee resign'd. MORNING MEDITATIONS. IN sleep's serene oblivion laid, I've safely pass'd the silent night; Again I see the breaking shade, Again behold the morning light. New-born, I bless the waking hour; Once more, with awe, rejoice to be; O guide me through the various maze My doubtful feet are doom'd to tread; A deeper shade shall soon impend, A deeper sleep mine eyes oppress :- That deeper shade shall break away; Thy love the rapture of the skies. ON THE CUSTOM OF PLANTING FLOWERS ON THE GRAVES OF DEPARTED FRIENDS. To 'scape from chill misfortune's gloom, Since, in the tomb, our cares, our woes Why paint that scene of calm repose To die!-what is in death to fear? And, when anew that flame shall burn, May rise, a woodbine, o'er my urn, How would the gentle bosom beat, Fresh blooming in a fragrant flower! The love, that in my bosom glows, O, thou who hast so long been dear, With pensive soul, to sigh for me. Thy gentle hand will sweets bestow, And, when the rose-bud's virgin breath "ANGELS SENT TO MINISTER." AND is there care in heaven? and is there love There is; else much more wretched were the case Of men than beasts. But O! the exceeding grace Of highest God! that loves his creatures so, |