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Or peace to man, or judgments dire,

Stranger of heav'n, I bid thee hail !

Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?

Why sought these polar paths again? From wilderness of glowing spheres,

To fling thy vesture o'er the wain?

And when thou climb'st the milky way,

And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray,

Through wilds of yon empyreal blue.

Oh, on thy rapid prow to glide !

To sail the boundless skies with thee ! And plough the twinkling stars aside,

Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea.

To brush the embers from the sun ;

The icicles from off the pole ; Then far to other systems run,

Where other moons and planets roll!

Stranger of heav'n! O let thine

eye Smile on a wild enthusiast's dream : Eccentric as thy course on high,

And airy as thine ambient dream.

And long, long may thy silver ray

Our northern vault at eve adorn ; Then, wheeling to the east away,

Sweep the grey portals of the morn !—ÃOGG.


Composed by the late BISHOP OF CALCUTTA, and always sung on

New Year's Day, by his desire.

As o'er the past my mem’ry strays

Why heaves the secret sigh ?
'Tis that I mourn departed days,

Still unprepared to die.

The world and worldly things beloved

My anxious thoughts employed ;
And time unhallowed, unimproved,

Presents a fearful void.

Yet, Holy Father ! wild despair

Chase from my lab’ring breast;
Thy grace it is which prompts the pray'r,

That grace can do the rest.

My life's brief remnant all be thine !

And when thy sure decree
Bids me this fleeting breath resign,

O speed my soul to Thee!

Life; a poem.

The morning arises, the noon fleets away,
The shadows of eve spread their mantle around ;
So life speedeth onward and closes its day,
As Death deals his arrows in stillness profound.

Yet the pilgrim of life deems his exit afar,
Nor dreams of that moment so dreary and cold,
When Death all his visions shall suddenly mar,
And bid him return to the earth as his fold.

The sun shines above him, there's music around ; The flow'rs are in bloom, and the earth is as blest, Like a babe when it sleeps mid the sweets of the

ground, Or toys with the blossoms which pillowed its rest.

The heart of the pilgrim in unison swells,
And life seems a bow'r full of fragrance and mirth
He hears not the voice of his conscience, which tells
There's a spoiler and waster which travels the earth;

That the bud of his joys, so luxuriant in bloom,
Has a worm at its root and disease at its core ;
And that Time must soon bend it in death to the

In the gleam of its beauty to revel no more.

Thus existence fleets on, and the startled grow dumb, When Death in deep darkness sweeps solemnly by, And speaks, as the hour of his triumph may come, Thou hast lived—thou hast loved—now turn thee,

and die.


Sonnet to a Child.

A rosebud opening, pearled with morning dew,

Through the young foliage glancing, light and free

A gentle fountain gushing joyously
O'er the green sward—a bright star in the blue

Of the still heav'ns, or beacon on the sea;
These have I thought thee, light of fanciful hours !

Fair promise of Time's yet unmeasured space; But be thy bloom more durable than the flower's!

Thine all that fountain's purity and grace !

And may no blight fall on their hopes, who trace
Their features, fortunes, happiness in thine !
Be thou the star-light of their day's decline,

Waking unearthly dreams. O may'st thou be
All I would fondly deem-all they will picture thee !

On the Death of a little Girl Five

Years old.

Sweet little flow'r thy bloom is fled,
Thy tender leaves are pale and dead,
And scattered (once so rosy red)

O’er the cold tomb.

Around thee now in vain


beam The summer's ray and winter's gleam; No sun can pierce the slumb’rer's dream

In earth's dark womb.

But yet on thee a sun shall rise
More glorious than these earthly skies,
E'er dipped in heav'n's aërial dies,

Or beauty's ray ;

A light, that on thy spirit breaking,
From death's embrace in bliss awaking,
Shall bid it, ev'ry care forsaking,

Rise into day.

Then why the night of sorrow here,
That darkens round thy early bier,
And o'er thy mem'ry sheds the tear

Of vain regret ?


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