Its sweets his raptured sense beguile,
With charms of native zest;

He gently plucks, and, with a smile,
Conveys it to his breast.

As tender plants of varied hue,

In Flora's dress arrayed,

Require the warmth, and early dew,

With rich, and kindly aid—

Thus, Lord, these plants which thou hast sown,

Require thy grace divine;

The glorious work is all thy own,

The increase shall be thine.

CHILESE WARRIOR'S SONG.

HARK, comrades, hark, the trumpet's swell Proclaims the note of war;

The death-drum roll and bugle tell

The din of battle far:

To free a bleeding natal land

From Leon's galling chain,

The warrior grasps the glittering brand,

And steeps the crimsoned plain;

While Plata rolls and Andes rise,

Each CHILESE heart shall Freedom prize.

Awake, too long has bondage hurled

Its curse on freedom's soil;
Awake, too long a suffering world

Has groaned with slavery's spoil;
The deepened shades of slumbering night
Enscrolled, are rolling far,

The dawn that bodes meridian light,

Has dimmed the risen star;

While Plata rolls and Andes rise,

Each CHILESE heart shall Freedom prize.

Awake, awake to glorious fight, 'Tis home and country calls,

The watch-word sounds, "OUR GOD AND RIGHT," The vanquished foeman falls.

'Tis heaven approves the soldier's guard,

In gory battle-fray;

"Tis virtue wreaths a bright reward,

To crown the victor day;

While Plata rolls and Andes rise,

Each CHILESE heart shall Freedom prize.

THY WILL BE DONE.

WHEN sorrow casts its shade around,
And pleasure seems our course to shun;
When naught but grief and care is found,
How sweet to say, "Thy will be done."

When sickness lends it pallid hue,
And every dream of bliss hath flown;
When quickly from the fading view,
Recede the joys that once were known;

The soul resigned, will still rejoice,
Though life's last sand hath nearly run;
With humble faith and trembling voice,
It still responds, "Thy will be done."

When called to mourn the early doom
Of one, affection held most dear;
While o'er the closing silent tomb
The bleeding heart distils the tear;

Though love its tribute, sad, will pay,
And earthly streams of solace shun,
Still, still the humbled soul will say,
In lowly dust, "Thy will be done.”

Whate'er, O Lord, thou hast designed
To bring my soul to thee, its trust;
If mercies or afflictions kind,

For all thy dealings, Lord, are just,

Take all; but grant in goodness free,
That love which ne'er thy stroke would shun,
Support this heart, and strengthen me,

To say in faith, "Thy will be done."