ΤΟ

JAMES MONTGOMERY,

OF SHEFFIELD, ENGLAND.

MONTGOMERY seeks a hallowed lyre,
To consecrate the poet's name;
How pure is inspiration's fire,

When blessed Religion fans the flame.

The minstrel quits each lighter theme,
Fame seems but unsubstantial dross;
Forsaking fancy's early dream,
He kindles at the lowly cross.

In life's drear path, sojourning long,
What tears and perils throng the road;
From these, redeemed, with grace his song,
The wanderer now returns to God.

Sweet was the hour, when o'er his path
The pillar shone with steady ray;
Secured from Sinai's threatening wrath,
The pilgrim treads the narrow way.

Do worldly friends withdraw their love?
He leans on Christ each bosom care;
When trials sadden, borne above,
How holy is the closet prayer.

MONTGOMERY, though the shades of even
Have often gloomed upon thy brow,
Yet shines there still, a ray of heaven,
For Jesus is thy surety now.

MASONIC ODE.

SUNG AT THE DEDICATION OF THE GRAND LODGE OF PENNSYLVANIA, PHILADELPHIA, NOVEMBER 1, 1820.

"STRIKE the cymbal,
Roll the tymbal!"

Swell the note of grateful love;

Heaven rejoices,

Lend your voices,

Praise the ARCHITECT above.

God of glory!

The song of vict'ry,
Pæans loud are ever thine;

Cherubs singing,

Glad are bringing

Offerings to JEHOVAH's shrine.

Lo, in grandeur,

Bedecked in splendour,

See the Temple proudly rises!
Masonry triumphant gazes,

Where, red gleaming,
Ruin beaming,

Spread the midnight terror round.*

Art combining,

Grace entwining,

CHARITY the corner stone:

Discord never

Can dissever

Fabrics reared on God alone.

FAITH and HOPE our chosen stay,
Love illumes with mystic ray;
Truth and Reason still combine,
Still adorn the hallowed shrine.

Praise, praise the Architect, O praise,
Hosanna! Hosanna! Hosanna!

* Alluding to the conflagration of the Masonic Hall, 1819.

MASSACHUSETTS SCENERY.

THY son, O New England, though wandering afar From the scenes that affection once lit with a smile, Still recals the gay vision when childhood's young star Could lead to enjoyment, and sorrow beguile.

And memory yet rambles o'er life's reckless dawn, When hope smiled so lovely and earth seemed so true, When thought, fond deceiver, bade welcome the morn That imparted to bliss its cerulean hue.

Then careless, to linger in Love's native bowers, Where Spring, Pleasure's handmaid, rejoiced o'er the

scene,

Or when sober Autumn succeeded the flowers,
To stray while contentment lent zest ever keen.

Where BROOKLINE, half hid in the woodland appears,
Whose white steeple rises in pride from the grove;
Where bland hospitality's welcome endears,

I roamed when this heart beat to pleasure and love.