ON

VISITING THE SCENES

OF CHILDHOOD.

HAIL, former scenes of childhood's early day,
When peaceful joys beguiled my infant hours;
These youthful scenes demand a tuneful lay,
Assist, O Muse, with all thy artless powers.

Hail, dear abode; I love the well known place, Where hours of bliss on downy pinions flew; Here by-past years, with pensive thought I trace, For here was peace, here happiness I knew.

Beneath that elm, which spreads its rural shade
In native grandeur o'er the smiling plain,
My early vows to tender love I paid,

Nor knew of care, nor thought of future pain.

See yonder stream whose gentle current flows, Calm and secure, from every threatening storm, Pure as that stream are joys which youth bestows, No grief disturbs, and each fond hope is warm.

Ye scenes of sweet, and hallowed early peace, Your halcyon hours I view with pleasing pain; They quickly flew, and saw my joys increase, For then contentment owned its happy reign: Fled are those hours, those hours to me so dear, And naught is left but memory and a tear.

AUGUST, 1814.

PLEASURE.

Is it in wealth? Go, probe the breast
Of fortune's sumptuous heir:

Ah, why doth secret wo infest,
And anguish canker there?

Is it in fame? Her empty breath,
Inconstant as the breeze,

Will blast, anon, the laurel wreath
That late it formed to please.

Is it in friendship, or in love?
Alas, they quick decay:

The tears of hapless sorrow prove
How frail this boasted stay.

"Tis not in all that here excels,

'Tis not in folly's round;

But with Immanuel's love it dwells,

And there alone is found,

CLOSE OF THE WEEK.

WHILE the solemn note of Time
Warns me of his hasty tread;
While the silent march of days
Tells" another week hath fled;"
While the hum of busy toil,
Works of care, and labour cease;
While the six days' weary strife
Yields to holy, welcome peace,

Let me all the past review:

Much hath heaven bestowed on me,

Much have I to folly given;

GOD! what have I done for thee?

Nearer to my final hour,

Am I sealed with Jesus' blood?

Nearer to eternity,

Am I nearer to my God?

Hasten, pilgrim, on thy way,

Gird thee at the martyr's shrine;
Hasten, pilgrim—why delay?
Immortality is thine.

STANZAS,

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF MR. A

OF PORTSMOUTH, N. H.

T

THERE is a grief, that grief is holy,
For those that blessed in Jesus die:
Religion calms the melancholy,
And smooths the pillow where they lie.

There is a sweet, a soothing sadness For those whom we shall see no more; Yet mellowed, 'tis allied to gladness, For every toil and tear is o'er.

And why should the survivers weep, When those beloved, from pain are free? Why murmur when they cross the deep That shadows forth eternity?