Nor refuge finds, except that last it be

Of wilder'd souls-the atheist's reverie!

He reigns-the same who left the heavens to prove His truth unbending, infinite His love.

And, reigning He,-tho' clouds himself surround, The sceptre must be just, the throne unsullied found.

Above the flood that, else, on men would burst,
And bear them all where all past hope are curst,
HE reigns, and rides the foaming billow's crest,
And guides, compels, or stills its rage to rest.
Behold the tokens of His righteous sway,

The preceding Poem was projected and in great part written somewhere about the year 1821. It is now many years since the last lines were added, and feeling tolerably certain that I shall never bring myself to finish it, I give it as it is, presuming that my friends would rather have it even thus, than that it should be entirely withheld.

Smaller Poems.

CONTENTMENT.

1816.

"True riches! where, oh! where do ye reside?
"For if the whole that's under heaven
"Were into my possession given,

"I feel my heart would still be riven
"With sighs of wants and wishes unsupply'd !"

Thus, as I mourn'd, embittering the rod,
Appeared a more than mortal creature,
Peace beaming in her every feature,

"I'm call'd CONTENT," she said, "but, sweeter, "Meek RESIGNATION to the will of God.

"Untaught by me, true wealth must 'scape your eye. "Golconda's mines, the gold of Ophir,

Wit, beauty,-emptiness discover,

"Or bid some new desire hover

"O'er things forbidden, or which nought can buy.

"Couldst thou the varied stores of knowledge boast, "Thro' all the world's best pleasures wander, "Of all its kingdoms be commander, "Still wouldst thou weep, like Alexander, "When all possessing, discontented most.

"He only has the prize with whom I'm found;

Equal to all his need, his treasure,

"Or great, or small, whate'er its measure, "His very wants are springs of pleasure, "To do the will of heaven, their utmost bound.

"But I can only dwell where I can meet

"Humility, my elder sister;

"(I flee the bosoms that resist her)

"Seek her then, where none ever miss'd her; "Attending meekly at Immanuel's feet!"

TO AN AVOWED INFIDEL.

1817.

You slight religion-" and on solid ground," you say,
And, while on solid ground you stand, you may;
But when your limbs, beneath death's with'ring hand,
Shall find the solid ground as sinking sand,
No solid ground will then appear for mirth,
But dread conviction startle into birth,

That all your boasted "solid ground" was-Earth.