Yet less terrific now its blackness grew,

For, like the breaking of the morning light, A pallid promise, as of something bright, Far, far behind, beamed softly on my view.

And still that gleam grew brighter, and, still, down,
As came that dark cloud, it relaxed its frown,
Till what had seemed a twilight in its midst,
Revealed the features of an angel-face,

Yet seen as thro' a veil that lent it grace.
Diverging then, the blackness—from amidst,

Forth burst the lovely vision, and I knew
'Twas Hope's bright visage beamed upon my view.

Had I the painter's, or the graver's art,

And free admission to the human breast,
That face divine should live on ev'ry heart,

Nor Hope again in base disguise be drest.
Deceitful say they? oh! that look sincere,
That smile enjewelled in compassion's tear,
That glow of constancy !-how they belie
The sland'rous pencil of foul obloquy,

That paints her laughing at the child of care Whom she has cheered a while, then left in deep despair!

No! beautous, much-wronged, ever-constant friend !
The friend of all !-good, bad, or fool, or wise-
Thou changest not-but, seeking bliss, their eyes
Whom wisdom urges to a virtuous end,
Alone (or chiefly their's) behold the prize,

While sorrows oft'ner folly's paths attend.
But didst thou hearken, solace of the world!
Save only when the wise implored thine aid,

Nor give the simple in thy smiles a share, What millions of our kind would soon be hurl'd

Into the deep dark caverns of despair;

And groans the ear invade,

The melancholy dirge of hopeless care!

Oh! wisdom, wisdom's self! omniscient God!
"THE GOD OF HOPE!" be Thou my constant guide!
Thy will my rule, Thy ways my peaceful road!

To know, love, serve Thee and with thee abide,
My ceaseless aim!

Then Hope, meanwhile, my comforter shall be,
Nor bring to shame ;

But, found at last with Thee,
Heaven's full fruition pour upon my soul
More joys than Hope e'er blazoned on her scroll!

Then, unregretting, we shall part-
Her end accomplished, Hope again shall go,

To soothe the wretched and assuage the smart
Of throbbing grief below;

But chiefly those to bless

Whom deep compunction's burning pangs distress;
While yet, with deep-drawn, heartfelt sigh
That says the soul no more would rove,

They look with timid, tearful eye,

Imploring life of dying "Love."

These, Hope shall cheer and lift on high
To "things above!"

Thus 'till the world's career of woe be run,

Shall Hope attend on hovering wings of peace;
Then wend her way, with earth's last-rescued son,
And heaven absorb her in its flood of bliss!

THE JUDGMENT.

1828.

The Lord will come! what then shall be,
Oh! say my soul! thy destiny?

Bethink thee of that awful day

When heaven and earth shall pass away,

The melting elements expire

Before the fierce etherial fire,

And, like a useless, parchment scroll,
The Lord the firmament shall roll,
Oh! think of heaven's descending host,
The trump of God !-but think thee most
Of Him whose second coming then
Shall be to judge the sons of men!
'He comes !' the songs of angels tell,

'He comes!' deep howl the groans of hell—
'He comes!' His saints, entranced, admire ;
His foes would shun his glance of fire-
My soul! my soul! I ask of thee

If thou, or saint, or foe will be!
Methinks I see the judgment set,

The great white throne-the nations met―
The judge-the same that pity'd here,—
With sceptre'd hand and brow severe.
I see His eye intently look

Upon the dread, recording book:

I hear His voice pronounce the lot,-
Depart !-thy name is written not !”
Again his lips the record read,

And names, in lines that seem to bleed,

Reflected in His softened eye,

Declare His wrath hath passed by.

My soul! my soul ! that sound-“ depart !” Is over, nor hath pierced thine heart

t;

Then sing my soul! dismiss thy care,
The book is searched-thy name is there!

"WHAT ART THOU?"

1828.

Thus lisped an infant to a lovely dame :"Fair lady! what art thou?

My mother says that death will fade my brow, And I am mortal-art thou too the same? That is, she says, my cheek will soon grow pale, My limbs be useless, and my eye-sight fail : And yet when laid the cold green turf below, I still shall think and know,

And live, she says, immortal, or in joy, or woe. 'Tis strange! and yet I think it true : Fair lady! what art thou?

Still beauty decks thy brow;

Canst thou be mortal and immortal, too?
Shall thy frame totter and thy form decay,
And all thy smiling beauty pass away?
It seems to me the years must long have been
Since thou, like me, a child wert seen ;

Yet still thy cheek is fresh, thine eye is bright: Perhaps it may be, like the mid-day light, Thy noon is come—and now

The shadows shall begin to mark thy brow: Say, lady! am I right,

Or what art thou?

LASTING BEAUTY.

“A gracious woman retaineth honor."-Prov. 11, 16.

1829.

The brightest beauty that e'er chained the heart
Is but the glowing ray
That paints a dying day.

The sweetest form that e'er entranced the soul Is but the blooming flow'r

That withers in an hour.

The fairest frame enshrines a faulty heart;
When age the shrine impairs

Its tenant poorly fares.

Then doffs the faithless crowd its smiling guise,

And all that shrinks from sight

Is dragged to broadest light.