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And O that look, that soft upbraiding look!
A thousand cutting, tender things it spoke,-
The sword so lately drawn was not so keen,-
Which, as the injured Master turn'd him round,
In the strange solemn scene,

And the shrill clarion gave th' appointed sound,
Pierced sudden through the reins,
Awakening all thy pains,

And drew a silent shower of bitter tears Down Peter's blushing cheek, late pale with coward fears.

Cruel Remorse! where Youth and Pleasure sport,

And thoughtless Folly keeps her court,Crouching midst rosy bowers thou lurk'st unseen; Slumbering the festal hours away,

While Youth disports in that enchanting scene; Till on some fated day

Thon with a tiger-spring dost leap upon thy prey, And tear his helpless breast, o'erwhelm'd, with wild dismay.

Mark that poor wretch with clasped hands! Pale o'er his parent's grave he stands,The grave by his ingratitude prepared ; Ah then, where'er he rests his head, On roses pillow'd or the softest down,

Though festal wreaths his temples crown, He well might envy Guatimozin's bed,

With burning coals and sulphur spread, And with less agony his torturing hour have shared.

For Thou art by to point the keen reproach; Thou draw'st the curtains of his nightly couch, Bring'st back the reverend face with tears bedew'd,

That o'er his follies yearn'd;
The warnings oft in vain renew'd,
The looks of anguish and of love,

His stubborn breast that failed to move, When in the scorner's chair he sat, and wholesome counsel spurn'd.

Lives there a man whose labouring breast
Is with some dark and guilty secret prest,
Who hides within its inmost fold
Strange crimes to mortal ear untold?
In vain to sad Chartreuse he flies,

Midst savage rocks and cloisters dim and drear,
And there to shun thee tries:

In vain untold his crime to mortal ear, Silence and whisper'd sounds but make thy voice

more clear.

Lo. where the cowled monk with frantic rage Lifts high the sounding scourge, his bleeding shoulders smites!

Penance and fasts his anxious thoughts engage,
Weary his days and joyless are his nights,
His naked feet the flinty pavement tears,
His knee at every shrine the marble wears ;-

See o'er the bleeding corse of her he loved,
The jealous murderer bends unmoved,
Trembling with rage, his livid lips express
His frantic passion's wild and rash excess.
O God, she's innocent!-transfixt he stands,
Pierced through with shafts from thine avenging
hands;

Down his pale cheek no tear will flow,
Nor can he shun, nor can he bear, his wo.

"Twas phantoms summon'd by thy power Round Richard's couch at midnight hour, That scared the tyrant from unblest repose; With frantic haste, "To horse! to horse!" he cries, While on his crowned brow cold sweat-drops rise, And fancied spears his spear oppose; But not the swiftest steed can bear away From thy firm grasp thine agonizing prey, Thou wast the fiend, and thou alone, That stood'st by Beaufort's mitred head, With upright hair and visage ghastly pale: Thy terrors shook his dying bed,

Past crimes and blood his sinking heart assail, His hands are clasp'd,-hark to that hollow groan! See how his glazed, dim eye-balls wildly roll, "Tis not dissolving Nature's pains; that pang is of the soul.

Where guilty souls are doom'd to dwell,
"Tis thou that makest their fiercest hell,
The vulture thou that on their liver feeds,
As rise to view their past unhallow'd deeds;
With thee condemn'd to stay,
Till time has roll'd away

Long eras of uncounted years,

And every stain is wash'd in soft repentant tears.

Servant of God--but unbeloved-proceed,
For thou must live and ply thy scorpion scourge:
Thy sharp upbraidings urge

Against th' unrighteous deed,

Till thine accursed mother shall expire, And a new world spring forth from renovating fire

O! when the glare of day is fled,

And calm, beneath the evening star, Reflection leans her pensive head, And calls the passions to her solemn bar; Reviews the censure rash, the hasty word, The purposed act too long deferr'd, Of time the wasted treasures lent, And fair occasions lost, and golden hours mispent:

When anxious Memory numbers o'er Each offer'd prize we failed to seize; Or friends laid low, whom now no more Our fondest love can serve or please, And thou, dread power! bring'st back, in terrors drest,

Th' irrevocable past, to sting the careless breast;

O! in that hour be mine to know, While fast the silent sorrows flow,

And wisdom cherishes the wholesome pain, No heavier guilt, no deeper stain, Than tears of meek contrition may atone, Shed at the mercy-seat of Heaven's eternal throne.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

YES, Britain mourns, as with electric touch,
For youth, for love, for happiness destroy'd,
Her universal population melts

In grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved,
And rough, unpolish'd natures learn to feel
For those they envied, levell'd in the dust
By Fate's impartial stroke; and pulpits sound
With vanity and wo to earthly goods,

And urge and dry the tear.-Yet one there is
Who midst this general burst of grief remains
In strange tranquillity; whom not the stir
And long-drawn murmurs of the gathering crowd,
That by his very windows trail the pomp
Of hearse, and blazon'd arms, and long array
Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans
And deep-felt anguish of a husband's heart,
Can move to mingle with this flood one tear:
In careless apathy, perhaps in mirth,
He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood,
The very stem on which this blossom grew,
And at his knees she fondled in the charm
And grace spontaneous which alone belongs
To untaught infancy:-Yet, O forbear!

Nor deem him hard of heart; for awful, struck
By Heaven's severest visitation, sad,
Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees,
Lonely he stands;-leaves bud, and shoot, and fall,
He holds no sympathy with living nature
Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour,
While pensive thought is busy with the woes
And restless change of poor humanity,

Think then, O think of him, and breathe one prayer,

From the full tide of sorrow spare one tear,
For him who does not weep!

THE WAKE OF THE KING OF SPAIN.*

ARRAY'D in robes of regal state,
But stiff and cold the monarch sate;
In gorgeous vests, his chair beside,
Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride;
And paladin and high-born dame
Their place amid the circle claim:
And wands of office lifted high,
And arms and blazon'd heraldry,-
All mute like marble statues stand,
Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand:
No voice, no sound to stir the air,
The silence of the grave is there.

The portal opens-hark, a voice!
"Come forth, O king! O king, rejoice!
The bowl is fill'd, the feast is spread,
Come forth, O king!"-The king is dead.
The bowl, the feast, he tastes no more,
The feast of life for him is o'er.

Again the sounding portals shake,
And speaks again the voice that spake :
"The sun is high, the sun is warm,
Forth to the field the gallants swarm,
The foaming bit the courser champs,
His hoof the turf impatient stamps;
Light on their steeds the hunters spring;
The sun is high-Come forth, O king!"
Along these melancholy walls

In vain the voice of pleasure calls:
The horse may neigh, and bay the hound,-
He hears no more; his sleep is sound.
Retire ;-once more the portals close;
Leave, leave him to his dread repose.

HYMNS.

HYMN I.

JEHOVAH reigns: let every nation hear,
And at his footstool bow with holy fear;
Let heaven's high arches echo with his name,
And the wide peopled earth his praise proclaim;
Then send it down to hell's deep glooms resound-
ing,
[ing.
Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sound-

He rules with wide and absolute command
O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land:
Jehovah reigns, unbounded, and alone,
And all creation hangs beneath his throne.
He reigns alone; let no inferior nature
Usurp, or share the throne of the Creator.

He saw the struggling beams of infant light Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night; His spirit hush'd the elemental strife,

And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life: Seasons and months began their long procession, And measured o'er the year in bright succession.

The joyful sun sprung up th' ethereal way, Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay; And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light Superior o'er the dusky brow of night; Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies adorning, Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning

Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he drest, And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast; Then from the hollow of his hand he pours The circling water round her winding shores, The new-born world in their cool arms embracing, And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing.

At length she rose complete in finish'd pride, All fair and spotless, like a virgin bride; Fresh with untarnish'd lustre as she stood, The kings of Spain for nine days after death are Her Maker bless'd his work, and call'd it good; placed sitting in robes of state with their attendants around them, and solemnly summoned by the proper The morning stars with joyful acclamation officers to their meals and their amusements, as if living. | Exulting sang, and hail'd the new creation.

Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, Though built by God's right hand, must pass

away;

And long oblivion creep o'er mortal things, The fate of empires, and the pride of kings: Eternal night shall veil their proudest story, And drop the curtain o'er all human glory.

The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest, Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest; His golden urn shall broke and useless lie, Amidst the common ruins of the sky; The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean

But fix'd, O God! for ever stands thy throne; Jehovah reigns, a universe alone;

Th' eternal fire that feeds each vital flame, Collected, or diffused, is still the same. He dwells within his own unfathom'd essence, And fills all space with his unbounded presence.

But O! our highest notes the theme debase, And silence is our least injurious praise; Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight control, Revere him in the stillness of the soul; With silent duty meekly bend before him, And deep within your inmost hearts adore him.

HYMN II.

PRAISE to God immortal praise,*
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous scource of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ ;

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;

Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse ;

All that Spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores :

These to thee, my God, we owe ;
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;

Although the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat, the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.-HAE. iii. 17, 18.

Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall;

Should thine alter'd hand restrain The early and the latter rain; Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy:

Yet to thee my soul should raise Grateful vows, and solemn praise; And, when every blessing's flown, Love thee-for thyself alone.

HYMN III.

FOR EASTER SUNDAY.

AGAIN the Lord of life and light
Awakes the kindling ray;
Unseals the eyelids of the morn,
And pours increasing day.

O what a night was that, which wrapt
The heathen world in gloom!
O what a sun which broke this day,
Triumphant from the tomb!

This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud hosannas sung;
Let gladness dwell in every heart,
And praise on every tongue.

Ten thousand differing lips shall join
To hail this welcome morn,
Which scatters blessings from its wings,
To nations yet unborn.

Jesus the friend of human kind,
With strong compassion moved,
Descended like a pitying God,

To save the souls he loved.

The powers of darkness leagued in vain
To bind his soul in death;
He shook their kingdom when he fell,
With his expiring breath.

Not long the toils of hell could keep
The hope of Judah's line;
Corruption never could take hold
On aught so much divine.

And now his conquering chariot wheels Ascend the lofty skies;

While broke beneath his powerful cross, Death's iron sceptre lies.

Exalted high at God's right hand,
The Lord of all below,

Through him is pardoning love dispensed,
And boundless blessings flow.

And still for erring, guilty man,
A brother's pity flows;
And still his bleeding heart is touch'd
With memory of our woes.

To thee, my Saviour and my King,
Glad homage let me give;
And stand prepared like thee to die,
With thee that I may live.

E

HYMN IV.

BEHOLD, where breathing love divine,
Our dying Master stands!

His weeping followers gathering round,
Receive his last commands.

From that mild teacher's parting lips
What tender accents fell!
The gentle precept which he gave,
Became its author well.

"Blest is the man whose softening heart
Feels all another's pain;

To whom the supplicating eye
Was never raised in vain.

Whose breast expands with generous warmth
A stranger's woes to feel;

And bleeds in pity o'er the wound
He wants the power to heal.

"He spreads his kind supporting arms
To every child of grief;

His secret bounty largely flows,

And brings unask'd relief.

"To gentle offices of love

His feet are never slow:

He views through mercy's melting eye
A brother in a foe.

"Peace from the bosom of his God,

My peace to him I give;

And when he kneels before the throne,
His trembling soul shall live.

"To him protection shall be shown,
And mercy from above

Descend on those who thus fulfil
The perfect law of love."

HYMN V.

AWAKE, my soul! lift up thine eyes,
See where thy foes against thee rise,
In long array, a numerous host;
Awake, my soul! or thou art lost.
Here giant Danger threatening stands,
Mustering his pale terrific bands;
There Pleasure's silken banners spread,
And willing souls are captive led.
See where rebellious passions rage,
And fierce desires and lusts engage;
The meanest foe of all the train
Has thousands and ten thousands slain.

Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground,
Perils and snares beset thee round;
Beware of all, guard every part,
But most, the traitor in thy heart.

"Come then, my soul, now learn to wield The weight of thine immortal shield;" Put on the armour from above

Of heavenly truth and heavenly love.

The terror and the charm repel,

And powers of earth, and powers of hell; The Man of Calvary triumph'd here; Why should his faithful followers fear?

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Thou, who houseless, sole, forlorn,

Long hast borne the proud world's scorn,
Long hast roam'd the barren waste,—
Weary pilgrim, hither haste!

Ye, who toss'd on beds of pain,
Seek for ease, but seek in vain,
Ye whose swoll'n and sleepless eyes
Watch to see the morning rise;

Ye, by fiercer anguish torn,
In remorse for guilt who mourn;
Here repose your heavy care,
A wounded spirit who can bear!

Sinner, come! for here is found
Balm that flows for every wound:
Peace, that ever shall endure,
Rest eternal, sacred, sure.

HYMN VIII.

"The world is not their friend, nor the world's law."

Lo where a crowd of pilgrims toil

Yon craggy steeps among!

Strange their attire, and strange their mien,
As wild they press along.

Their eyes with bitter streaming tears
Now bent towards the ground,
Now rapt, to heaven their looks they raise,
And bursts of song resound.

And hark! a voice from 'midst the throng Cries," Stranger, wouldst thou know Our name, our race, our destined home, Our cause of joy or wo?

"Our country is Immanuel's land,

We seek that promised soil;
The songs of Zion cheer our hearts,
While strangers here we toil.

"Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow,

And oft are bathed in tears:

Yet naught but heaven our hopes can raise, And naught but sin our fears.

"The flowers that spring along the road, We scarcely stoop to pluck;

We walk o'er beds of shining ore
Nor waste one wishful look :

"We tread the path our Master trod,
We bear the cross he bore;
And every thorn that wounds our feet,
His temples pierced before:

"Our powers are oft dissolved away

In ecstasies of love;

And while our bodies wander here,
Our souls are fix'd above:

"We purge our mortal dross away,

Refining as we run;

But while we die to earth and sense, Our heaven is begun."

HYMN IX.

Joy to the followers of the Lord!
Thus saith the sure, the eternal word;
Not of earth the joy it brings,
Temper'd in celestial springs :

Tis the joy of pardon'd sin,

When conscience cries, "Tis well within; "Tis the joy that fills the breast When the passions sink to rest :

"Tis the joy that seated deep,

Leaves not when we sigh and weep;
It spreads itself in virtuous deeds,
With sorrow sighs, in pity bleeds.

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"Keep yon right-hand path with care, Though crags obstruct, and brambles tear; You just discern a narrow track,

Enter there and turn not back."

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"Say where that pleasant pathway leads, Winding down yon flowery meads? Songs and dance the way beguiles,

Every face is drest in smiles."

"Shun with care that flowery way;
"Twill lead thee, pilgrim, far astray."
"Guide or counsel do I need?"

Pilgrim, he who runs may read." "Is the way that I must keep, Cross'd by waters wide and deep?" "Did it lead through flood and fire, Thou must not stop-thou must not tire. "Till I have my journey past, Tell me will the daylight last? Will the sky be bright and clear Till the evening shades appear?"

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Though the sun now rides so high, Clouds may veil the evening sky; Fast sinks the sun, fast wears the day, Thou must not stop, thou must not stay: God speed thee, pilgrim, on thy way!"

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