Yet, though I weep, I still would not repine,
Nor vainly question heaven's supreme decrees;
For heaven is good, and good is its design,

In blending storms with sunshine and the breeze.
More sweet is rest to him who needs repose;
More dearly prized life's joys when blended with its

woes.

Oh! how the sun of our blest childhood's days Shoots gleaming down the vista of the past. How brightly round the woe-worn heart it plays, And soothes to holy calm life's bitterest blast, Infusing through the soul that tranquil joy, Which all the varied ills of life can ne'er destroy.

Oh! yes, let sorrow spread its darkest gloom
Around the weary way of after years;

The flowers of childhood still in beauty bloom;
And, while their fragrant breath the spirit cheers,
And o'er the heart diffuses halcyon peace,

They tell of glorious climes where care and sorrow

cease.

A MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS.

LIFT up your heads, ye Yorkshire hills!
Lift up your noble heads on high;
Your venerable grandeur fills

With awe my heart, with tears my eye.

A lonely bard doth fondly hie
His way among your wavy woods;
The bustling world let others try,
The only wish his breast intrudes,
Is for the quiet of your solitudes.

1

Bland Peace! come, lead me to thy home

Amid those green withdrawing vales,

Where streams, fresh from the mountains, roam,

In sun and shade, and murmur tales

Of gentle love, as evening pales,

To the wild flowers that coyly peep

Down on their breast,-till rising gales

Do gently rock each one to sleep,

While stars, their sister flowers, their vigils keep.

Come! and to broom-clad moorlands lead

My buoyant spirit far away,

Where I, from useless babbling freed,

Can greet the first approach of day;

When Phoebus, in his bright array,

From Ocean springs, and floods the crest

Of dewy hill, or arching spray

Of flashing waterfall, or breast

Of lake that slumbers in unbroken rest.

Through orient climes, o'er Indian plains,

The glittering steeds come from afar,
And scatter from their dazzling manes

The golden light; their hot breaths mar

Night's beauties; for each twinkling star,

And harvest moon in pallor fade,

As swift the bright stupendous car

Sweeps through the heavens; whose splendours

braid,

With lustrous tints, yon eastern vast arcade.

Lo! tripping o'er the mountain, comes
Blithe Health! whose form against heaven's blue
In beauty glides, enwreathed with blooms

All dripping with the glistening dew,

Young smiling Morn she doth pursue;

And from her sparkling chalice pours
The enlivening nectar for the few

Who, filled with love for birds and flowers,

Leave couches for the wood-crowned mountain-bowers.

Hark! how the brightening welkin rings

With the full flush of melody

From verdant vales; and wood-nook springs

O'er cressy bed, 'neath golden sky,

Send forth their rills, which merrily

Warble along the forest glade,

And mirror every plant and tree

That kisses them; then half afraid

Steal, like a maiden coy, into the woodland shade.

Nature, thy beauties are a boon

From heaven to feed the immortal soul.

I love the balmy morn—

—high noon—

Or placid eve. The flowing bowl

Of bliss-dipped in the streams that roll
Through thy fair realms-aye passes round
For man, though damnèd spirits foul,

Would dash it still with woe ;-disowned

By Heaven, they fain would plant man's mortal wound.

Though not one foot of earth I own,
Yet all the beauteous earth is mine;
For me are laughing flow'rets strewn ;
For me a glorious sun doth shine;
For me doth wave the mountain-pine,
'Neath gilded skies, 'mid frost and snow,
To cheer life's gloom ;- -a hand Divine
Doth all these precious gifts bestow,
To bless the hopeful wanderer below.

Eternal mountains! let me climb