To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
Bring all your praise, ye heav'nly host!
Let all mankind with glad accord,
Extol the Universal Lord.

In ev'ry state, and ev'ry point of view,
Thy sterling worth is to the balance true;
As Parent, Wise, and Friend, it bears the test,
And when the most is tried, acquitted best;
In times like these, when vanities prevail,
And love maternal is an idle tale,
How wisely dost thou stem the current stream,
Nor art involv'd in the delusive dream.
The sashionable mother slights the care
Of her young offspring, with affected air;
Divides her time 'twixt Op'ras, Plays, Romance,
A gaming Party, or a midnight Dance.

I.

Beneath him stretched the sands
Of Egypt's burning lands,
The desert panted to the swelt'ring ray;
The camel's plashing feet,
With slow, uneasy beat,
Threw up the scorching dust like arrowy spray,
And fierce the sunlight glowed,
As young Napoleon rode
Around the Gallic camp, companionless that day.

II.

High thoughts were in his mind,
Unspoken to his kind;
Calm was his face — his eyes were blank and chill;
His thin lips were compress'd:
The secrets of his breast

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!
Praise him, all creatures here below!
Praise him above, ye heav'nly host!
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

O Poverty! till now I never knew
The meaning of the word! What lack is here!
O pale mask of a soul great, good, and true!
O mocking semblance stretched upon a bier!

Each atom of this devastated face
Was so instinct with power, with warmth and light;
What desert is so desolate! No grace
Is left, no gleam, no change, no day, no night.

Where is the key that locked these gates of speech,
Once beautiful, where thought stood sentinel,
Where sweetness sat, where wisdom passed, to teach
Our weakness strength, our homage to compel?

Oh ye are dull, ye skies,
A gloom hath o'er you roll'd,
A sorrow on me lies
Too mighty to be told;
The glory of Nature dies,
And all her heart is cold.

He whom I love is false;
The sweetest vow he swore,
His changeful mind recalls
Never, oh nevermore;
Day darkens, and life palls,
And sickens at its core.

His love's last flickering gleam
In his cold heart has died;
" But yet, if I could deem
My passion satisfied,
With friendship and esteem,
He'd give me both," he cried.

Since the sweet knowledge I possess
That she I love is mine,
All Nature throbs with happiness,
And wears a face divine.
The woods seem greener than they were,
The skies are brighter blue;
The stars shine clearer, and the air
Lets finer sunlight through.
Until I loved I was a child,
And sported on the sands;
But now the ocean opens out,
With all its happy lands.

The circles of my sympathy
Extend from earth to heaven:
I strove to pierce a mystery,
And lo! the clue is given.

Brave singer of the coming time,
Sweet minstrel of the joyous present,
Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme,
The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant,
Good by! Good by!—Our hearts and hands,
Our lips in honest Saxon phrases,
Cry, God be with him, till he stands
His feet among the English daisies!

'T is here we part;—for other eyes
The busy deck, the fluttering streamer,
The dripping arms that plunge and rise,
The waves in foam, the ship in tremor,
The kerchiefs waving from the pier,
The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him,

She walks beside the silent shore,
The tide is high, the breeze is still;
No ripple breaks the ocean floor,
The sunshine sleeps upon the hill.

The turf is warm beneath her feet,
Bordering the beach of stone and shell,
And thick about her path the sweet
Red blossoms of the pimpernel.

“Oh, sleep not yet, my flower!” she cries,
“Nor prophesy of storm to come;
Tell me that under steadfast skies
Fair winds shall bring my lover home.”

She stoops to gather flower and shell,
She sits, and, smiling, studies each;

To mock thy fair presentment of mankind,
Contemptuous scoffers laid thee in the dust;
To beauty wit is ever ill inclined,
And in no God nor angel puts its trust;
The dearest treasures of the heart it steals,
Makes war on fancy, and belief congeals.

But, like thyself of humble parentage,
Like thee, a pious shepherdess—no more—
Poetry can thy grievances assuage,
And bid thee to celestial regions soar.
Her halo doth thy temples glorify,
Born of the heart itself, thou canst not die.

The world is prone to blacken what is bright