English

See how the wind is veering,
bearing away the rain!
Within the dense grown oak tree
it twirls the leaves again,
that cut loose, and at last.

they go, a flocking legion,
at each enfolding blast.
The oak tree seems to dream now
of groups of leaves held fast
in November days past.

Dead in the limpid clearness,
like birds they wing their way;
they brush the little branches
of rosy peach trees gay
with their fruit-buds for May.

The rosy peach trees quiver
laden with lifeless leaves;

O god of freedom! hear us pray
For steadfast hearts to toil as one;
Till thy pure law hath boundless sway —
Thy will, in heav'n and earth be done.

A piercing voice of grief and wrong
Goes upward from the groaning earth;
Most true and holy Lord! how long? —
In majesty and might come forth.

Yet, Lord! remembering mercy too,
Behold th' oppressor in his sin;
Make all his actions just and true,
Renew his wayward heart within.

Lo! we come, in deep contrition,
At the mercy-seat to kneel;
Sad as is the slave's condition,
Yet we long refus'd to feel;
Still proclaiming,
That his woes we could not heal.

Now, Great God! we come before thee,
Pard'ning mercy to obtain;
Cleanse our country, we implore thee,
From oppression's leprous stain:
Do not spurn us,
Do not, Lord! our suit disdain.

Must the slave be crush'd forever,
Like an abject, loathsome thing?
Upward springing, shall he never

" Praise waits for thee in Zion, Lord! "
The earth, the sky, the sea
Shall ring, responsive to the chord
Of heav'nly minstrelsy.
When forth shall go thy mighty word,
That sets the captive free.

Kings are deceitful, — statesmen vain, —
Senates a baseless trust; —
They reckon much on gold and gain,
But ask not, — " what is just? "
Their thoughts return to air again,
Their bodies to the dust.

We pass them by as idle things,
Like foam upon the wave;
We turn to thee, O King of kings!

VALENTINE'S DAY .

'Tis said that under distant skies,
Nor you the fact deny,
What first attracts an Indian's eyes
Becomes his deity.

Perhaps a lily, or a rose,
That shares the morning's ray,
May to the waking swain disclose
The regent of the day.

Perhaps a plant in yonder grove,
Enrich'd with fragrant power,
May tempt his vagrant eyes to rove

THE ATTRIBUTE OF VENUS .

Yes; Fulvia is like Venus fair,
Has all her bloom, and shape, and air;
But still, to perfect every grace,
She wants—the smile upon her face.

The crown majestic Juno wore;
And Cynthia's brow the crescent bore;
An helmet mark'd Minerva's mien;
But smiles distinguish'd Beauty's queen.

Her train was form'd of Smiles and Loves;
Her chariot drawn by gentlest doves;
And from her zone, the nymph may find
Tis Beauty's province to be kind.

Praise! for slumbers of the night,
For the wak'ning morning-light;
For the board with plenty spread,
Gladness on the spirit shed,
Healthful pulse, and cloudless eye,
Opening on the smiling sky:

Praise! for loving hearts, that still
With life's bounding pulses thrill;
Praise! that still our own may know
Earthly joy and earthly woe;
Praise! for ev'ry varied good,
Bounteous round our pathway strew'd:

Pray'r! for grateful hearts to raise
Incense meet of pray'r and praise;

“Come and I shall show thee the dead of the desert”.

'Tis no herd of lions and whelps that covers the eye of the plain,
Nor the glory of Bashan, brave oaks, that have crashed to their fall, mighty fall.
By the side of their scorching black tents lie giants stretched out in the sun.
They crouch on the cold desert sands, lionesses are crouching secure;
The sand sinks away 'neath the place where the bodies and bulk of bone lie.
The mighty are clinging to earth, deep in slumber; their weapons are by,

On every tree, in every plain,
I trace the jovial spring in vain;
A sickly langour veils mine eyes
And fast my waning vigour flies.

Nor flowery plain, nor budding tree,
That smile on others, smile on me;
Mine eyes from death shall court repose,
Nor shed a tear before they close.

What bliss to me can seasons bring?
Or what the needless pride of spring?
The cypress bough, that suits the bier,
Retains its verdure all the year.

'Tis true, my vine, so fresh and fair,
Might claim awhile my wonted care;

Awake with the sunrise! Clamber on the hills
To find the gold orient,
And being first to greet the sunlight, each
Will guaff to his soul's content.
The dear morn of God like a sapful freshet goes
Around you, and o'erflows;
For all the aged and withered in your heart
Its sunlight will revive,
And all idolatrous and vile therein
The morning star will shrive.
Guard ye the golden treasure hid away
As succour for your heart.
Ye who approached, burdened with sin and care,
Guiltless and rich will part.