But youth's warm flush has left my cheek,
And joy has bid my heart farewell.
But, Oh! my griefs I will not speak,
My wrongs, I must not, cannot tell.

Then, Lady, though I wear a smile,
And mingle oft in converse gay,
Tis but my sorrows to beguile,

'Tis but to chase my cares away.

Yet, Lady, yet the bliss is mine

To hope for scenes beyond the tomb; Where joy perennial wreaths shall twine, And sin and sorrow never come.

Yes, when I feel my Saviour's love,
And in his death my interest know,
And view, by faith, the realms above,
My soul exults, and longs to go.

In hope of that eternal rest,

I gladly now endure the cross;
Clasp the Redeemer to my breast,
And count all other gain but loss.

I'm happy, when the promis'd land.
By faith's ecstatic light I see;
On that blest shore I soon shall stand,

And there I hope to meet with thee.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

YE muses, delight me no more,

Parnassus, I bid thee adieu;

In scenes of gay fiction no longer I soar,
Nor themes of wild fancy pursue.

In the warm, glowing season of youth,
The prospect of life I survey'd,

And I thought the gay scene, by the pencil of truth,

In beauty and bliss was array'd.

As I gazed on the glittering scene,

My heart was a stranger to care;

When the seas were all calm, and the skies all

serene,

Little dream'd I a tempest was near.

I thought my young heart might recline
On friendship, sincerity, love;

Nor felt that affliction and wo might be mine,
Nor that friends fickle-hearted could prove.

But all the gay vistas of youth,

Like a shadow are fled from my view,

And sad the reverse is the picture of truth,
From the scenes that in fancy I drew.

I have found, where I sought for the smile
Of friendship, enchantingly sweet,
Base falsehood has practis'd my heart to beguile,
And leave me a prey to deceit.

I have seen the bright sunshine of morn
With shadows and clouds cover'd o'er;
I have found among chaplets of roses a thorn,
When their beauty and bloom is no more.

Yet still, one sweet solace is mine,
A Star in the East ever glows;

And hope to my soul brings a promise divine,
That sinks all my griefs to repose.

She points me, beyond the dark tomb,

To scenes ever blooming and fair,

Where wreaths of bright glory eternally bloom, And whispers I soon shall be there.

STANZAS.

STANZAS, WRITTEN IMPROMPTU, ON FINDING IN MY BROTHER'S WRITING-DESK A SLIP

OF PAPER,

WORDS,

CONTAINING THE FOLLOWING

"Choose God for your portion."

(Inscribed to Oliver W. L. Warren.)

LIST NING to pleasure's siren voice,

Or bound in passion's witching spell, What numbers make a fearful choice!

And sink to hell!

Subdued alone by sovereign love,

My soul

pursues a different road;

Her portion seeks in Heav'n above,

And chooses God.

Brother, is this thy happy choice?

And hast thou chos'n the better way Then let my soul with thine rejoice,

And praise and pray.

The tear that wets my conscious cheek,
The grateful heart's enraptur'd swell,
Attests the joy no words can speak-
No language tell.

I've seen life's varying prospects rise.
In fancy's rainbow hues array'd,
And like the Iris' transient dies,

Its pleasures fade.

Vain is the wealth of India's mines,
False is the charm that wit bestows,
And vain the holly wreath that twines
The Poet's brows.

But he, who makes the Lord his stay,
Shall find his bliss for ever sure;
When earth, and all its hopes decay,
Shall stand secure.

Brother, with zeal thy choice maintain, Tho' earth and hell against thee rise; Thy course pursue, thy joy obtain,

And win the prize.

For me, as far from thee I roam,

Where wide Ontario's waters roll,

The tender thought of Heaven, my home,

Shall sooth my soul.