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Sweet bud of the wilderness ! emblem of all
That remains in this desolate heart ! The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall,
But patience shall never depart!
In the days of delusion by fancy combined
And leave but a desert behind.
When the faint and the feeble deplore ;
A thousand wild waves on the shore !
May thy front be unaltered, thy courage elate ! Yea ! even the name I have worshipped in vain Shall awake not the sigh of remembrance again :
To bear is to conquer our fate.
THE INFLUENCE OF HOPE AT THE CLOSE
Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
Yet half 'I hear the panting spirit sigh,
Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
TO-MORROW. How sweet to the heart is the thought of to-morrow,
When hope's fairy pictures bright colours display, How sweet, when we can from futurity borrow,
A balm for the griefs that afflict us to-day! .
When wearisome sickness has taught me to languish
For health, and the comforts it bears on its wing, Let me hope, oh, how soon it would lessen my anguish!
That to-morrow will ease and serenity bring. When travelling alone, quite forlorn, unbefriended,
Sweet hope that to-morrow my wandering will cease; That at home then with care sympathetic attended,
I shall rest unmolested and slumber in peace.
The fond expectation with joy how replete;
To-morrow may see us most happily meet. When six days of labour, each other succeeding,
With hurry and toil bave my spirits oppressed, What pleasure to think, as the last is receding,
To-morrow will be a sweet sabbath of rest. And when the vain shadows of time are retiring,
When life is fast fleeting, and death is in sight, The Christian believing, exulting, aspiring,
Beholds a to-morrow of endless delight! But the infidel then, he sees no to-morrow :
Yet he knows that his moments are hastening away; Poor wretch! can he feel, without heart-rending sorrow,
That his joys and his life will expire with to-day!
THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand; “Hark ye,” said he, “'tis an odd story this About the crows !”—“I don't know what it is,” Replied his friend.----“No! I'm surprised at that; Where I come from, it is the common chat ;
But you shall hear : an odd affair indeed !
“Impossible !" " Nay, but 'tis really true; I had it from good hands, and so may you.” “ From whose, I pray ?”- Sohaving named the man, Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran. “Sir, did you tell”- relating the affair“Yes, sir, I did ; and if ’tis worth your care, 'Twas Mr, Such-a-one, who told it me; But, by the by, 'twas Two black crows, not Three.”
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event, Quick, to the third, the virtuoso went. "Sir"_and so forth—" Why, yes ; the thing is fact, Though in regard to number not exact ; It was not Two black crows, 'twas only One, The truth of that you may depend upon : The gentleman himself told me the case.” " Where may I find him ?”_" Why, in such a place.”
Away he went; and having found him out, "Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt.”--Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know, if true what he had heard ; “ Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?”—“NOT I.”— “ Bless me!-how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one ; And here, I find, all comes at last to None ! Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?”— “ Crow- crow-perhaps I might, now I recall The matter o'er.” “ And, pray, sir, what was't ?" “Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, Something that was-was black, sir, as a crow.”
QDE TO INDEPENDENCE. The spirit, Independence, let me share,
Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye, Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. Thou, guardian genius, thou didst teach my youth
Pomp and her tinsel livery to despise : My lips, by thee chastised to early truth,
Ne'er paid that homage which the heart denies.
Those sculptured halls my feet shall never tread,
Where varnished Vice and Vanity, combined To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread,
And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind : Where Insolence his wrinkled front uprears,
And all the flowers of spurious fancy blow, And Title his ill-woven chaplet wears,
Full often wreathed around the miscreant's brow :
Where ever dimpling Falsehood, pert and vain,
Presents her cup of stale profession's froth, And pale Disease with all his bloated train,
Torments the sons of gluttony and sloth. In Fortune's car behold the minion ride,
With either India's glittering spoils oppressed : So moves the sumpter-mule in harnessed pride
That bears the treasure which he cannot taste.
For him let venal bards disgrace the bay,
And hireling minstrels wake the tinkling string; Her sensual snares let faithless Pleasure lay,
And all her gingling bells fantastic Folly ring; Disquiet, doubt, and dread shall intervene,
And Nature, still to all her feelings just, In vengeance hang a damp on every seene,
Shook from the baneful pinions of sgust.