Yes, oh my God!-such crimes as mine, so dread,
Leave but the choice of punishment to thee;
Thy interest calls for judgment on my head,

And even thy mercy dares not plead for me!
Thy will be done since 'tis thy glory's due,

Did from mine eyes the endless torrents flow; Sinite-it is time-though endless death ensue,

I bless th' avenging hand that lays me low. But on what spot shall fall thine anger's flood, [blood? That has not first been drench'd in Christ's atoning

POEMS OF A LATER DATE.

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS, WHO, WHEN HENRY REASONED WITH HIM CALMLY, ASKED, 'IF HE DID NOT FEEL FOR HIM?'

'Do I not feel?' The doubt is keen as steel.

Yea, I do feel-most exquisitely feel;

My heart can weep, when from my downcast eye
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:

Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act-whatever pangs surround,
'Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived, an unloved solitary thing;

Even then I learn'd to bury deep from day
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:
Even then I learn'd for others' cares to feel:
Even then I wept I had not power to heal:
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,
I heard the wretched's groan, and mourn'd the
wretched's doom.

Who were my friends in youth?—the midnight fire→→
The silent moon-beam, or the starry choir;
To these I 'plained, or turn'd from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper's friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe'er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix'd with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast's my coffer, and my God's my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will shew,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh-yet, when no eye can see,
weep for nature, and I weep for thee.

I

Yes, thou didst wrong me, ***; I fondly thought
In thee I'd found the friend my heart had sought!
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;

I fondly thought, ere Time's last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes-and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time's trial o'er, shall clasp each other's hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine, H. K. WHITE.

Half past Eleven o' Clock at Night.

CHRISTMAS-DAY, 1804.

YET once more, and once more, awake, my Harp,
From silence and neglect one lofty strain,
Lofty, yet wilder than the winds of Heaven,
And speaking mysteries more than words can tell,
I ask for thee, for I, with hymnings high,

Would join the dirge of the departing year.
Yet with no wintry garland from the woods,
Wrought of the leafless branch, or ivy sear,
Wreathe I thy tresses, dark December! now;
Me higher quarrel calls, with loudest song,
And fearful joy, to celebrate the day

Of the Redeemer. Near two thousand suns
Have set their seals upon the rolling lapse
Of generations, since the day-spring first
Beam'd from on high!-Now to the mighty mass
Of that increasing aggregate we add

One unit more. Space, in comparison,

How small, yet mark'd with how much misery;
Wars, famines, and the fury, Pestilence,
Over the nations hanging her dread scourge;
The oppress'd, too, in silent bitterness,
Weeping their sufferance: and the arm of
Forcing the scanty portion from the weak,
And steeping the lone widow's couch with tears.

wrong,

So has the year been character'd with woe,
In Christian land, and mark'd with wrongs and crimes:
Yet 'twas not thus He taught—not thus He lived,
Whose birth we this day celebrate with prayer
And much thanksgiving.-He, a man of woes,
Went on the way appointed,-path, though rude,
Yet borne with patience still:--He came to cheer
The broken-hearted, to raise up the sick,
And on the wandering and benighted mind
To pour the light of truth.-O task divine!
O more than angel teacher! He had words

To soothe the barking waves, and hush the winds;
And when the soul was toss'd with troubled seas,
Wrapp'd in thick darkness and the howling storm,
He, pointing to the star of peace on high,
Arm'd it with holy fortitude, and bade it smile

At the surrounding wreck.

When with deep agony his heart was rack'd,
Not for himself the tear-drop dew'd his cheek,
For them He wept, for them to Heaven He pray'd,
His persecutors - Father, pardon them,

They know not what they do.'

Angels of Heaven,

Ye who beheld him fainting on the cross,
And did him homage, say, may mortal join
The hallelujahs of the risen God?

Will the faint voice and grovelling song be heard
Amid the seraphim in light divine?

Yes, He will deign, the Prince of Peace will deign,
For mercy, to accept the hymn of faith,
Low though it be and humble.-Lord of life,
The Christ, the Comforter, thine advent now
Fills my uprising soul.-I mount, I fly
Far o'er the skies, beyond the rolling orbs;
The bonds of flesh dissolve, and earth recedes,
And care, and pain, and sorrow are no more.

YET once again, my Harp, yet once again,
One ditty more, and on the mountain ash
I will again suspend thee. I have felt
The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd,
I woke to thee the melancholy song.

Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe,
I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth:

Not unrepining, for my froward heart

Still turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow

Of spring-gales past-the woods and storied haunts
Of my not songless boyhood.-Yet once more,
Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones,
My long neglected Harp.-He must not sink ;
The good, the brave—he must not, shall not sink
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour
No precious dews of Aganippe's well,
Or Castaly, though from the morning cloud
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse,
Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows,
Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent
Of Britain, my lov'd country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe

Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson,- tears as warm
And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd
Fast from thy honest heart.-Thou, Pity, too,
If ever I have loved, with faltering step,
To follow thee in the cold and starless night,
To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff;
And as I heard the deep gun bursting loud
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd
Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds,
The dying soul's viaticum; if oft

Amid the carnage of the field I've sate

With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung
To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul,
With mercy and forgiveness-visitant
Of Heaven-sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold
For argument so great, for theme so high.
How dimly on that morn the sun arose,
Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when-