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As a lone moraliser midst the vaults

Of some antique cathedral musing strays,
And, in the fulness of his o'er-wrought soul,
Unconsciously gives voice to inward thought,
Then, starts to hear the silent depths profan'd,
And, fancifully deems his idle breath
Hath vext the serious slumber of the dead ;
Like that lone wanderer, in amaze,


pause Incredulous, that touch of mine hath dard To wake the echoes of the sacred lyre. Spirits of Holy song! InvisibleWho watch beside the golden stringed harp! Ye, who erst bore upon your ready wings, To heaven's pleased gates, from Salem's holy fane, Its loud vibrations, when the shepherd king


Swept the full chords of glorious melody,
Forgive, my high presuming, if ye deem
My hand too feeble, for a theme so bold :-
Ye will, ye will, forgive me ;-for ye are
Of Him, who looketh on the heart of man ;--
Of Him, who noted, not disdainfully,
The humble offering, of the widow's mite.
Yet, all untaught my strain ;-and if, perchance,
At distant intervals, some simple chord
Be touched, that sounds not all unmusical,
Alas! my slender skill is only won,
Not from the lessons gain'd in learning's school,
(Assorting ill with woman's quiet lot,)
But from the sacred page of holy writ;
That page whose heavenly inspiration touch'd
My heart with feeling and with pious thought,
Which bursting to expression, I have pour’d
In pleasant rapture forth. All timidly
I yield my song to the wild air of heaven,
Which ofttimes bears, upon its noiseless wings,
Th’invisible seed, that fructifies the waste,
When so the blest. Creator, hath ordained.

In the wide desert of the various world
Perchance, some wandering eye, some youthful heart,
Weeping its earliest woes, or lonely breast
(Albeit unused to dwell and meditate
Upon the sacred text) may, from my verse
Be led to search the blessed source from whence
Its feeble flame was caught; and if He wills
(Whose will controls the stubborn hearts of men)
Searching may find, within the Bible's leaves,
Divine instruction, comfort, and support
Till then all unimagin'd, and unfelt.
Oh! if such blest and holy fruit should spring
From my imperfect, untaught, skilless strain,
Though small the harvest, and in fields unseen,
Yet, sure if one still, solitary hour
Be won from worldly vanity, and giv'n
To high and holy thoughts, that rescued hour
May plead sweet pardon for my daring hand.



The day is thine, the night also is thine.-Psalm lxxiv. 16.

The day is Thine!--oh Thine the day

At morning's tender beam ;
When first the sun's far-slanting ray

Uncertain gilds the stream;
And opening flowers their tints display,

And silver dew-drops gleam.

The day, the glorious day is THINE !

In all her pomp and pride;
When bright the heavens in splendour shine

And high the sun doth ride ;
For Thine! O Lord, the hand divine

Her radiance that supplied.

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