And be thy thoughts to work divine addressed; Do something--do it soon-with all thy might; An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, And God himself inactive were no longer blessed. Some high or humble enterprise of good Contemplate till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food, And kindle in thy heart a flame refined; Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose-to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fixed and feelings purely kind,
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.

No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit
To light on man as from the passing air;
The lamp of genius, though by nature lit,
If not protected, pruned, and fed with care,
Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful glare;
And learning is a plant that spreads and towers
Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare,

That, 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and showers

Of half a century, grows alone before it flowers.

Has immortality of name been given

To them that idly worship hills and groves,
And burn sweet incense to the queen of heaven?
Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves,

To measure worlds, and follow where each moves?
Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease,
By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim loves?
Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace,
By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles of Greece?
Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would appear
But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim

Thy want of worth; a charge thou couldst not hear From other lips, without a blush of shame,

Or pride indignant; then be thine the blame,

And make thyself of worth; and thus enlist The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame; 'Tis infamy to die and not be missed,

Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,
And thou an angel's happiness shalt know,—
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow

In

many a branching stream, and wider grow; The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow,

Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers, And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal bowers.

A BRIGHT or dark eternity in view,
With all its fixed, unutterable things,
What madness in the living to pursue,

As their chief portion, with the speed of wings,
The joys that death-beds always turn to stings!
Infatuated man, on earth's smooth waste
To dance along the path that always brings
Quick to an end, from which with tenfold haste
Back would he gladly fly till all should be retraced!

Our life is like the hurrying on the eve
Before we start, on some long journey bound,
When fit preparing to the last we leave,
Then run to every room the dwelling round,
And sigh that nothing needed can be found,
Yet go we must, and soon as day shall break;
We snatch an hour's repose, when loud the sound
For our departure calls; we rise and take
A quick and sad farewell, and go ere well awake.

Reared in the sunshine, blasted by the storms
Of changing time, scarce asking why or whence,

Men come and go like vegetable forms,

Though heaven appoints for them a work immense,
Demanding constant thought and zeal intense,
Awaked by hopes and fears that leave no room
For rest to mortals in the dread suspense,
While yet they know not if beyond the tomb
A long, long life of bliss or wo shall be their doom.
What matter whether pain or pleasures fill
The swelling heart one little moment here?
From both alike how vain is every thrill,
While an untried eternity is near!
Think not of rest, fond man, in life's career,
The joys and grief that meet thee, dash aside
Like bubbles, and thy bark right onward steer
Through calm and tempest, till it cross the tide,
Shoot into port in triumph, or serenely glide.

JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN.

THE Rev. James Wallis Eastburn was born in New York in 1797, and after graduating at Columbia College, studied theology under Bishop Griswold. He was the most intimate friend of Robert C. Sands, and wrote with him "Yamoyden," which was first published in 1820. After receiving orders, Mr. Eastburn went to Virginia, but sickness compelled him to abandon his profession, and he died at sea, on a voyage in search of health, on the 2d of December, 1819. The Bishop of the Episcopal Church in Massachusetts, is a brother of the deceased poet.

THE RESTORATION OF ISRAEL.

MOUNTAINS of Israel, rear on high

Your summits, crowned with verdure new,
And spread your branches to the sky,
Refulgent with celestial dew.
O'er Jordan's stream, of gentle flow,
And Judah's peaceful valleys, smile,

And far reflect the lovely glow

Where ocean's waves incessant toil.

See where the scattered tribes return;
Their slavery is burst at length;
And purer flames to Jesus burn,

And Zion girds on her new strength;
New cities bloom along the plain,
New temples to Jehovah rise,
The kindling voice of praise again
Pours its sweet anthems to the skies.

The fruitful fields again are blest

And yellow harvests smile around; Sweet scenes of heavenly joy and rest, Where peace and innocence are found. The bloody sacrifice no more

Shall smoke upon the altars high,— But ardent hearts, from hill to shore, Send grateful incense to the sky!

The jubilee of man is near,

When earth, as heaven, shall own His reign;

He comes to wipe the mourner's tear,

And cleanse the heart from sin and pain.

Praise him, ye tribes of Israel, praise

The king that ransomed you from wo:

Nations, the hymn of triumph raise,
And bid the song of rapture flow!

TEMPESTS their furious course may sweep
Swiftly o'er the troubled deep,

Darkness may lend her gloomy aid,
And wrap the groaning world in shade;
But man can show a darker hour,
And bend beneath a stronger power;—
There is a tempest of the soul,
A gloom where wilder billows roll!

The howling wilderness may spread
Its pathless deserts, parched and dread,
Where not a blade of herbage blooms,
Nor yields the breeze its soft perfumes;
Where silence, death, and horror reign,
Unchecked, across the wide domain ;—
There is a desert of the mind

More hopeless, dreary, undefined!

There Sorrow, moody Discontent,
And gnawing Care, are wildly blent;
There Horror hangs her darkest clouds,
And the whole scene in gloom enshrouds;
A sickly ray is cast around,

Where naught but dreariness is found;
A feeling that may not be told,
Dark, rending, lonely, drear, and cold.

The wildest ills that darken life
Are rapture to the bosom's strife;
The tempest, in its blackest form,
Is beauty to the bosom's storm;
The ocean, lashed to fury loud,
Its high wave mingling with the cloud,
peaceful, sweet serenity

To passion's dark and boundless sea.

There sleeps no calm, there smiles no rest,

When storms are warring in the breast;
There is no moment of repose

In bosoms lashed by hidden woes;
The scorpion sting, the fury rears,
And every trembling fibre tears;
The vulture preys with bloody beak
Upon the heart that can but break!

PART OF THE NINETEENTH PSALM.

THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow,
And sparkling spheres of golden light,