He bow'd him to Jehovah's will,
Nor murmur'd at the stern decrée;
For gently falls the chastening rod
On him, whose hope is in his God:
For her, too, who beside his bed

Still watch'd with fond, maternal care,
For her he breathed the pious prayer-
The tear of love and pity shed.
Oft would he bid her try to rest,

And turn his pallid face away,
Lest some unguarded look betray
The pangs, nor sigh nor sound express'd.
When torture rack'd his breast, 'twas known
By sudden shivering starts alone;
Yet would her searching glance espy
The look of stifled agony-

For what can 'scape a mother's eye?

She deem'd in health she loved him more

Than ever mother loved before;
But oh! when thus, in cold decay,
So placid, so resign'd he lay,
And she beheld him waste away,
And mark'd that gentle tenderness,
Which watch'd and wept for her distress;
Then did her transient firmness melt
To tears of love, more deeply felt;
And dearer still he grew-and dearer-
E'en as the day of death drew nearer.

DEATH.

BEILBY PORTEUS, D.D.

Let the gay songster rove, and gently trill The strain of empty joy.-Life and its joys I leave to those that prize them.-At this hour, This solemn hour, when silence rules the world, And wearied nature makes a general pause, Wrapp'd in night's sable robe, through cloisters

drear,

And charnels pale, tenanted by a throng
Of meagre phantoms shooting cross my path
With silent glance, I seek the shadowy vale
Of death!-Deep in a murky cave's recess.
Laved by oblivion's listless stream, and fenced
By shelving rocks, and intermingled horrors
Of yew and cypress' shade, from all intrusion
Of busy noontide beam, the monarch sits
In unsubstantial majesty enthroned.

At his right hand, nearest himself in place
And frightfulness of form, his parent, Sin,
With fatal industry and cruel care,
Basies herself in pointing all his stings,
And tipping every shaft with venom drawn
From her infernal store; around him ranged
In terrible array, and strange diversity

Of uncouth shapes, stand his dread ministers.
Foremost Old Age, his natural ally

And firmest friend: next him diseases thick,
A motley train; Fever with cheek of fire;
Consumption wan; Palsy, half warm with life,
And half a clay-cold lump; joint-torturing Gout,
And ever-gnawing Rheum; Convulsion wild;
Swoln Dropsy; panting Asthma; Apoplex
Full-gorged.-There too the pestilence that walks
In darkness, and the sickness that destroys
At broad noon-day. These and a thousand more,
Horrid to tell, attentive wait; and, when

T2

By Heaven's command, Death waves his ebon

wand,

Sudden rush forth to execute his purpose, And scatter desolation o'er the earth.

SOURCE OF HAPPINESS.

POLLOK.

WHETHER in crowds or solitudes, in streets Or shaded groves, dwelt Happiness, it seems In vain to ask; her nature makes it vain: Though poets much, and hermits, talked and sung Of orooks, and crystal founts, and weeping dews, And myrtle bowers, and solitary vales, And with the nymph made assignations there, And wooed her with the love-sick oaten reed; And sages too, although less positive, Advised their sons to court her in the shade: Delirious babble all! Was happiness. Was self-approving, Ged-approving joy, In drops of dew, however pure? in gales, However sweet? in wells, however clear? Or groves, however thick with verdant shade?

True, these were of themselves exceeding fair, How fair at morn and even! worthy the walk Of loftiest mind, and gave, when all within Was right, a feast of overflowing bliss; But were the occasion, not the cause of joy. They waked the native fountains of the soul, Which slept before; and stirred the holy tides

Of feeling up, giving the heart to drink,
From its own treasures, draughts of perfect sweet.

The Christian faith, which better knew the
heart

Of man, him thither sent for peace, and thus
Declared: Who finds it, let him find it there;
Who finds it not, for ever let him seek
In vain: 'tis God's most holy, changeless will.

True happiness had no localities,
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went,
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart
Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed, or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed, or injury
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued.
Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned. where'er
A sin was beartily abjured and left;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish;
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled.

About the joys and pleasures of the world,
This question was not seldom in debate:
Whether the righteous man, or sinner, had
The greatest share, and relished them the most?
Truth gives the answer thus, gives it distinct,
Nor needs to reason long: The righteous man.
For what was he denied of earthly growth,
Worthy the name of good? Truth answers, noud

Had he not appetites, and sense, and will? Might he not eat, if Providence allowed, The finest of the wheat? Might he not drink The choicest wine? True, he was temperate; But then, was temperance a foe to peace? Might he not rise, and clothe himself in gold? Ascend, and stand in palaces of kings? True he was honest still and charitable: Were then these virtues foes to human peace? Might he not do exploits, and gain a name? Most true, he trod not down a fellow's right, Nor walked up to a throne on skulls of men: Were justice, then, and mercy, foes to peace? Had he not friendships, loves, and smiles, and hopes?

Sat not around his table sons and daughters!
Was not his ear with music pleased? his eye
With light? his nostrils with perfumes? his
lips

With pleasant relishes? Grew not his herds?
Fell not the rains upon his meadows! reaped
He not his harvests? and did not his heart
Revel, at will, through all the charities
And sympathies of nature, unconfined?
And were not these all sweetened and sanctified
By dews of holiness shed from above?
Might he not walk through Fancy's airy halls?
Might he not history's ample page survey?
Might he not, finally, explore the depths
Of mental, moral, natural, divine?

But why enumerate thus? One word enough.
There was no joy in all created things,
No drop of sweet, that turned not in the end
To sour, of which the righteous man did not
Partake; partake, invited by the voice