And false the light on Glory's plume

As fading hues of even,

And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom
Are blossoms gather'd from the tomb,-
There's nothing bright but Heaven.

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven;
And fancy's flash and reason's ray
Serve but to light the troubled way,—
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

T. MOORE.

HYMN ON THE SPRING.

WHILE Nature, full of milder grace,
Expects the glad return of Spring,
Already see the feather'd race

Chaunt jocund on exulting wing!

The rising flowers, the budding trees,
Each airy songster's notes inspire,
Nor shall my Muse forget with these
To join the universal choir.

Hail! Parent! God! Creator! hail!
Rich fount of life, of sense, of joy!
Thy praise, till this weak tongue shall fail,
For ever shall this tongue employ.

When morn dispels the shades of night,
I trace thee through the livelong day;

When eve succeeds retiring light,

Thy name still animates my lay.

While, taught by thy unerring skill,
Successive seasons intervene,
Earth all obedient hears thy will,
And spreads the vegetable scene.
Thy sun, the herald of thy praise,
Fills with new life the pregnant plains,
Pours on each spot the vital rays;

Bids each be born; and born, sustains.
The brood that crowds the watery space,
The rapid streams, and trickling rills,
The insect troops, the reptile race,

The cattle on a thousand hills,

All, all confess thy tender care,

And thine Almighty Power proclaim;
Through earth and sea and trackless air
The voice of Nature is the same.
The bright assembled worlds on high
Roll constant through the liquid space,
With sparkling glories gild the sky,

Where thy great hand describes their race. The dew-bent clouds, for Thee, their Lord, Distill the gentle kindly shower; Or, ready to fulfil thy word,

The fierce impetuous torrent pour.

Restrain'd by thee, the fanning gales

The thick wood's waving surface sweep, Or, loosed, rush headlong through the vales, And plough the hoarse-resounding deep.

At thy command, in silent flakes

Congeal'd descends the fleecy snow; Vast ice incrusts the stagnate lakes; And streams arrested cease to flow.

By thy Almighty Nod enlarged,

The awful thunder shakes the skies;
And through the cleft expanse discharged,
Sudden the forked lightning flies.

'See this, thou madly stubborn mind,
Whom wilful errors lead astray;
Whose eye to fair experience blind,
Amidst the circling blaze of day,
'Can see no Providence Divine,

The wise, the wondrous plan advance;
No power supreme through Nature shine;
No world but this; no God but chance.

'Put off the mean, the fatal pride

Which turns thy foot from truth's plain road, And own a God alone supplied

The very power to doubt a God.

'From Him, the' exhaustless source of good, Thy parts, thine active spirits flow; Through His kind aid is understood All art can teach, all man can know. 'And art thou still perversely wrong? Thy rash resolves can nothing move? Not all the amazing proofs that throng Within, around thee, and above! 'Persist! but, know the day will come, (Be sure 'twill come ;-perhaps 'tis near!) When thou, beneath conviction dumb,

Confused and conscious shalt appear;

'When thou with shame, remorse, and tears, Shalt open thine unwilling eyes;

Shalt feel the truth thy folly sneers;
Shalt try the Power thy pride denies!'

Exalted then to perfect bliss,

O'er worlds of joy the good shall rove; Who sought those happier worlds in this, Through faith, integrity, and love.

Transporting thought! O God! thy grace,
As onward dazzled reason goes,

Bright and more bright its beams displays,
More glorious scenes of wonder shows!"

In vain, my Muse, thy hand essays
To tune the faintly sounding shell;
Leave to eternity the praise

Which scarce eternity can tell.

BISHOP.

VERSES

ON THE

Beath of the Rev. Thomas Spencer, of Liverpool,

WHO WAS DROWNED IN BATHING IN THE TIDE, AUGUST 5, 1811.

Thy way is in the sea, and thy path in the great waters, and thy footsteps are not known. Psalm Ïxxvii. 19.

I WILL not sing a mortal's praise;
To Thee I consecrate the lays,

To whom my powers belong;
These gifts, upon thine altar strown,
O God! accept-accept thine own:
My gifts are thine; be thine alone

The glory of my song.

In earth and ocean, sky and air,
All that is excellent and fair,
Seen, felt, or understood,
From one eternal cause descends,
To one eternal centre tends,
With God begins, continues, ends,
The source and stream of good.

I worship not the sun at noon,
The wandering stars, the changing moon,
The wind, the flood, the flame;

I will not bow the votive knee

To wisdom, virtue, liberty;

'There is no god but GOD' for me, Jehovah is his name.

Him through all nature I explore;
Him in his creatures I adore,
Around, beneath, above;

But clearest in the human mind
His bright resemblance when I find,
Grandeur with purity combined,
I most admire and love.

O, there was One-on earth awhile
He dwelt; but transient as a smile
That turns into a tear

His beauteous image pass'd us by;
He came like lightning from the sky,
He seem'd as dazzling to the eye,
As prompt to disappear.

Sweet in his undissembling mien
Were genius, candour, meekness seen,