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On the Death of Mr. William Galbraith,

Of Boyle.

All that's bright must fade

The fairest still the fleetest.

Farewell to thee, William; farewell to thy smile, And thy bright-beaming eye, full of gladness the

while;

Thy beauties are faded-departed thy bloom;
Thou wert early predestined to enter the tomb.

We boast not thy virtues; the sad glistening eye— The tender heart-bursting proclaimed in each sigh, These, these are the eulogies grav'n on the heart, Far deeper than marble;-they ne'er can depart.

And sure if the spirits of mortals made blest

Dare to visit the regions their hearts lov'd the best, Even now o'er his sad friends in silence he steals, And the lessons he taught to their memory reveals.

We weep not thy lot, for we know thou art gone To the mansions prepared since the world begun ; We know that the crown shall encircle thy brow, And 'twere useless, lov'd angel, to weep for thee now.

Yet oft when the sun gilds with glory the West, And we point to that sky as the home of thy rest, We shall feel that on this earth we meet not again, And one bright drop of sorrow shall fall for thee

then.

H

Woman's Power,

Through mighty Nature's handy works,
The common or the uncommon.

There's nought in all her limits wide
Can be compared to woman.—

-Old Song.

The warrior is called to the red field of fight,
And the trumpet hath warn'd him away;
Nor kindred nor parents can slacken his might,—
He eagerly pants for the fray.

But there is a check to his fiery zeal,

And he trembles to think on the morrow; One gentle sigh and one tender appeal

Hath doomed his stout heart to its sorrow.

The seaman nor dreams of the perilous main,
Nor thinks of the dangers around him;
One thought hath awakened his only pain-
One spell that to earth hath bound him.

The warrior thinks of the lily hand
That spread the scarf upon him;

And the seaman looks to the bright green land
For the angel smile that won him.

66

A Prayer,

Written under pressure of great bodily affliction.

'And the prayer of Faith shall save the sick; and the Lord shall raise him up; and if he have committed sins, they shall be forgiven him.-JAMES, 5c. 15v.

Oh God of love, and life, and truth!
Against whose maxims I have striven,
Can all the crimes of misspent youth
And early manhood be forgiven?
Canst thou accept of one like me,

A sinner who has scorned thy ways,
And spent, with scarce a thought of thee,
In Satan's service life's best days?

Oh yes; thy Holy Word declares
Salvation to the rebel still,
Escaped from guilt's defiling snares,

Subdued in passion, mind, and will.
Even though my sins a crimson stream,
Roll'd through life's years to manhood's tide,
Still, still for me the Saviour came,-

For me he suffered, bled, and died.

Where, unbelief, is now thy power

To soothe the heart, to calm despair? Can pleasure past give one short hour Of respite to corroding care?

Oh, vain deceit !-the soul must link

Its hopes upon some stronger chain,

While lingering on the fearful brink
Of endless joy or endless pain.

Where are the Social maxims now,
That promised such internal ease?
They will not cure my aching brow,
Nor conscience with its pangs appease.
The world, if grasped within my hand,
In all its untouched stores of wealth,
Would now be powerless to command
An hour of fresh, though fleeting health.

At such a time what stay have we,
On which to rest our hopes and fears?
Before us yawns Eternity,-
Behind us rise our misspent years,

We have the promise Jesus gave,-
On which there hangs no shade of doubt,-
That strips its terror from the grave,-
"I will not cast the contrite out!

Almighty Father! God of Peace!

On thee with earnest voice I call; My sins from thy great book erase, Save the repentant prodigal!

Then may

I too with joy exclaim

"Thro' Death's dark valley though I stray,

I still shall call upon thy name

Thy rod and staff shall be my stay."

A Printer's Song.

Sung at an Anniversary of the Manchester Typographical Society.

The sun is set, and the moon is up,
And the stars are growing pale;

But the colour's pure that fills the cup,-
With joy we turn for ale.

The barley press'd

Yields blood the best

That corn or fruit can give ;
We'll set off at break

Of the bright sun's streak,-
'Tis the merriest life to live.

Even kings might envy now our case,
As we rise at dawn of day,
Tho' plainer lads did never chase

The recreant care away.

Can mortal mount

To a clearer fount

For a primer draught than this,

Like etherial dew

Upon bells of blue,

Which the morning sunbeams kiss.

Then here's to him of the bearded corn!

We love his smiling eye;

At close of day, or the break of morn,

From the goblet who could fly?

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