To my Father,

Written on New Year's Day.

The New Year, with a gladsome face,
Is smiling o'er the land;

A festive time of mirth it brings,
And pleasure with her fairy rings,
And with her magic wand,
Comes tempting beauty now to bless
Her season with fresh loveliness.

"My Father, once again we both have passed The revolutions of another year;

But are we fitter than we were the last

For that dread summons all mankind must hear?

Has Spring, that made the budding flow'rets blow, And clad the earth with verdant coat of green, Taught us to think from whence these blessings flow, How comes their verdure, and who gives them sheen?

Did Summer, with its scorching sunny day,
Ripening the corn alike for rich and poor,

Bring to our minds that each resplendent ray
Beam'd from his hand who makes or mars our store?

Or when the husbandman we chanced to meet,

In Autumn, with his grain-enladen team,

Were our hearts rais'd to Him who 'gleans the wheat,' But "burns the chaff with never-dying flame."

And have the falling leaves in Winter's chill,
When fertile fields give place to barren soil,

Warned us that we, too, soon some space must fill In the cold earth, freed from our wordly toil?

If the revolving seasons thus have brought
Home to our hearts the truths we all should know,
We have not looked in vain, (by nature taught)
To Nature's God, from these his works below.

And may we in the now incipient year
Humbly request his aid to guide us through;
That living, we may walk in love and fear-
Aud dying, have a blest Eternity in view.

To my Scrap Book.

What, tho' no measured lines are here,
No theme to suit the critic's ear?

What tho' thy cover doth display
No costly gilding?

My own wild flights of fancy stray
Thro' regions lighted by the ray
Of feelings all my own, that cheer
My heart when no one else is near
With my own building

Of things that are and things that were.

A Hymn for the Unenfranchised.

INSCRIBED TO MY SON,

On the occasion of his being baptized on the same day and by

the same name as

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

Look up, my boy; look up and smile!
A mighty prince with thee,
Born to reign o'er an hundred lands,
The beautiful-the free,

This day received from higher lips

The name that thou must bear ;
He's Britain's and the Ocean's king.
And thou art Labour's Heir.

What though thy hand no sceptre wields,
No crown is on thy brow;

No titled minions round thee wait,
No princely style hast thou?
Thine arm may yet thy sceptre be,
Thine industry a crown;

An honest name the proudest style
On which thy God looks down.

Look up my child,-nay, frown not so;
Altho' no prelate's arm
Encircled thy young head, to guard
Thine after life from harm,

Still thou may'st yet as happy be,
Thy breast as free from care,-

D

Even Princes groan beneath the weight Of anguish and despair,

And thou mayest stand amid the great, And wear as proud a front,

As his, whose sponsors monarchs stand
Around the marble font ;

If but thy heart with lofty scorn
Despise the mighty's ban,

And all thy aim be to attain
"The Dignity of Man."

Look up, my son! thy cradle boasts
No rich wov'n tapestry,
No gilded tassels wrung from hands
In mockery called the free;
Thy father earned that mattress-bed,
That robe thy mother wove;
Thou'rt heir to all thy parents' wealth-
Their labour and their love!

Then ever prize nor dare disdain
Thy low and humble state;
Peace and contentment seldom dwell
Amongst the rich and great.

Thy crest shall be a toil-worn hand,
The world thy wide domain;
Thy birth-right high is LIBERTY
A livelihood to gain!

Look up my boy, look up and smile!
Thy destiny may be,

To reach yon land where all are poor,
Untitled, honest, free;

Nor fear thee Heaven's indignant wrath
For driving from thy gate,

The wretched beggar and his horde
That there thy bounty wait.
Earn an untarnished name, my boy,-
Thy thoughts are all thine own;
Thy heart thy country's, next to Heaven,
Thy soul thy God's alone;

Thou'st brought as much into the world,
As much may'st take away,

As he whose name thy sponsors gave thee At the font to-day.