'He bids the red thunderbolt sleep in its cloud, While calmly it floats o'er the head of the just; But wings it with rage at the crest of the proud, Brings him down, lays him low, brings him down to the dust.

King of kings, Lord of lords, God of heaven and earth,

Supreme, as in wisdom, in might and in love, Thy sheltering hand overshadow'd my birth,

And hung o'er my childhood a shield from above. When borne on the treacherous current of youth, Thy love steer'd my bark, and made tranquil the stream;

Unfolded benignant the lamp of thy Truth, And made me, though trembling, rejoice in the beam.

"To the bright shore of Manhood when eager I flew, And with novelty charm'd the gay landscape

survey'd ;

To a lone valley pointing, thy Love bade me view How soft was the verdure, how peaceful the

shade;

'Bade my feet from its confines aspire not to stray, Bade me trace its pure brook, nor the streamlet

[way

disdain; Bade me learn (may I learn!) from the emblem my In silence to hold, yet to hold not in vain.

O Father! for now from her orbit the year,
Ere yon fires set again, shall her speed have
withdrawn;

And another with pinions unfurl'd her career,
Stands prepared to begin at the peep of the dawn;

'O, frown not, her tribute while gratitude pays, And hails Thee with rapture the Lord of her

doom;

If Hope, still confiding, her accent should raise, And plead with Thee, Father, for mercy to come!

'Be the year now at hand as the day that is past!— As the sun rose this morn in calm lustre array'd, So rise the new year by no grief overcast,

No turbulent storm of misfortune dismay'd!

'On the splendour of noon no obscurity stole, Save the dim fleeting cloud that but temper'd the ray:

So if Sorrow must darken the months as they roll, O, mild be her shadows, and passing her sway!

'As the moonlight now slumbers on wood, hill, and plain,

And in silence the winds and the waters repose; So may Peace shed her beams on the year in its

wane,

So bright be its evening, so tranquil its close!

And when morn, noon, and eve I no longer behold, When days, months, and years, Lord, I number no more;

In the arms of thy mercy thy servant enfold,
Thy works to contemplate, thy name to adore!'

REV. T. GISBORNE.

THE DYING INDIAN.

An Ode.

I. 1.

'WHY pause before I burn?

Your torments I defy!

Convoke your chiefs, from me to learn
How Mohawk warriors die.'
Impatient torture hail'd the morn:

The stake was rear'd, the captive bound:
The smouldering faggot slowly blazed,
Age and youth, assembled round,
With taunting aspect gazed;

While thus, retorting scorn for scorn,

The song of death he raised.

I. 2.

'Pale at the sight of blood,

Ye women chiefs, go hunt some helpless prey! Lurk for the marten, traps for sables lay, Or spear the beaver plunging in the flood: But, cowards, well beware

The wolf or rugged bear!

Vilest of the Indian name,

Wretches that tremble at a Mohawk's frown;
Unskill'd with glorious pangs to crown

The dying warrior's fame!

I. 3.

'Is this your vaunted art!

Is this to act the torturer's part?
Go, rival a musquito's smart!

Your bravest chiefs of yore

I seized: their flesh my burning pincers tore:
Round them I wove the glowing cane:

Red splinters pierced each hissing vein:
While from my back, in bloody triumph hung,
Scalps of their slaughter'd brethren swung.
The woods return'd their moan!

I watch'd the writhing limb,
Saw the rack'd eyeball swim,

And laugh'd at every groan!

II. 1.

6 Prepare to meet their fate.

See Mohawk vengeance rise ! Your race I doom to Mohawk hate!

Lo, swift as lightning flies,

My sons your skulking wiles have cross'd:
The wood they scour, the swamp, the glen:

I see the shortlived fray!

Wood and hill and trackless fen

Echo your wild dismay.

Cowards! your scorch'd bones are toss'd

Of Mohawk dogs the prey.

II. 2.

'Behind yon mountains blue,

Clear to the valiant, to the coward's eye Hung, a dim vapour, in the distant sky, My sires the chase renew;

And scenes of martial deed,

The dauntless warrior's meed.

There they mark your servile race

To women's toils, to coward's doom consign'd.
My sires! I come; we mount the wind,

And scoff at their disgrace!'

II. 3.

He spoke, he laugh'd, he died.

6 Hail, my unequal'd son,' said Pride.
'Not so;' a voice from heaven replied.
Is he the truly brave,

Victor of Pain, but thine and Passion's slave?
His holy head see Stephen bow:

See meekness calm his angel brow.

Around see Malice scowl, see Vengeance glare;
See Rage the murderous stones prepare ;
And Saul the garments keep.

Hark!" Lord, their sin forgive!
My spirit, Lord, receive!"

He spoke, and fell asleep.'

REV. T. GISBORNE.

STANZAS.

Lo! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour
The flames of life, that bounteous Nature gives;
The limpid dew becomes the rosy flower;

The' insensate dust awakes and moves and lives.

All speaks of change: the renovated forms
Of long forgotten things arise again.
The light of suns, the breath of angry storms,
The everlasting motions of the main;

These are but engines of the' Eternal Will,
The One Intelligence; whose potent sway
Has ever acted, and is acting still,

Whilst stars, and worlds, and systems, all obey: