But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.

He taught the Gospel rather than the Law,
And forced himself to drive; but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared;
But when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts and throws his cumbrous cloak away.
Lightning and thunder, Heaven's artillery,
As harbingers before the Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and-GoD is there!

Though he had little, he had some to spare,
To feed the famish'd, and to clothe the bare:
For mortified he was to that degree,
A poorer than himself he would not see.
Wide was his parish; not contracted close
In streets, but here and there a straggling house ⚫
Yet still he was at hand, without request,
To serve the sick, to succor the distress'd,
Tempting on foot, alone, without affright,
The dangers of a dark tempestuous night.

All this the good old man perform'd alone,
Nor spared his pains, for curate he had none.
The proud he tamed, the penitent he cheer'd;
Nor to rebuke the rich offender fear'd.

His preaching much, but more his practice wrought,
A living sermon of the truths he taught.

For this by rules severe his life he squared,

That all might see the doctrines that they heard:

For priests, he said, are patterns for the rest;
The gold of heaven, who bear the God impress'd;
But when the precious coin is kept unclean,
The Sovereign's image is no longer seen.
If they be foul, on whom the people trust,
Well may the baser brass contract a rust.

The prelate for his holy life he prized;
The worldly pomp of prelacy despised.
His Savior came not with a gaudy show:
Nor was his kingdom of the world below.
Patience in want, and poverty of mind,

These marks of church and churchmen he design'd, And living taught, and dying left behind.

Such was the saint, that shone with every grace, Reflecting, Moses-like, his Maker's face. God saw his image lively was express'd, And his own work, as in creation, bless'd.

ON THE SABBATH.

How sweet, upon this sacred day,
The best of all the seven,

To cast our earthly thoughts away,
And think of God and heaven!

How sweet to be allow'd to pray
Our sins may be forgiven!
With filial confidence to say,

"Father! who art in heaven!"

With humble hope to bend the knee,
And, free from folly's leaven,
Confess that we have stray'd from thee,
The righteous Judge of heaven!

How sweet the words of peace to hear
From Him to whom 't is given

To wake the penitential tear,
And lead the way to heaven!

And if to make all sin depart
Vainly the will has striven,
He who regards the inmost heart
Will send his grace from heaven.

When from the bosom that was dear,
By cold unkindness driven,

The heart that knows no refuge here, Shall find a friend in heaven.

And when from all of bliss below

In solitude 't is riven,

He who dispenses weal or wo

Shall raise it up to heaven.

Then hail, thou sacred, blessed day,

The best of all the seven!

When hearts unite their vows to pay Of gratitude to Heaven!

THE WIDOW.

SHE said she was alone within the world:

How could she but be sad!

She whisper'd something of a lad,

With eyes of blue, and light hair sweetly curl'd; \

But the grave had the child!

And yet his voice she heard,

When at the lattice, calm and mild,

The mother in the twilight saw the vine-leaves stirr'd. "Mother," it seem'd to say,

"I love thee;

When thou dost by the side of thy lone pillow pray, My spirit writes the words above thee;

Mother, I watch o'er thee-I love thee."

Where was the husband of that widow'd thing,
That seraph's earthly sire ?—

A soldier dares a soldier's fire;

The murderous ball brought death upon its wing,
Beneath a foreign sky,—

He fell in sunny Spain;

The wife, in silence, saw him die,

But the fond boy's blue eyes gave drops like summer

rain.

"Mother," the poor lad cried,

"He's dying!

We are close by thee, father-at thy bleeding side

Dost thou not hear thy Arthur crying?—

Mother, his lips are closed-he's dying!"

It was a stormy time when the man fell;
And the youth shrunk and pined;

Consumption's worm his pulse entwined—

Prepare his shroud," rung out the convent bell. Yet, through his pain he smiled,

To soothe a parent's grief:

Sad soul! she could not be beguiled:

She saw the bud would leave the guardian leaf!

"Mother," he faintly said,

"Come near me

Kiss me and let me in my father's grave be laid-
I've pray'd that I might still be near thee;
Mother, I'll come again and cheer thee!"

HINDOO HYMN.

TO THE SPIRIT OF GOD, CALLED NARAVENA, i. e. "MOVING ON THE WATER."-Gen. i. 2.

SPIRIT of spirits! who, through every part
Of space expanded, and of endless time,
Beyond the stretch of laboring thought sublime,
Badst uproar into beauteous order start;
Before Heaven was, Thou art;

Ere spheres beneath us roll'd, or spheres above,

Ere earth in firmamental ether hung,

Thou sat'st alone; till through thy mystic love Things unexisting to existence sprung,

And grateful descant sung:

What first impell'd thee to exert thy might?

Goodness unlimited. What glorious light