If faith's enraptured vision now be true,
And things invisible stand forth to view,
Though eye to eye th' imbodied soul can see,
Self-lost amidst unclouded Deity,

He chooses, rather than a seraph's seat,
The lowest place at his Redeemer's feet;
And, with th' eternal weight of glory prest,
Turns even in paradise to Christ for rest.

Come we who once beheld his noontide blaze,
And hid before him our diminish'd rays;
Since his translation to a higher sphere,

We may, we must by our own light appear;
When sun and moon their greater beams resign,
The stars come out; they cannot choose but shine;
With force like his all eyes we cannot strike,
We may not equal him, but may be like:
Nor let the meanest think his lamp too dim,
In a dark world the LORD hath need of him;
By feeble instruments in providence,
GOD is well pleased his bounties to dispense;
In his economy of grace the same;

-The weakest are almighty in his name.

What though the great, the good, the glorious fall,

He reigns whose kingdom ruleth over all.

-Talk not of talents;-what hast thou to do?

Thy duty, be thy portion five or two;
Talk not of talents;—is thy duty done?
Thou hadst sufficient, were they ten or one.
LORD, what my talents are I cannot tell,
Till thou shalt give me grace to use them well:
That grace impart, the bliss will then be mine,
But all the power and all the glory thine.

IN MEMORY OF

THE REV. JAMES HARVEY,

OF WESTON FAVELL, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE,

Who died on Christmas-day, 1758, aged forty-three years.

COMPOSED ON AN OCCASIONAL CELEBRATION OF HIS VIRTUES AND TALENTS, AT THAT VILLAGE, IN 1823.

WHERE is the house for all the living found?

-Go ask the deaf, the dumb, the dead;

All answer, without voice or sound,

Each resting in his bed;

Look down and see,

Beneath thy feet,

A place for thee;

-There all the living meet.

Whence come the beauteous progeny of spring!
-They hear a still, small voice, "Awake!"
And while the lark is on the wing,

From dust and darkness break;

Flowers of all hues

Laugh in the gale,

Sparkle with dews,

And dance o'er hill and dale.

Who leads through trackless space the stars of night?

-The Power that made them guides them still;

They know Him not, yet, day and night,

They do his perfect will:

Unchanged by age,

They hold on high

Their pilgrimage

Of glory round the sky.

Stars, flowers, and tombs were themes for solemn thought With him whose memory we recall;

Yet more than eye can see he sought:

His spirit look'd through all,
Keenly discern'd

The truths they teach,

Their lessons learn'd,

And gave their silence speech.

Go, meditate with him among the tombs,
And there the end of all things view;
Visit with him spring's earliest blooms,
See all things there made new;
Thence rapt aloof

In ecstasy,

Hear, from heaven's roof,

Stars preach eternity.

We call him blessed whom the LORD hath blest

And made a blessing;-long to shed

Light on the living, from his rest,

And hope around the dead:

Oh! for his lot,

Who dwells in light,

Where flowers fade not,

And stars can find no night.

TO THE MEMORY OF

THE LATE JOSEPH BROWNE,

OF LOTHERSDALE,

ONE OF THE PEOPLE CALLED QUAKERS,

Who, with seven others of his religious community, had suffered a long confinement in the Castle of York, and loss of all his worldly property, for conscience sake, in the years 1795 and 1796. He was a thoughtful, humble-minded man, and occasionally solaced himself with "Prison Amusements" in verse, at the time when the Author of these Stanzas, in a neighbouring room, was whiling away the hours of a shorter captivity in the same manner.

66

SPIRIT, leave thine house of clay;
Lingering Dust, resign thy breath!
Spirit, cast thy chains away;

Dust, be thou dissolved in death!"

Thus thy GUARDIAN ANGEL spoke,
As he watch'd thy dying bed;
As the bonds of life he broke ;
And the ransom'd captive fled.

"Prisoner, long detain'd below;

Prisoner, now with freedom blest;
Welcome from a world of wo,
Welcome to a land of rest!"

Thus thy GUARDIAN ANGEL sang,
As he bore thy soul on high;
While with Hallelujahs rang
All the region of the sky.

-Ye that mourn a FATHER's loss,

Ye that weep a FRIEND no more,

Call to mind the CHRISTIAN cross,

Which your FRIEND, your FATHER, bore.

Grief, and penury, and pain

Still attended on his

way;

And Oppression's scourge and chain,
More unmerciful than they.

Yet while travelling in distress
('Twas the eldest curse of sin)
Through the world's waste wilderness,
He had paradise within.

And along that vale of tears,

Which his humble footsteps trod,

Still a shining path appears,

Where the MOURNER walk'd with GOD.

Till his MASTER, from above,

When the promised hour was come,

Sent the chariot of his love

To convey the WANDERER home.

Saw ye not the wheels of fire,

And the steeds that cleft the wind?

Saw ye not his soul aspire,

When his mantle dropp'd behind?

Ye who caught it as it fell,

Bind that mantle round your breast;
So in you his meekness dwell,
So on you his spirit rest!

Yet rejoicing in his lot,

Still shall Memory love to weep O'er the venerable spot

Where his dear cold relics sleep.

Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,

Every atom of thy trust

Rests in hope again to rise.

Hark! the judgment-trumpet calls— "Soul, rebuild thine house of clay : IMMORTALITY thy walls,

And ETERNITY thy day!"