THE TRINITY.

In this greatest mystery
One's the total sum of Three,
Father, Son, Eternal Word,
And the Holy Ghost the third.

Like the notes within the scale,
Where no single one doth fail,
Diverse each, yet all agree,
Like the great mysterious Three.

Understanding, spirit, soul.
Make a perfect man and whole,
Any broken, breaks the chain,
Single cannot be nor twain.

Like the colors which unite
Unrefracted make a white,
Broken, parted into seven,
Such this mystery of Heaven.

December 28, 1859.

THE LAST DAY OF THE YEAR.

The day departs to Western skies,

The last of 'fifty-nine,

And when to-morrow's sun shall rise,

On 'sixty it will shine.

When midnight from the spire shall toll,
As strikes the twelfth and last,

This shall be wrapped in Time's great scroll
And numbered with the past.

Like letters written on the shore,
Men leave their names behind,

Which Time's great ocean sweepeth o'er,

Then vain the task to find.

When this year's numbered with the dead,
And counted with the past,

Will that be good which comes instead
Will that run out as fast?

I do not know, but hope it may,

For better it may be,

Than this which passeth now away

Unto Time's ebbing sea.

I hope the mornings of its spring
Will shine with brighter skies,
I hope its summer suns will bring
Joy to the hearts I prize.

I hope its winter fires will glow
With brighter ones than this,
Its Christmas revels merrier go
With carol, glee, and kiss.

December, 1859.

LORD MACAULAY.

DIED DECEMBER 28TH, 1859.

O Death! how thou thirstest and cravest, And callest the best and the bravest ;

With the noblest, the wisest, and greatest, Thy ravenous appetite satest.

Essayist, Poet, Historian,

Thy name well thy country may glory in ;

Fancy and Intellect mating,

Nature's rare gifts cultivating.

Like music the roll of thy verses,

The page which Rome's stories rehearses,
In verses magnificent singing,

Like chimes when the church bells are ringing,

In prose thou wast chiefly excelling,
Clive's, Hasting's, history telling,
Londonderry's besieging and slaughter,

Boyne's battle which crimsoned its water.

Whilst James and his pedantry lashing,

Dark stains from our history washing,
To Cromwell and Puritans giving

The praise which they wanted when living.

To Charles whilst his due not denying,
His perfidy showed and his lying,
With pen unrelenting recording,
And sentence with justice awarding.

His prose like a river is flowing,
With the hues of the iris is glowing;
His dust is no monument needing,

In his name his best praise we are reading.

January 4, 1860.

England, prepared for every foe,
Stand well upon thy guard,
Always a front undaunted show,
Ready to strike and ward!

Thou hast no will to fight or seek
A foe beyond thy shore;
But not because thy hand is weak,
Or thy heart brave no more.

No, 'tis because thou'dst rather do
Thy peaceful labors here,

Plough up thy fields, thy harvests sow,
Thy ricks in autumn rear.

Thy silks and cottons buy and sell,
Barter thy wares for gold,

Thy gains against thy losses tell,
Glad when the sum is told.

Peace thou dost love at any price
Short of thy children's shame;
Farther than this would be a vice
And thine immortal blame.

To this thou never wilt submit,
No, rather fighting die,