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With rich profusion rears her head
To deck the peasant's humble bed;
O with what feelings must the heart,
Condemned from those most lov'd to part,
Behold thy slender leaflets ware,
Forget-me-not, above their grave!
Where'er thy little form appears,
'Tis water'd by affection's tears,
'Tis fann'd by resignation's sigh,
Or mark'd with wet, yet beaming eye,
As highest hopes the soul inspire,
And warm with pure celestial fire,
O then how much Forget-me-not

Tells from the grave.

Trembling, yet firm, like Christian faith, It cheers the gloomy bed of death; Though on that bed its root remains, Its flower no dismal hue retains, The tints of Heaven adorn its-vest, And living sunbeams gild its breast; Thus Christian hope, Forget-me-not,

Breathes from the grave.

O could its gentle voice be heard In scenes that make a death-bed feared ! Where throng the giddy and the gay, As thoughtless fashion leads the way, When harmony and mirth impart Delusive gladness to the heart, When vanity displays her pride, With careless levity her guide, When stoops the deathless, glorious soul, To glare and tinsel's base control, When heaven-born minds can grovelling lie, Nor think of immortality, When pleasure veils the form of vice, When this world smiles a Paradise, Then, lovely flower, thy warning give, Bid them as dying creatures live, Then softly say, Forget-me-not,

Think of the grave.

· And oh, when virtue mourns the power Of cares and woes that round her lower,

By poverty's depressing weight
Compellid to supplicate the great,
To bear the wealthy fool's disdain,
To see of summer friends the train
Retire ; obscure, unheard, unknown,
In ling’ring maladies to groan;
Unsooth'd, to shed the bitter tear,
Of heart-wrung anguish o'er the bier
Of the lov'd child, the tender wife,
The last, last charm that sweeten'd life;
When blasted ev'ry prospect fair,
Nought meets the view but black despair;
Forget-me-not, what angel's lay
Can speak the soft tranquillity
That fills, that elevates the mind,
When, earth and earth-born cares resigned,
Calm, sweet, as music of the spheres,
Thine admonition meets the ears:
“Child of woe, yet heir of bliss,
“ But the germ of being this!
“ Child of hope, repress thy grief,
"Homeward look for bless'd relief,
“ Homeward turn thy weeping eyes,
“Know thine home in yonder skies ;
66 Here a stranger, bear awhile
“ The ills of life with patient smile;
“ Joys exstatic there await-
* Mine to deck their lowly gate,
“ Mine to say Forget-me-not

“l'or thee opes the grave.”

BELA.

WHAT OWEST THOU ?
Man with his God has an account,

Large is the debt, of vast amount,
However vast, however large,

Man is unable to discharge.

The debt is sin, and death the due,

Oppos'd to each transgressor's view;
Nor can the judgment e'er be stay'd,

Unless the penalty is paid.
VOL II.

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And is there hope, or ought that can

Turn the captivity of man?
His debt discharge and right bestow,

Eternal life and bliss to know ?

Yes, Jesus came! was born to die,

That he our debt might satisfy; His blood and righteousness alone,

Can wrath appease and guilt atone.

And who their plea his suff'rings make,

Tho' greatest sinners, for his sake, Have faith and true repentance given,

Pardon on earth and joy in heaven.

YOUTHFUL THOUGHTS ON ENTERING LIFE.

My youthful spirit longs to know
What scenes of future bliss or woe
Await my path. With eager eye,
I fain would scan futurity.

And all the prospect seems so fair,
I scarce can think that ought is there
The pleasing scene to overcast;
And change its beauty to a waste.

The clouds that rise upon the view
Are often dark, but fleeting too;
The sun of happiness shall soon,
Chasing their shades, restore the noon.

Sweet are the plants that flourish there;
Strong antidotes against despair:
Tho' many a pois’nous weed is found,
And many a thorn infests the ground.

But has anticipation's hand,
In tints too glowing cloth'd the land ?
His fancy with officious touch,
Heighten’d the colours all too much ?

And has experience yet to teach,
That this is not a faithful sketch ?
Shall blight and tempest yet to be,
Diselose the sad reality?

Viewing the landscape from afar,
Does distance make the scene appear
So lovely? Does illusion's veil,
All but the fair from view conceal ?

Shall travellers, weary and distrest,
Find no delights, no joys, no rest?
The path which seems so fraught with bliss,
Is it a dreary wilderness?

It is a wilderness; and yet
The Christian tells without regret,
That thorns and briars strew the road,
Which leads him to his Saviour God.

Though clouds and tempests often rise,
Veiling heaven's glories from his eyes,
Casting on all a dreary shade
The Christian still is undismay'd.

Tho' overcast his brightest noon,
He knows, that thro’ the thickest gloom
The sun of righteousness will shine,
Piercing the clouds with rays divine.

The transient Aowers of earthly bliss,
He often longs to call them his :
Seizes their beauties as his own,
But soon they wither, and are gone.

This leads his thoughts to scenes on high,
Where beauty blooms, but not to die;
No with’ring plants, no fading flowers,
No storms are there, no tempest lowers.

The travellers that pursue the road,
Which leads them to this blest abode,
They shall not find it void of bliss,
Nor destitute of happiness.

It is a wilderness,-yet fair,
Tempests arise,—but light is there,
Thorns strew the road,-yet flowers are found,
And sweets are scatter'd all around.

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