Sleep in some lone, unheeded spot,
Unwept, unnotic'd and forgot.

But yet, while man is thus unkind To those whose fortunes were their mind, Blest nature still repays those powers, And strews their graves with early flowers; And there the birds resort to sing Their sweetest notes through all the spring, And in the gales that rush along, Is heard a wild and gloomy song; And the sea green waves in sadness roar, For bards remember'd here no more. Soon then awake again thy Lyre, As often strike, and strike it higher; For Oh! its strains delight my ear, Such as I long and love to hear; And may you reap, for toils like these, A world of joy, a lasting peace,

TO-Y

THE gen'rous bard, whose plaintive strains
Still vibrate on my ear,

In sounds so sweet, so long unheard,
Excites a grateful tear.

A stranger's praise demands my thanks,
Full right does he divine;

He's pictur'd well my woe-fraught heart,
In ev'ry glowing line.

The breath of fame I never sought
Inconstant as the wind;

Much less "Parnassus' giddy steep,"
Do I expect to find.

To minds like yours I leave the task,
And may Apollo smile
Propitious on your gentle Muse,
And ev'ry care beguile.

You ask "does never hope deceive ?"
Alas! I know it well:

How oft my hopes have blighted been,
My sorrowing heart can tell.

One thing alone substantial is,
And gives us lasting peace,
'Tis pure RELIGION, undefil'd,
Whose joys can never cease.

You'll find it so, my youthful friend, She'll calm the troubled breast; And tho' the storms of life may rise, She'll sooth thy mind to rest.

"Tis that alone of Heaven I crave,
While here on earth I stay,
And when I die, an humble stone,
Inscribed to E. C. J.

ON HAPPINESS.

On! Happiness, where art thou found?

Celestial maiden, say;

Or art thou but an empty sound,
To lead vain man astray?

With riches once I thought thou dwelt
But there I sought in vain,
For still an aching void was felt,
And care-consuming pain.

With pleasure thou dost not reside,
Her vot❜ries know full well;
Nor on the mount of human pride,
Nor in the hermit's cell.

But in Religion's calm retreat,
Methinks thy form I see,
Reclining on a mossy seat,
With sweet serenity.

I onward press with beating hearty
And there the Goddess find;
And may we never, never part,
So grant it Heaven kind.

Selected Poetry.

THE GRAVE.

THERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground:

The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.

I long to lay this painful head,
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed,
From all my toil,

For mis'ry stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild,
I perish!-Oh! my mother earth!

Take back thy child.

On thy dear lap these limbs reclin'd
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind,
Resembling me.