"Tis warm Affection's links that mildly join

In sacred sympathy each kindred soul, When, rich with mercies from the hand divine,

Days, months, and years, in blissful silence roll. Such were the hours that once in rapture flew,

While every day increase of bliss supplied : With every

hour some sweeter pleasure grew, Each wish prevented, and each want untried. Yet, e'en while Freedom spread her charms

around, While laughed the morn, and every joy was mine, Could fancied sorrows real pleasures wound,

And passion thwart reflection's cool design. Fool that I was-full oft I vowed in vain,

To rule my life with Reason's sober sway; Till headstrong Passion snatched the slackened

rein, And chased Reflection's milder power away. Then, when o'erwhelmed I lay with fancied woe,

Thy present image cheered the darkling scene, Methinks e'en now thy gentle dictates flow,

Queen of each thought, of each affection queen. For thou art all that Heaven itself could form,

The noblest soul and meekest spirit joined ; Nor Fortune's dream, nor Fate's o'erwhelming

storm Can change th' unaltered tenor of thy mind. O yet, while youth smiles in its earliest prime,

This ruffian soul with meekest thoughts inspire, Thoughts like thine own; ere the rude hand of

Time Light every spark, and fan the rising fire. While thus, entranced I soothed each wishful care

With silent Meditation's gentle power, Slow sunk the Sun, while poured on Night s dullear,

These awful dictates charmed the sacred hour :

Say why, my son, thus pensive and alone, “ Does thy sad heart with fancied sorrows

mourn ; “ Think'st thou these childish sighs, this abject

groan, " Can bid the scenes of former bliss return? Know, then, that years on hasty pinions fly,

“ Not pleasure's poison can their force destroy; “ Silent we steal through life, are born and die,

“ Catch fancied bliss, and taste unreal joy. “ But oh! how wretched he, whose infant heart

“ No mother's tender precepts e'er refined; “ To him no joys can love's sweet balm impart,

“ Or soft affection sooth his tortured mind. “ Go then,—to Heaven thy pure devotions pay;

“ Go soothe thy Mother's soul with filial zeal, 66 Tear from her heart each anxious care away,

“ Feel what you are, and dare be what you feel.”

STANZAS,-Mrs. Carter.
ACQUAINT thyself with God, and be at peace:

To His attentive ear thy griefs confide;
His tender care each throbbing pain shall ease,

His arm sustain thee, and His counsel guide. No cold neglect the faithful heart repays,

Whose stedfast aim solicits His regard ; Each wish for merit, each attempt to please

He views, and His approving smiles, reward. Thro' ev'ry changing scene His constant love

Alike shall make its happy object blest; Shall ev'ry joy of active life improve,

And soothe its latest agonies to rest.

ON A THUNDER STORM.

By Bishop Lowth, at the age of 14. LOCKED in the arms of balmy sleep

From every care of day;
As silent as the folded sheep,

And as serene, I lay.
Sudden tremendous thunders roll,

Quick lightnings round me glare,
The solemn scene alarms the soul,

And wakes the mind to prayer. Whate'er, O LORD, in this dread hour,

These awful sounds portend, Whether sole engines of Thy power,

Or groans for Nature's end, Vouchsafe, amidst this time of dread,

Thy gracious arm to rear;
O save from death each friendly head,

And all my soul holds dear.
If waked by Thy vindictive hand

This awful tempest stirs ;
That peal the voice of thy command,

Those flames Thy messengers ;
Welcome the bolt where'er it fall

Beneath the passing sun:
Thy sovereign will determines all,

And let that will be done!
By all such strong explosive shakes,

One truth be understood :
The glorious God the thunder makes,

And all He makes is good. But if, as Nature's laws ordain,

Not destined by Thy will, The bolt exerts its wild domain, Self-authorized to kill;

Quick interpose, all-gracious LORD,

In this tremendous night, Arise, and be alike adored,

For mercy and for might.
Let it not fall where riot foul

Pours forth the drunken jest,
Nor where the guilt-envenomed soul

Starts from its troubled rest.
Succour the couch where beauty lies,

All trembling pale with fear; Where sickness lifts its languid eyes.

Oh pour Thy comforts there.

ON THE BATH HOSPITAL.

Open to the sick Poor of every Part of the World.

Anstey. O! PAUSE awhile, whoe'er thou art

That drink'st this healing stream ;
If e'er compassion o'er thy heart

Diffused its heavenly beam
Think on the wretch whose distant lot

This friendly aid denies ;
Think, how in some poor lonely cot

He unregarded lies.
Hither the helpless stranger bring,

Relieve his heart-felt woe ;
And let thy bounty, like this spring,

In genial currents flow.
So

may thy years from grief, and pain,

And pining want, be free;
And thou from Heaven that mercy gain

The poor receive from thee.

+

CHILD OF MAN.-Rev. Thomas Bowdler.
CHILD of Wrath, and heir of woe,
Friend of Heaven's deadly foe,
Does thy fainting spirit fail,
Shuddering at Death's gloomy vale?
I have stretched My arm to save,
Have won the yictory from the grave;
Have shed a light o'er Death's dark gloom,
Beaming from the broken tomb.
Child of weakness, dost thou fear
Pain, or grief, or scornful jeer?

?
On Me, thy pattern, fix thine eye,
Sinking low, but risen high.
I have borne each hateful name,
Endured the cross, despised the shame.
Tread the path thy Saviour trod,-
Know, obey, and love thy God.
Child of grief—do terrors rise ?
Swell with tears thy downcast eyes?
Feels thy heart sin's galling load,
And the holy wrath of God?
I have known temptation's power,
Have feared-have felt the trying hour.
Trembling mourner, look on Me;
I, who suffered, plead for thee.
Child of God, by sorrow tried,
Chastened, humbled, purified ;
When thy latest hour draws near,
Canst thou banish doubt and fear?
Fainting o'er the opening grave,
Canst thou trust My power to save ?
Servant! well thy work is done-
Soldier! rest, thy battle's won,
Child of glory, lift thine eyes ;.
View by faith the promised prize,