More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell,

These valleys and rocks never heard,

Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore, Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.

TO MARY.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast; -
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow;
'Twas my distress that brought thee
low,
My Mary!

The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign:
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limb thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest,
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!
How oft the sadness that I show
But ah! by constant heed I know,
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe!
My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!

A deep and solemn story he would try,

But grew ashamed of ghosts, and laid it by;

Sermons he wrote, but they who knew his creed,

Or knew it not, were ill disposed to

read;

And he would lastly be the nation's guide,

But, studying, failed to fix upon a

side;

Fame he desired, and talents he possessed,

But loved not labor, though he could not rest,

Nor firmly fix the vacillating mind,

Then cares domestic rush upon his mind,

And half the ease and comfort he enjoys,

Is when surrounded by slates, books, and boys.

[From Schools.] LEARNING IS LABOR

To learning's second seats we now proceed,

Where humming students gilded primers read;

find.

[From Schools.]

THE TEACHER.

HE, while his troop light-hearted leap and play,

Is all intent on duties of the day;

No more the tyrant stern or judge

severe,

tures gay,

To make their reading but a kind of

But they who read must first begin to spell;

There may be profit in these arts, but still,

Learning is labor, call it what you will;

Upon the youthful mind a heavy load,

road.

Some will their easy steps to science

show,

And some to heaven itself their byway know: Ah! trust them not, bliss would share,

who fame or

Must learn by labor, and must live by

care.

[From the Gentleman Farmer.] FOLLY OF LITIGATION.

The Sunday pew she filled with all her race,

Each place of hers was now a sacred place,

That, while it called up sorrows in the eyes,

Pierced the full heart and forced them still to rise.

O sacred Sorrow! by whom souls are tried,

Sent not to punish mortals, but to guide;

If thou art mine, (and who shall To tell his Maker he has had his proudly dare share ?)

Still let me feel for what thy pangs were sent,

And be my guide and not my punish

ment!

[From The Dumb Orators.] MAN'S Dislike TO BE LED. MAN will not follow where a rule is shown,

But loves to take a method of his own;

Explain the way with all your care and skill,

This will he quit, if but to prove he will.

[From The Village.]

APOSTROPHE TO THE WHIMSICAL.

SAY, ye opprest by some fantastic

woes,

Some jarring nerve that baffles your

repose;

plaints endure,

them:

The hours of innocence; -the timid look

Of his loved maid, when first her hand he took,

And told his hope; her trembling joy appears,

Her forced reserve, and his retreating fears.

All now is present; -'tis a moment's gleam

Of former sunshine-stay, delightful dream!

Let him within his pleasant garden walk,

Give him her arm; of blessings let them talk.

Yes! all are with him now, and all the while

Life's early prospects and his Fanny's smile:

Then come his sister, and his villagefriend,

And he will now the sweetest moments spend

Life has to yield;— No! never will he find

Again on earth such pleasures in his mind:

He goes through shrubby walks these friends among, Love in their looks and honor on their tongue: