Dark minister of many woes, That lov'st the sad vicissitude of pain, Now shivering 'mid Antarctic snows, Now a faint pilgrim on Medina's plain. Say, can no form less fair thy vein engage? Must feeble loveliness exhaust thy rage? Oh, mark the faltering step, the languid eye, And all the anguish of her burning sigh: See the faintly struggling smile, See resignation's tear the while; So to the axe the martyr bends his form, So bends the lovely lily to the storm. Still though, sweet maid, thy yielding bloom decays, And faint the waning tide of rapture strays, Oh, may'st thou 'scape griefs more envenom'd smart, Nor ever know the ague of the heart. For rising from the sun bright plain, The _bended_ lily blooms again; But ah! what life imparting power Can e'er revive the _broken_ flower? THE GIFTS OF PROVIDENCE. BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.--1747. Oft on the vilest riches are bestow'd, To show their meanness in the sight of God. High from a dunghill see a Dives rise, And, Titan-like, insult the avenging skies: The crowd in adulation calls him lord, By thousands courted, flatter'd, and adored: In riot plunged, and drunk with earthly joys, No higher thought his grovelling soul employs; The poor he scourges with an iron rod, And from his bosom banishes his God. But oft, in height of wealth and beauty's bloom, Deluded man is fated to the tomb! For lo, he sickens, swift his colour flies, And rising mists obscure his swimming eyes: Around his bed his weeping friends bemoan, Extort the unwilling tear, and wish him gone; His sorrowing heir augments the tender shower, Deplores his death--yet hails the dying hour. Ah, bitter comfort! sad relief to die! Though sunk in down, beneath a canopy! His eyes no more shall see the cheerful light, Weigh'd down by death in everlasting night: And now the great, the rich, the proud, the gay, Lies breathless, cold--unanimated clay! He that just now, was flatter'd by the crowd With high applause and acclamation loud; That steel'd his bosom to the orphan's cries, And drew down torrents from the widow's eyes; Whom, like a God, the rabble did adore-- Regard him now--and lo! he is no more. FROM A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE. BY C. C. MOORE. The dreams of Hope that round us play, And lead along our early youth, How soon, alas! they fade away Before the sober rays of Truth. And yet there are some joys in life That Fancy's pencil never drew; For Fancy's self, my own dear wife, Ne'er dreamt the bliss I owe to you. You have awaken'd in my breast Some chords I ne'er before had known; And you've imparted to the rest A stronger pulse, a deeper tone. And e'en the troubles that we find Our peace oft threat'ning to o'erwhelm, Like foreign foes, but serve to bind More close in love our little realm.