Innocent teacher of the high And holy mysteries of Heaven! How turned to thee each glazing eye, In mute and awful sympathy, As thy low prayers were given; And the o'erhovering spoiler wore, the while, An angel's features, a deliverer's smile! A blessed task! and worthy one Who, turning from the world, as thou, Giving to God her beauty and her youth, Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here Thine is a treasure far more dear: Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, Sleep on in peace. The earth has not A nobler name than thine shall be. The deeds by martial manhood wrought, The fire of poesy— These have but frail and fading honors; thine Shall time unto eternity consign. Yea and when thrones shall crumble down, And human pride and grandeur fall— The herald's pride of long renown, The mitre and the kingly crown- Perishing glories all! The pure devotion of thy generous heart Shall live in heaven, of which it was a part! SIR ROBERT GRANT. THE Rt. Hon. Sir Robert Grant, late governor of Bombay, was of one of the most ancient families of Scotland, and was a brother of the present Lord Glenelg. He died in 1838, and a collection of his Sacred Poems" was published soon after in London. LINES. O SAVIOUR, whose mercy, severe in its kindness, The blossom blushed bright, but a worm was below; So, cured of my folly, yet cured but in part, I dreamed of celestial reward and renown; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the brave; Subdued and instructed, at length, to thy will, There are mansions exempted from sin and from wo, TRUST IN THE SAVIOUR. WHEN gathering clouds around I view, If aught should tempt my soul to stray, If wounded love my bosom swell, PRAYER. SAVIOUR! when in dust to thee, Low we bow the adoring knee, When repentant to the skies Scarce we lift our streaming eyes,— O, by all thy pains and wo, Bending from thy throne on high, By thy helpless infant years, By the sacred griefs that wept, O'er the grave where Lazarus slept,— By thine hour of dire despair, By thine agony of prayer, By the cross, the nail, the thorn, Piercing spear, and torturing scorn,— By the gloom that veiled the skies O'er the dreadful sacrifice,- By the deep expiring groan, Listen, listen to the cry WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. MR. BRYANT was born in Cummington, Massachusetts, in 1794. He was educated for the bar, but after passing ten years in the courts he abandoned an uncongenial profession and removed to New York, where, in 1826, he assumed the editorship of the Evening Post, with which he has ever since been connected. He wrote the poem entitled "Thanatopsis" in his eighteenth year, and the annals of literary composition furnish nothing equal to it produced at the same age. Mr. Bryant is unquestionably the greatest poet who now writes in the English language. In 1832 a collection of all the poems Mr. Bryant had then written was published in New York; it was soon after reprinted in Boston, and a copy of it reaching Washington Irving, who was then in England, he caused it to be published in London, where it has since passed through several editions. In 1842 he published "The Fountain, and other Poems;" in 1844, "The White-footed Deer, and other Poems;" and in 1846, a splendid edition of his complete Poetical Works, illustrated with engravings from pictures by Leutze, was published in Philadelphia by Carey and Hart. 66 BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." Он, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The light of smiles shall fill again And weary hours of wo and pain There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; |