^2^ IT A-) FABTOM'B ^BEBIUTIIe ^IE©M.- "irigiii iP^iiii(0)M^(^So • Silver and gold have I none ; but such as I have, give I thee." Bsirrett & Jones. Printers, Carter'a AUey. 1843. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1843, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court, of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania, r^ I 7 PREFACE. This little book owes its origin to the generosity of a few friends— who proposed to bear the expense of publication, and present the edition to the Managers of a Fair, about to be held, in behalf of the First ]Methodist Protestant Church. How could the Pastor decline the participation impUed in his permission to republish, for such a purpose, even the verses of his boyhood? True, he has long had, and has yet, many an ampler and more glorious vision: but, with whatever sub- lime seeming he may >deld to such dreaming, he knows it to be his duty and desires it to be his pleasure to welcome, at any time and in any form, the interruption of immediate, practical benevolence. Goodness is greatness. It may as- sume the disguise of littleness, but only for the attainment of greatness. An acorn may look like a pebble; but the one remains as it was, while the other soon casts its oaken shade across the long slope of the sunset mountain. God bless the good, in doing good ! If they plant only a mustard seed, it may unfold a sheher for a thousand flocks. If they give only a cup of cold water, it may refresh immortality. Let the friends state their own objects: "first — to aid the church; secondly — to make a serious impression on the mind of the reader." They say: '• If these objects be accomplished) the donors will be fully rewarded." That the first will be secured, can scarcely be doubted; and that the second may be, is not a hopeless matter — although, if other engagements had allowed, something new might have been written, with a better adaptation, than will be found in some of the fol- lowing pages, to such an excellent design, Philadelphia: Fair-Date— FEBRrARY ^2, 1843. To the Managers of the Fair: Tlie undersigned present you with this little volume, in hope that the proceeds of the sale of it will aid the Church; and that its contents, will make a serious impression on the mind of the reader. If these objects be accomplished, the donors will be fully rewarded. WILLIAM VANDEVEER, WILLIAM R. STOCKTON, CHARLES B. BARRETT, JOHN H. JONES, J. D. MARKER. CONTENTS. I. From Publications in Boyhood. I. Washington at Prayer, 5 II. The Spirit of Destruction, 10 II. From Later Publications, III. Visit to a Mother's Grave, . - - - 13 IV. My Daughter's Birth-Day, - - - - 16 V. Thanksgiving for the Bible, - - - - 38 VL A Man in Hell, 20 VII. Stanzas, addressed to Mary, - - - - 24 'vVASHINGTON AT PRAYER. Silence was on her throne — the moon and stars, Hush'd by her lifted sceptre, softly walk'd Their azure pathway ; and the quiet earth Had not a rustling leaf, for the lulled winds Slept in the hill-side shadows, and the trees Leaned o'er their images, all dark and still In de«p unruffled waters. There were tents White in the mellow moonlight, where a host Of weary warriors, lay in such repose As though the camp had been a field of tombs, And all the host were mouldering. Here and there The armed sentinel paced to and fro, Or wondering at the beauty of the scene, Or, musing on the future, gazing sad Upon his shadow, feeling that his life Was transient likewise, and would disappear In the night of death, as disappeared the shade When the moon darken'd, and the passing mist Made all its outlines blend in fellow gloom. The instruments of battle, fraught no more With human vengeance, lay as harmlessly b THE PASTOR S TRIBUTE, As when they slumber'd in their native hills — Untaught to thunder and unstain d with blood. The banner that had waved o'er fields of slain, Was now its bearer's pillow, and he dream'd With his head resting on rent folds, of love, And fireside peace, and female tenderness. That sleeping host concentred in itself The hopes of a wide world. Fell Tyranny — The fiend grown gray in shortening human life, Who jojs the most when joys mankind the least, And scourges most who lowliest submit, — Had spread his sails and push'd his gilded prow From a small isle, and o'er the trembling sea Pursued his scornful course, and landing proud Upon this mighty continent, had call'd The nation to approach, and kiss his rod. His helm was like a mountain, and his plume Gloom'd like a cloud ; his lifted sword far shone — A threat'ning comet; loud his thunder voice Demanded death or crouching ; and his stamp Shook the firm hills and made the whole earth reel. Many had gone — led by the hand of Fear — And knelt unto the monster, kiss'd his rod, And pointed at their brethren's breasts their swords. But these had seized their weapons, and stood up, E'en in his very shadow, and his threats Answer'd like men, and rang their shields for war. But hitherto these valiant ones had fail'd In the fierce conflict; and in rest were now Waiting the morrow and a deadlier shock. But one was watchful in that silent hour. Whose heart had gathered to itself the cares Of all his struggling brethren, and was sad THE pastor's tribute. 7 That still Success was herald to the fiend. Out from his tent he came, and when he heard No sound, he joj'd to think that wo had not So heavily pressed upon the sleepers' hearts As on his own ; and then he felt a weight Still heavier fall upon himself, as thought Pictured the thousands trusting in his arm — = The slumberers round — the nation*s aged ones, Whose dim eyes ceaseless wept o'er scenes of blood— The mourning widows, clasping to their breasts Their famished infants — and the virgins pale, Bereft of love, and in the arms of lust Dying a thousand deaths ! On the bare earth He knelt in suppliance meek, and humbly laid Beside him, his plumed helmet, and his sword, Unsheath'd and glittering, and asked of God To look on him, all helpless, and to bless His nerveless arm with might and victory — To smile on his worn warriors, and infuse Spirit and fire in every languid pulse — To frown upon the tyrant, and destroy — And bid the mountains sing from pole to pole The song of liberty, and the free waves Clap their glad hands and answer from afar. God heard and answer'd ;-^and the Spirit of Strength Walk'd in the camp, from tent to tent, and breathed An iron vigor through the sleepers' frames. And in their hearts a courage ne'er to quail. And Weakness sought the valley where the foe, Pillow'd upon a hill, stretch'd his huge length In cumb'rous slumber; and his giant limbs Grew soft as babe's; while Mockery sooth'd his soul With dreams of speedy triumph and rich spoil. 8 THE PASTOR S TRIBUTE. And Truth came down, and charm'd the suppliant With promise of deliverance soon to be. — And o'er the mountain-top came young Success; The sentry had not hail'd her as she pass'd But shut his eyes in fright, and thought he saw A ghost, nor dreamed that she could leave the fiend. Washington rose in peace, replaced his helm Upon his brow, and sheath'd his glittering sword, And felt a power was on him none could stay I Oh! I have read of chieftains who call'd out Their banner'd multitudes, and circled round The noon-day altar, and anon looked up : While the white-bearded priest plunged deep the knife In fellow-flesh and bathed himself in gore, To appease the gods and gain celestial aid ! And I have read of armies front to front, Pausing in awful silence, with the match Blazing o'er loaded cannon, and bright swords Flashing in vengeful hands; while solemnly Uncover'd chaplains bow'd between the foes, And pour'd their mingling prayers — ere Death began His sacrifice unto the Prince of Hell! But this was gilded seeming — a mere show To warm the vassal soldiers to high thoughts. And make them glow for carnage — not for right. 'Twas mumbling prayer to God, with lips profane, While their hearts wish'd the answer of a shout From the excited ranks — the cry for blood. They look'd upon their warriors, as their dogs Are look'd upon by sportsmen; and they hoped Such solemn mockeries might their men inspire. As gentle patiings fire the unloosed hound : THE PASTOR S TRIBUTE. And all their plan was but to curb their rage Till it grew fierce, then burst the bands and urge The hosts to slaughter ! Pure Sincerity Delights to kneel in solitude, and feels God's presence most where none but God beholds. And when I think of our high-hearted chief Watching while others slept — swelling his soul To sympathize with thousands, yea, to care For others' cares, while by themselves forgot — Joying to find Repose had quieted The tents of all around, yet keeping far Her presence from his own ; and when I think Of his divestment of self-strength, and deep And fervent longing for Almighty aid — 1 feel as if Sincerity did smile Upon that hour, and name it in her joy The Eden of duration! purest page In the truth-written history of time ! Surely that quiet scene was fraught w4th life, And circling angels wondered while they heard The hero's soul expressing secretly, And sacredly, before the all-seeing God, No care — no wish, but for his country's good! And wondered — nay, they wondered not that God Should sanctify the life-destroying sword — For 'twas thy sword, O sainted Washington! a3 10 THE pastor's tribute. THE SPIHIT OF DESTRUCTION. With power commission'd by the Source of Power, To quench a planet, or to crush a flower — To scourge a nation, or an infant pain — To vex a worm or make a world complain — Prone on the buoyant winds, in flowing robe. The Spirit of Destruction sweeps the globe. Where yonder space glooms black upon the sight, A sylvan mansion rear'd its modest height. There artless Pleasure, smiling, fix'd her seat, And Eden's angels graced the green retreat. Fired by the Spirit's torch, its flames arose, And the charr'd fragments now its site disclose. Swift from the open hills, the swollen floods Whelm all the vales, and toss th' uprooted woods. The startled peasant, bounding from his sleep, Feels his walls trembling to the rushing deep; Cities, surprised, usurping water beats ; And Peril plies her wherries through the streets. Loud roar the reinless winds; their headlong rage No force can quell, and distance scarce assuage; The hoary forests, wrench'd, in ruin fly; And trunks, and leaves, and branches shade the sky. Lone homesteads, razed, lament their lawless wrath; And unroofed hamlets m-irk Destruction's path! On booms the whirling tempest, ocean raves. Heaves treacherous hills, and scoops a thousand graves. The shrieking sailor, plunging down th' abyss, THE pastor's tribute. 11 Resigns to fate, and yields the hope of bliss ; While, hovering ghastly in the meteor's glare, The Spirit of Destruction triumphs there! The trees are touch'd with poison ; withering fast, The shrivell'd foliage rustles on the blast. The burning pastures harden to a crust; Where flow'd the brooks, the cattle paw the dust. The blooming virgins, sick'ning, waste away, Blanch'd is the rose, and dimm'd the visual ray. The sturdy shepherds sink, unnerved, and faint; And "water! water!" loads earth's loud complaint. Yon nursling infant to the bosom turns; And where was life — a deadly fever burns. The mother pores with anguish on her child; She moves not, speaks not ; but her eyes grow wild — Her brain is crazed, — and hark! the maniac sings: " An angel points me to yon cooling springs ! Cheer up, my Ishmael! Lo! the waters rise, And shady groves defend from scorching skies! — " 'Twas heaven she saw — and there her soul has fled; And her sweet infant, nestling, hugs the dead! See! fondly twined, he shuts his weary eye! Oh! orphan infant! wake beyond the sky! Unclouded azure o'er yon city reigns, And golden glory gilds its glancing fanes. Yet Hunger there for food despairing calls : Plucks the spare grass that sprouts along the walls: Or, madly prostrate at his palace gate, Gnaws his lank arms, and bites the rod of fate. ^ The noon-day terror — and the midnight death — Destruction's venom fills the common breath. The strong grow weak, the active sink supine ; 12 THE pastor's tribute. And purple spots reveal the fatal sign. The streets are gro^Yn with grass; the Sabbaths smile, But silent sleep the belfrey and the aisle. One general lazar-house the city stands; And one vast sepulchre the neighb'ring lands. Destruction stamps the earth, — the vallies rend. Towns prostrate fall and topmost hills descend. Where lakes lay level, mountains touch the skies; And where spread cities, wreckful oceans rise. A world of horrors dims the aching sight. And shrieks and thunders shake the orbs of night. Fires, floods, and whirlwinds to thy nod conform ; And drought and famine — deadlier than the storm! The plague, gaunt terror, strews the putrid ground! And heaving earthquakes spread thy victims round! Yet, were thy sway here bounded— earth would bloom, And Eden, rising, triumph o'er the tomb! Thy robes be bloodless; and thy power a name. Scarce heard amidst the loud reports of fame ! These slay thy thousands, — but thy arrows fly Thick as the streaming sunbeams through the sky! The earth is vein'd with poison — herbs and trees Suck in the death and shed it on the breeze! Beasts prey on beasts, and lap the crimson flood; Envenom'd reptiles fire the human blood; And unseen insects, mocking pomp and pride, Throw down their ghastly myriads at thy side! While man uplifts his fratricidal hand, And pours his brother's life at thy command! Thou shalt consume the globe, — the stars shall fall ; And silence, wreck and darkness compass all! And thou no more! Then new-born worlds shall shine, And universal roll the eternal golden line I THE pastor's tribute. 13 VISIT TO A MOTPIEF.'S GRAVE, The time that I had waited for, arrived — The hour of evening gloom. Earth lay at rest, And the bright stars were on their silent watch. The village street — that had an hour before Been gay with forms of childhood, youth and age, In sportive walk, or conversation, joined — Was all forsaken. Olden willows hung Their long green branches nearly to the ground ; But they, the laughing children — who had swung, Dependent, there — were dreaming of new joys I The river-waves upon the grassy bank, Shadowed by ancient elms, made music still; But white-robed maidens, leaning on the arras Of tali youths, fondly, were no longer there, But in their chambers mused on plighted vows I The comfortable porches — where the old Had met in converse, or, alone, reviewed The path of life, and cast an onward glance Into futurity ; or, turning, gazed With smiles upon the willow-swinging boys — The porches were deserted, and the old Bowed at their family altars, blessing God I Such was the hour, when, from my grandsire's door, I bent my steps to seek my mother's grave I My ?oul was glad that no obtrusive eye Would note my path and errand; for I longed To yield my heart to grief, mine eyes to tears, Where grief is full and tears most freely flow. 14 THE pastor's tribute. The fencing scaled, I stood among the graves. There, searching in the gloom for ways between, With careful step I shunned the sacred mounds Nor dared to trample on a fellow's dust. The grave I sought was found — my Mother's Grave ; And I was there alone! No one to chide — No one to draw me thence ; alone to muse, To kneel in sorrow, weep, and call on God. Oh ! how I prized that hour I The starry night Was dearer far than day ! the moaning wind More musical than pleasant voice of friend ! And can it be? — my feelings prompted thus — And can it be ? My mother dead and here ! This clay— -is it her covering ? The tall stone — Hath it, indeed, her name? \felt the stone ; I traced the deep-cut letters with my hand, And trembled as I found each letter true ! I thought of Home, as once it was — of home As brightened by a Mother's smile of love. How tenderly she loved us! Emily, My sister! thou rememberest her love! Nay, my young sister — even she can tell How tenderly our Mother loved us all! True, wealth was not our patron, and, at times, E'en comfort seemed departing; — true her frame Was wasted by disease and racked with pain ; But still her patient soul was rich in peace, And the mild radiance of her eye and lip Imparted peace — as though ourselves were ill, Afld she a healthful angel, kindly sent To breathe delight upon our fainting hearts! I lingered with these thoughts. Each room of home Had scenery that charmed me ; in the midst, THE pastor's tribute. 15 My Mother, scattering blessings. Morning scenes — Noon-day and night scenes — meal-time — study — prayer: Bright winter scenes — when the warm fire was built, And we all gathered round it, wishing still The welcome coming of our evening treat I Fair summer scenes — when every door was wide, And the new-painted hearth was well adorned With boughs and flowers in humble vase combined. The more I mused, a clearer light was thrown On every picture; and my Mother's form, Her look — her motion — vivid were as life! I broke the spell I again I wildly cried — And can it be? my Mother dead and here! My whole soul was impassioned, and I bowed Beneath the power of passion, all subdued, For it was true! I could not shun the truth — And such a truth! O God! to think that there My Mother was corrupting ! food for worms! Others may scorn the body — call it clay ; A poor clay tenement unworthy thought — A casket valueless, but for its gem. But long as memory can repeat the phrase, " You had a Mother !" shall my tongue refrain From such dishonor to the sacred dead. I loved my Mother's form — around it twined My best affections. Spirits are unseen. Unheard, unfelt I knew my Mother's soul But through the loving eye — the gentle voice, And lip of fondness, kissing my young cheek. I loved her eye— it beams upon me still ! I loved her voice — it still consoles mine ear! I loved her lip— behold ! the smile is there ! Alas ! 't was but a dream ! again I wake : The eye— the voice— the lip of love, are lost! 16 THE pastor's tribute. Oh ! how my spirit struggles, as I cry — Say, ca7i it be ! my Mother dead and here ! Aye! wasted — mouldering — every part dissolved! 'T was then that God vouchsafed my troubled soul, A glorious emblem of my Mother's bliss. I had knelt down, and o'er the grave's head bent; And there, at the wild prompting of despair, I called — in low tone — Mother! — and the wind. As silently I paused, stirred the long grass Upon the grave-top — but no voice replied ! In mad self-mockery, again I spoke, In plaintive tone, my Mother ! — but no sound Broke the deep stillness! Upward to the sky! With heart relenting to the will of God, Then turned my glance; and lo! a meteor bright — Bright as the morning's herald-star! — shone out From the blue distance, and athwart the sky, On golden wing, with trailing glory, flew — Till lost again in azure; and Ifelt The truth it taught — Your Mother is in Heaven I MY DAUGHTEH-^S BIRTH-DAY. Then thought I, every chord of thine. Harp of my youth! with joy shall ring. The young immortal! gift divine! Her welcome to the earth I'll sing. But when I saw the world, though bright, Was bathed in a delusive light. My yielding faith was lost in fears, And every harp-string wet with tears. THE PASTOR S TRIBUTE. Oh, shame! when God, in tender love, Had granted such a precious boon, That I should stay the burst of joy And doubt His faithfulness so soon! My harp — when such a bliss was given That earth assumed the hues of heaven — To sweeter song should have been strung, Than childless angel ever sung. Behold ! a year the sun has past In daily glory o'er her head, And He who brought her into life Has still preserved her from the dead. And more — though many hours have been When pale and weak her form was seen — Her gentle eye, so blue and coy, Ten thousand times has flash'd with joy ! 'T was sweet to watch her opening mind, From the first living glance that proved The soul within was looking out, And, looking, something saw it loved ; To when, with most enchanting grace, The kindling smile adorned her face; And still she laughed, while small and white Both hands were waving with delight! And now, though many weary miles Of land and water intervene, Methinks my darling babe I see, With careful step and brow serene, Tott'ring along, while at her side Her watchful mother walks as guide, And, hoping that I soon may come, Tells her to call her father home! 18 THE pastor's tribute. I can no more. Great Shepherd ! thou, Though I am distant, still art near I Yet in thy bosom bear my lamb. And keep it safe another year i The lamb is thine; but let me hold And lead it nightly to the fold, And all the day with it abide. Where the still waters smoothly glide ! THANKSaiVING FOR THE BIBLE. The grateful utterance of a glowing heart Accept, O God ! My spirit burns to tell Its debt of love. Oh I all-surpassing Book I \ A gift that worlds were far too poor to buy. The very hand that holds it thrills with joy ; — The ardent eye is gladden'd by each page ; — And when I press the treasure to my breast, The deep pulsations quicken at the touch. While, looking upward to the beaming sky, And glancing at each star that sparkles there, I feel my immortality ; and call The earth a moment's stopping-place — my home The central heaven— the universe my range! Father! I thank thee. Heart, and voice, and harp, With feeling, word, and music, yield thee praise ! What though the mighty Angel spread his wings O'er hill and dale, and in the fatal shade Thousands lie down and perish, and the wail Of kindred thousands, weeping o'er the dead, THE pastor's tribute. 19 Alarm the land ; still may my soul obtain A short relief from sympathetic tears, And, musing on thy promises, grow calm As saint who rests in heaven. Ay, should my friends — They who would be, but for thy warning voice, The idols in the temple of my love — Fall, one by one, till the grave held the last, Still — oh! forbid my holy faith should fail! Still — ah, my God I stay, stay my fainting soul ! Still, still, triumphant o'er vain fears — my heart, My wounded heart, would leap with new delight. And I would stand upon their tombs and shout In hope of everlasting fellowship! My mother is in heaven. The golden streets Of thine eternal city — and the plains That ever bloom around it — and the hills That close the vast horizon, all adorn'd With thine effulgent glory — never saw The passing shadow of o'erflying death. My mother hath no fear. There, at her side, Three cherub children, glad and beautiful, Forever walk, and other kindred saints Commune with her rapt spirit. But on earth A throng of loved ones breathe the tainted air; — From some, around whose wrinkled temples shine Locks white as silver, to the new-born babe, Lying in snowy raiment on the lap, And wondering at his mother's earnest eyes. And one, to whom my spirit can but cling With most intense affection, walks the wards Of a vast crowded mansion, where the poor, 20 THE pastor's tribute. Rack'd b^' a hundred vices, daily fall, And, in their dying agony, behold Coffin and corpse, and know their fate the same! Ah I shall my father — can 1 say it — die? I yet receive his frequent letters, fraught With fondest love and pious confidence. And shall the hand that writes them, write no more? Shall others send the black sealed note, to tell His eyes are closed — his body in the grave ? And I be parentless? How nature mourns! How would I love to break all bonds and rave — Rave like a maniac, at a lot like this ! But grace — all powerful grace — e'en then could swell My soul with rich enthusiastic hope. And lead me through this distant stranger-land Light-footed, in expectance of my home ! A MAN IN HELL. •' Lost ! lost ! forever lost !" And as the words Startled my wond'ring soul, I turned and saw — Walking upon the black and barren shore, On which the liquid fire in billows dash'd — A form of man; a ruined, haggard form, With eyes of agony and frowns of wo. "Lost! lost! forever lost!" And as he spoke. In worst despair he wailed and gnashed his teeth. "Lost! lost! forever lost!" And the firm tone Told that the soul had summoned all its strength, THE pastor's tribute. 21 To pour again upon the airy gloom The sorrows of imprisonment in Hell. " As the strong wind a moment blows aside Yon clouds of smoke, o'erhanging my abode, I see afar the earth on which I dwelt. Ha! at the sound, again its calm, blue sky, Its hills and vales, enrobed in dewy green. And its cool, purling waters — aye! its founts, Cold from the rock! — alas! my parched tongue! Curst be the power that brings such scenes to view, That makes me seem to see, and hear, and taste The streams refreshing, while my mouth and throat Are dry and hot, and all around is fire, And all above is suffocating smoke! No drop comes down — no oozing moisture here Dampens the burning soil. How plenty there ! When slight exertion flushed my healthful frame. The well was at my side, and the full cup Supplied my thirst." Again he gnashed his teeth ; He wailed, and as he wailed he wept — wept tears That stood like molten lead drops on his cheeks. His voice was heard again: — " Oh ! more than fool ! Mad ! mad ! deliriously mad ! to choose. Aye I choose, the path that brought my footsteps here. Oh! I remember my dear mother's tears — My father's prayers — my sister's loving words— The preacher's warnings, and the Bible's too — And the kind Spirit whispering to my heart ! But the world tempted — and I was its slave; My passions prompted — and I was their slave ; And he that governs here, and suffers most, He lied, and I believed — and was his slave! 22 THE PASTORS TRIBUTP:. And I am lost! lost! lost! forever lost! Aha! aha! Earth! with thy blue serene—- And hills and dales in dewy freshness clothed — And with thy rippling streams! thy rippling streams! Aha! thy rippling streams! farewell! farewell!" And as he cried, a cloud of darkest smoke Veiled from his view his native star-like orb. Again he walked the shore, with hurried pace, And ever and anon he gazed above. At length a parting in the clouds was seen, Wide in the zenith — and he lifted up His aching arm, and pointing to the space, •' There — there is heaven! and let it shine! shine on Ye gates, and walls, and palaces! wave on Ye trees of life, in pleasant breezes wave ! And flow — ye living waters ! — gently flow ! And bloom, ye banks! in spring immortal bloom! Shine! wave ! flow! bloom! as now, so evermore! There are, of servile soul, unnumbered hosts, Angelic called, and sainted, who have bowed In coward homage to the haughty One, To be his minions — to rejoice in heaven. But never thus did I — nor would I now, Should every angel come with winning voice, And tell me — ' Kneel but once and heaven is thine.' " The lie was spoken, but it brought no peace. Th' undying worm that to his heart-strings clung, More fiercely gnaw'd them ; and the poor wretch writh'd, Till due confession faltered on his tongue : — '* Yea, I would bow ; but now alas ! alas ! Too late! too late! release can ne'er be found— For I am lost! lost! lost! forever lost! •' But even now my curse is not complete: Fain would I hear these waves forever dash — THE pastor's tribute. 23 Forever breathe in this sulphureous night — Nor know a change. — But oh I the hour will come When I must leave these shades, and stand revealed In all my ruin — in full glare of light — Before the judgment seat! while saints shall gaze, And angels, and shall tremble as they hear The record of my crimes — all — one by one, Told to the throng immense! How that I called God^s word a lie! — the Holy Ghost repulsed! And crucified the Son of God afresh ! " Ha ! shall my tender mother's tearful eyes, My father's, and my sister's, see me then ? Yes, they — arrayed in ever-lovely youth, White-robed and crowned with glory fit for heaven ! — Shall see my ghastly form — black from the pit. And foul as hell — a loathsome thing accursed! Aye, they shall see me thus, and catch the sound From Jesus' lips, confirming my sad lot: • Depart again to everlasting fre !* And I — the reprobate of all ; a lost, An outcast soul ; joyless, unclean, abhorr'd — Shall come — with songs of angels, sights of bliss Thronging my mind — to meditate, with grief, Upon the broad disgrace stamped on my soul, Full in the view of the whole universe ! Shall come to bear the gnawings of this worm — The burning of these flames — the agony Of a soul used to hope, that cannot now Conceive a moment in eternity Of joy or ease." And as he spoke, he shook With wo unknown to words ; but, as he shook, He still exclaimed: "Lost! lost! forever lost!" ?4 THE PASTOR S TRIBUTE. STANZAS. APDRESSED TO MARY. ''But one thing is needful ; and Mar>'hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her." Luke x. 42. " But one thing is needful:" — the World, in her pride, And with scorn on her features, may scoff at the truth, And the angel-like Tempter may walk at thy side, To fasten on earth the affections of youth, And Fancy may brighten — thy footsteps to 'win — The hues of the flowers in the pathway of sin ; But the frown of Jehovah all evil shall blast, And the truth of the Lord be acknowledged at last. " But one thing is needful"— to sit at the feet Of the Saviour of sinners, in meekness and love. With his smile resting on us, to hear him repeat The glory that dwells in his palace above ; To learn from his lips that the Spirit is given To til' humble in heart to prepare them for heaven ; And to feel, as we catch the sweet tones of his voice. That the soul, when with Jesus, cannot but rejoice 1 Then list to me, Mary ! this portion be thine, Li the morning of youth from the world turn away ; With the warm words of prayer seek assistance divine. For the boon shall be given as sure as you pray. And when thou hast chosen this excellent part, A heavenly peace shall be breathed on thy heart, And as fragrance can never be drawn from the flower, So to separate these there is none shall b«ve power. LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS