The Lot of Thousands

When hope lies dead within the heart,

By secret sorrow long conceal'd,

We shrink lest looks or words impart

What may not be reveal'd.

‘Tis hard to smile when one could weep,

To speak when one would silent be;

To wake when one would wish to sleep,

And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot for thousands cast,

Who wander in this world of care,

And bend beneath the bitter blast,

To save them from despair.

But nature waits her sons to greet,

Where disappointment cannot come;

And time leads with unerring feet,

The weary wanderer home.

Oh! Pow'r Supreme

Oh! Pow'r Supreme, that fill'st the whole

Of wide creation's boundless space!

The Life of life, the Soul of soul,

Where shall we find thy dwelling-place?

Is it in ether's boundless plains,

Where radiant suns unnumber'd rise,

To warm their planetary trains,

And cheer with light far-distant skies?

Above, below, and all around,

Existence rises at thy call,

And, wrapt in mystery profound,

Thy works proclaim thee, Lord of all.

On this small speck, our parent earth,

How bounteously thy gifts are spread!

Rich blessings here receive their birth

From Intellect by Science led.

Exploring land, and air, and sea,

Bringing far-distant objects nigh;

And in thy works adoring thee,

Beneath thy own all-seeing eye.

A simile

I saw the wild rose on its parent thorn,

Half clos'd, soft blushing, thro’ the glitt'ring dew,

Wave on the breeze, and scent the breath of morn;

Lelia, the lovely flow'r resembled you.

Scarce had it spread to meet the day,

Its fragrant beauties op'ning to the view,

When ruffian beauties have torn the rose away;

Lelia—alas! it still resembles you!

So torn, by wild and lawless passion's force,

From every social tie, thy lot must be;

At best oblivion shades thy future course,

And still the hapless flow'r resembles thee!

Tomorrow

How heavy falls the foot of time!

How slow the ling'ring quarters chime,

Thro’ anxious hours of long delay!

In vain we watch the silent glass,

More slow the sands appear to pass,

While disappointment marks their way.

Tomorrow—still the phantom flies,

Flitting away before our eyes,

Eludes our grasp, is pass'd and gone…