WINTER SONG.

Ask me no more, my truth to prove,
What I would suffer for my love:
With thee I would in exile go,
To regions of eternal snow:

O'er floods by solid ice confined;
Thro' forests bare with northern wind:
While all around my eyes I cast,
Where all is wild, and all is waste.
If there the timorous stag you chace,
Or rouze to fight a fiercer race,
Undaunted I thy arms would bear;
And give thy hand the hunter's spear.
When the low sun withdraws his light,
And menaces an half year's night,
The conscious moon, and stars above,
Shall guide me with my wandering love.
Beneath the mountain's hollow brow,
Or in its rocky cells below,

Thy rural feast I would provide;
Nor envy palaces their pride;

The softest moss should dress thy bed,
With savage spoils about thee spread:
While faithful love the watch should keep,
To banish danger from thy sleep.

THE ADVENT OF THE MESSIAH.

But see! what sudden glories from the sky,
To my benighted soul appear,

And all the gloomy prospect cheer,

What awful form approaches nigh, Awful, yet mild, as is the southern wind That gentle bids the forest nod:

Hark! thunder breaks the air, and angels speak, Behold the Saviour of the world! Behold the lamb of God!

Ye sons of men behold his aspect meek,

The tear of pity on his cheek,

See in his train appear

Humility and patience sweet,

Repentance prostrate at his sacred feet,

Bedews with tears and wipes them with his flow, ing hair.

No more repine my coward soul,

The sorrows of mankind to share,

Which he who could the world control,
Did not disdain to bear!

Check not the flow of sweet fraternal love,
By Heaven's high king in bounty given;
Thy stubborn heart to soften and improve;
Thy earth-clad spirit to refine,

And gradual raise to love divine,

And wing its soaring flight to Heav'n!

REFLECTIONS BY A FATHER.

Tho' sweet the breath of vernal hours,

When garlands hang on ev'ry thorn; When ev'ry path is strew'd with flow'rs

And opening rose-buds greet the morn. Who knows what blasts may yet arise, However sweet-however gay; The blossom may our hopes betray, It is th' autumnal fruit we prize!

Alas! the same precarious fate
Attends on childhood's pleasing show;
The parent views with hopes elate
His favorites round the table grow:
Who lost to worth in riper years,
To duty lost-may yet conspire,
To wring thy heart, unhappy sire.
And drench thy furrow'd cheek in tears!

While the poor child of homelier mien, Who in the corner sits forlorn,

Sobs hourly at parental spleen,

And eats the bitter bread of scorn:
Untainted by the pamper'd crew,
And faithful to affection's call;
Perhaps in his fraternal hall;
Shall trim the lamp of joy anew!

U

VERSES,

Supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during · his solitary abode in the island of Juan Fernandez.

I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute,
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
Oh solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place,

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see,
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh had I the wings of a dove,

How soon wou'd I taste you again!

My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,
Might learn from the wisdom of age,
And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heav'nly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church going bell
These vallies and rocks never heard,
Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell,
Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd.

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 a glance of the mind!
Compar'd 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.