INTRODUCTION.

In an old wood, stands a great oak tree. It braves the winds, and courts the fury of the storm, and challenges the forked points of the lightning; and keeps off, from the young trees and the new grass and the dear flowers, what would kill them, at the risk of its own life. This is its work. And, yet, it has time to shade the little children, and give them acorns for their play; and time to make a winter home for squirrels, and a hive for the wild bees; and time, to throw its leaves out, for coolness and for beauty; and time, to change them, in the autumn glory, for our eyes to look on; and time, to give its dry and withered leaves to God's great winter wind, to play its solemn music. And the leaves crown all. It is mighty in its roots, gnarled in its trunk, great in its branches. It can be a ship to carry the world's treasures, or a nation's armies; it can be the arched roof of a cathedral. And yet, its Spring leaves are as tender as a sapling's; its Summer emeralds, as green as the grass blades; its Autumn colours, as deep, as though its only care were beauty. And the leaves are the crown of all. So God glorifies strength with beauty; as, in the old fable, Venus was the wife of Vulcan; and the highest human glory, of the greatest life, is God's adorning of a brave, great soul, with the loveliness, of grace and beauty. Such greatness, did He give my Father. And with the earnest seal, which death sets, on reverent. and abiding love, this crown of the oak's own leaves-the beauty of a strong, enduring soul-hangs round the arms of the Cross, that marks his first and final rest.

My Father's poems were not the labour of his life. His own name for them, "Songs by the Way," is the best and truest name. Poems are creations. And in the truest sense, the creations of his

life are poems, permanent and beautiful, in all their usefulness and strength. His poems either bloomed, out of the deep valleys of suffering, which duty made in his life; or were the graceful vine, that grew, unsolicited, over the rough rocks, of his steep pathway into glory. His heart was full of them; and when the rod smote the rock; when he was touched by kindness, or by suffering, by a child's gift of a violet, or some heroic deed of a man; they just flowed out, in the force and fervour, of nature and necessity. And like all his life, they were all tributary streams, of that great ocean of worship, that gathers round the Church's Altar, and dashes its eternal waves against the very Throne of God. The hard workman, beguiled the weariest task, setting its labour, to the music of his soul.

Many of these verses were published, in A. D. 1824, in a volume now out of print; bearing the title of this book. Many others, from time to time, have appeared in newspapers, and there are many, beside these, whose echoes linger round his beautiful home, and in our loving hearts; that will not go beyond those sacred shrines.

RIVERSIDE, May 15, A. D. 1859.

POEMS.

MORNING.

"My voice shalt Thou hear in the morning."

To Thee, O Lord, with dawning light,
My thankful voice I'll raise,
Thy mighty power to celebrate,
Thy holy Name to praise;

For Thou, in helpless hour of night,
Hast compass'd all my bed,

And now, refresh'd with peaceful sleep,

Thou liftest up my head.

Grant me, my God, thy quick'ning grace,
Through this, and every day,
That, guided and supported thus,

My feet may never stray.

Increase my faith, increase my hope,
Increase my zeal and love;
And fix my heart's affections, all,
On Christ, and things above.

And when, life's labours o'er, I sink

To slumber, in the grave,

In death's dark vale, be Thou my trust, To succour and to save;

That so, through Him who bled and died,
And rose again, for me;

The grave and gate of death, may prove,
A passage, home, to Thee.

NOON.

"At noon will I pray.

FATHER of lights, from Thee, descends,
Each good, and perfect gift;

Then hear us, while our thankful hearts,
In songs of praise, we lift;

We praise Thee, Maker, that Thou, first,
Didst form us, from the clay;

And gav'st us souls, to love Thy name,
To worship, and obey.

We praise Thee, that the souls Thou gav'st,
Thou, still, in life dost hold:
Preserver, noon would fade to night,
Ere half Thy love, were told!

We praise Thee, Saviour, that Thou didst
Our souls, from death release,
And, with Thine own atoning blood,
Procure us, endless peace.

Maker, Preserver, Saviour, God!

What varied thanks, we owe
To Thee, howe'er addressed; from whom,
Such varied blessings flow:

To Thee, who on a darken'd world,
Celestial light, hast pour'd;

And told of heav'n, and taught the way,
In Thy most holy Word.

Wide as the blaze of noon, is spread,

Spread Thou, that Word abroad: We ask it, Saviour, in Thy name; Maker, Preserver, God.

EVENING.

Psalm cxli. 2.

* SOFTLY now the light of day
Fades upon my sight away;
Free from care, from labour free,
Lord, I would commune with Thee:

Thou, whose all-pervading eye,
Naught escapes, without, within,
Pardon each infirmity,

Open fault, and secret sin.

Soon, for me, the light of day

Shall for ever, pass away;

Then, from sin and sorrow, free,

Take me, Lord, to dwell with Thee :

Thou, who, sinless, yet hast known
All of man's infirmity;

Then, from Thine eternal throne,
Jesus, look with pitying eye.

MIDNIGHT.

"God my Maker, who giveth songs in the night."

Ar midnight hour, O Lord, I wake,
To think upon Thy name;
To call to mind Thy gracious acts,
And all Thy praise, proclaim;

* Since inserted among the hymns in the Prayer Book.