PREDICTION TO JOSHUA RELATIVE TO AMERICA.

FAR o'er yon azure main thy view extend, Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend : Lo, there a mighty realm, by Heaven designed The last retreat for poor, oppressed mankind; Formed with that pomp which marks the hand divine, And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumbered shine. Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade; Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave, And inland seas for commerce spread the wave. With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll, And fairer lustre purples round the pole. Here, warmed by happy suns, gay mines unfold The useful iron and the lasting gold; Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow, And mock the splendors of the covenant bow. On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod, That smile to see the future harvest nod, In glad succession plants unnumbered bloom, And flowers unnumbered breathe a rich perfume. Hence life once more a length of days shall claim, And health, reviving, light her purple flame. Far from all realms this world imperial lies, Seas roll between. and threat'ning tempests rise. Alike removed nd ambition's pale,

And the bold pinions of the venturous sail;

Till circling years the destined period bring,

And a new Moses lift the daring wing,

Through trackless seas an unknown flight explores,
And hails a new Canaan's promised shores.
On yon far strand behold that little train
Ascending venturous o'er the unmeasured main,
No dangers fright, no ills the course delay;
"Tis virtue prompts, and God directs the way.
Speed-speed, ye sons of truth! let Heaven befriend,
Let angels waft
you, and let peace attend.

O! smile, thou sky serene; ye storms, retire;
And airs of Eden every sail inspire,

Swift o'er the main behold the canvass fly,
And fade and fade beneath the farthest sky;
See verdant fields the changing waste unfold;
See sudden harvests dress the plains in gold;
In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend,
And dancing woods to spires and temples bend.
Here empire's last and brightest throne shall rise,
And Peace, and Right, and Freedom greet the skies;
To morn's far realms her trading ships shall sail,
Or lift their canvass to the evening gale:

In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar,
Tread starry fields, and untried scenes explore.

And, hark! what strange, what solemn breaking strain
Swells, wildly murmuring, o'er the far, far main!
Down Time's long, lessening vale the notes decay,
And, lost in distant ages, roll away.

JOHN QUINCY ADAMS,

THE sixth president of the United States, and one of the most learned men of his time, was a poet of no mean rank, though his political relations prevented a just estimate of his literary abilities by his contemporaries. Among his poems are "Oberon, translated from the German of Wieland;" "Dermot McMorrogh, or the Conquest of Ireland;" and "Poems of Religion and Society," a posthumous collection of his hymns and other short pieces, with notices of his life and character. Some of the religious poems of Mr. Adams are of great excellence. He was born in Braintree, Massachusetts, in 1767, and died in the capitol, at Washington, in 1848.

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

SURE, to the mansions of the blest

When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel brighter than the rest

The spotless spirit's flight attends.

On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll,

Till some fair sister of the skies

Receives the unpolluted soul.

That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,

Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.

Closed in this dark abode of clay,

The stream of glory faintly burns :—

Not unobserved, the lucid ray

To its own native fount returns.

But when the Lord of mortal breath

Decrees his bounty to resume,

And points the silent shaft of death

Which speeds an infant to the tomb

No passion fierce, nor low desire,

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came.

Fond mourner! be that solace thine!
Let hope her healing charm impart,
And soothe, with melodies divine,

The anguish of a mother's heart.
O, think! the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumbered saints above,

Bask in the bosom of their God.

Of their short pilgrimage on earth
Still tender images remain :
Still, still they bless thee for their birth,
Still filial gratitude retain.

Each anxious care, each rending sigh,

That wrung for them the parent's breast,

Dwells on remembrance in the sky,

Amid the raptures of the blest.

O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the Lord of life implore;
And oft, from sainted bliss descend,
Thy wounded quiet to restore.
Oft, in the stillness of the night

They smooth the pillow of thy bed;

Oft, till the morn's returning light,

Still watchful hover o'er thy head.

Hark! in such strains as saints employ,
They whisper to thy bosom peace;

Calm the perturbed heart to joy,

And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; Their part and thine inverted see:Thou wert their guardian angel here,

They guardian angels now to thee.

THE HOUR GLASS.

ALAS! how swift the moments fly!
How flash the years along!
Scarce here, yet gone already by,
The burden of a song.

See childhood, youth, and manhood pass,
And age, with furrowed brow;

Time was—Time shall be-drain the glass-
But where in Time is now?

Time is the measure but of change;

No present hour is found;

The past, the future, fill the range

Of Time's unceasing round.

Where, then, is now? In realms above,

With God's atoning Lamb,

In regions of eternal love,

Where sits enthroned I AM.

Then, pilgrim, let thy joys and tears
On Time no longer lean;

But henceforth all thy hopes and fears
From earth's affections wean:

To God let votive accents rise;
With truth, with virtue, live;
So all the bliss that Time denies
Eternity shall give.

LORD OF ALL WORLDS.

LORD of all worlds, let thanks and praise
To thee forever fill my soul;

With blessings thou hast crowned my days,
My heart, my head, my hand control :

O, let no vain presumptions rise,
No impious murmur in my heart,
To crave the boon thy will denies,
Or shrink from ill thy hands impart.