Why should the servant hope to be,
From ills, that haunt his Master, free?
Who, the disciple, would accord,
A rule, less rigid, than his Lord?

Then, Saviour, let me clasp Thy Cross,
And count all other things, but loss;
Nor ask, from foes, to be set free;
So, they be, also, foes to Thee!

Welcome the strife with godless men;
The fight, with Satan in his den;
One only thing, I crave, from Thee;
Turn not Thy face, my God, from me!

DELICIIS MEIS,

G. H. D.;

IN MARE NAVIGANTI.

WHEN morning streaks the eastern sky,

And wakes the world for me;

To thee, my first affections fly,
My darling, on the sea.

Through all the close and crowded day, What toils, what cares, there be;

By thee, my thoughts still find their way, My darling, on the sea.

While, from the far and fading West,

The day dies duskily;

With thee, my spirit seeks its rest,

My darling, on the sea.

The silent watches of the night,

Still find my soul with thee;

And dreams restore thee, fond and bright, My darling, on the sea.

By day or night, in toil or rest,
Whate'er my lot may be;

With thee, my fond heart finds its rest,
My darling, on the sea.

And, come what can, of pains or cares,

Of joys, or griefs, to me;

I still will shield thee, with my prayers,
My darling, on the sea.

RIVERSIDE, August 30, 1852.

"PERFECT, THROUGH SUFFERINGS."

HEB. II. 10.

"PERFECT, through sufferings:" may it be,
Saviour, made perfect, thus, for me!
I bow, I kiss, I bless the rod,
That brings me nearer to my God.

"Perfect, through sufferings:" be Thy Cross
The crucible, to purge my dross !
Welcome, for that, its pangs, its scorns,

Its scourge, its nails, its crown of thorns.

Perfect, through sufferings:" heap the fire, And pile the sacrificial pyre;

But spare each loved and loving one,

And let me feel the flames, alone.

"Perfect, through sufferings:" urge the blast,
More free, more full, more fierce, more fast;

It recks not where the dust be trod,
So the flame waft my soul, to God.

THE BREAKERS, June 1, 1853.

THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS,

(IN ALBANY ;)

"A HOUSE OF PRAYER FOR ALL PEOPLE;"

Was Erected by a Childless Man, as the Memorial of his Four Dead Children. In the Chancel, is a mural tablet, of the purest marble, with the simple record of their names and deaths, in four compartments, surrounded and separated by an exquisite wreath of lilies of the valley, the leaves and flowers, together; the design of a young saint, (the wife of the architect,) who came from a Northern climate, to find, with us, an early grave. At the foot of the tablet, a lamb is sleeping, on the cross.

“Behold the lilies, how they grow." "Of such, is the kingdom of God."

SWEET lilies of the valley, ye have been,

From earliest childhood, my instinctive joy;
And still, to meet you in the early Spring,
My spirit leaps, as lithe, as when a boy!
The bells that seem to tinkle, with perfume,
And spring, so jauntily, from those broad leaves;
The purest white, upon the deepest green,

That tricksome spring, in her embroidery weaves.

I've twined you, on the breast of blushing bride,
And strewed you, on the hearse of coffined child;
Till love grew fragrant, with a new delight,

And childless sorrow kissed the rod, and smiled.
But, here, within this still and sacred aisle,

Ye charm, anew, my meditative heart;
Where mimic nature, in the marble blooms,
And buried beauty lends a grace, to art.

Four lovely children glide, into the grave;
A childless father bends beneath the rod :
He makes their monument, a House of Prayer;
The gold, he meant for them, he gives to God.
Upon a tablet of the purest white,

Enwreathed with lilies, he records his loss;
Their innocence, he emblems, with his faith;
A lamb, recumbent, sleeps upon the cross.
LAKE ONTARIO, August 6, 1853.

"RORES, FLORES."

WHEN April showers

Wake up the flowers,

From their long winter's sleep,

The crocus starts,

The rose-bud parts,

The fragrant violets peep.

When tear-drops fall,
At sorrow's call,

On penitential heart,

The perfect peace,
That shall not cease,

Like flowers in Spring, will start.

TO ONE OF RAPHAEL'S ANGELS.*

"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my FATHER which is in heaven."

SWEET angel, while I gaze on thee,

So mute, so meek, so mild,
I deem that thou must surely be

The angel of some child;

To whom the SAVIOUR said, such grace,
For our sakes, has been given,
That they behold the FATHER's face,
Continually in Heaven.

Sweet angel, I would be like thee,
In faith, in hope, in love;
My heart's affections, constantly,
Engaged with things above;

* That one of the two at the foot of the Madonna di S. Sisto, which is leaning

on both arms.

My thoughts, turned off from earth, like thine, "Commercing with the skies,"

Till all the Majesty Divine

Grow radiant, to mine eyes.

Sweet angel, I will ever pray,
TO JESUS meek and mild,
That I may be, from day to day,
Still more, His "little child."
So, through the Cross, such grace to me,
May graciously be given,

That thou for me, may'st always see

My FATHER'S face, in Heaven.

THE BREAKERS, June, 1853.

THE CHRISTIAN PILGRIM-BY CRAWFORD.

TO S. P. 0.

SWEET maiden, I would be like thee,

As heavenward, eye, and thought, and heart;

And foot, as lightly, to the earth,

Like greyhound, straining on the start ;

As closely to the Cross, I'd cling,

And lean as simply on its stay;
The things of earth, all thistle down,
As hindrances, along my way.

Sweet maiden, by that scollop shell,

Thy thoughts are, where the Saviour lay;
And towards His tomb, thy steps are bent,
To wait, and watch, and weep, and pray;
And I, my heart, would bury, there,

As dead to self, as dead to sin;

With thee, His Cross, on earth, to bear,
With thee, His Crown, in heaven, to win.