1830-1840.

BISHOP RAVENSCROFT.

THE good old man is gone!

He lies in his saintly rest,

And his labours all are done,

And the work, that he loved the best:
The good old man is gone,

But the dead, in the Lord, are blessed!

I stood in the holy aisle,

When he spake the solemn word,

That bound him, through care and toil,

The servant of the Lord:

And I saw, how the depths of his manly soul,

By that sacred vow, were stirred.

And nobly, his pledge he kept;
For the truth, he stood up alone,
And his spirit never slept,
And his march was ever, on!

Oh! deeply and long, shall his loss be wept;

The brave old man, that's gone.

There were heralds of the cross,

By his bed of death, that stood,

And heard, how he counted all but loss,

For the gain of his Saviour's blood;

And patiently waited his Master's voice,

Let it call him, when it would.

The good old man is gone!

An apostle's chair is void,

There's dust, on his mitre, thrown,

And they've broken his pastoral rod!

And the fold of his love, he has left alone,

To account for its care, to God.

The wise old man is gone;

His honoured head lies low,

And his thoughts, of power are done,

And his voice's manly flow,

And his pen, that, for truth, like a sword, was drawn, Is still, and soulless, now.

The brave old man is gone!

With his armour on, he fell;

Nor a groan, nor a sigh, was drawn,
When his spirit fled, to tell;

For mortal sufferings, keen and long,
Had no power, his heart to quell.

The good old man is gone!
He is gone, to his saintly rest;
Where no sorrow can be known,

And no trouble can molest;

For his crown of life is won,

And the dead, in Christ, are blessed!

Boston, March 15, 1830.

LINES BY THE LAKE-SIDE.

THIS placid lake, my gentle girl,

Be emblem of thy life,

As full of peace, and purity,

As free from care and strife;
No ripple, on its tranquil breast,
That dies not, with the day;
No pebble, in its darkest depths,
But quivers, in its ray.

And see, how every glorious form,
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected, from its glassy face,
A mirrored image lies ;

1831.

So be thy spirit, ever pure,

To God, to virtue, given;

And thought, and word, and action, bear
The imagery of Heaven.

TO MY DEAR GEORGE HOBART.

My beauty and my blessing,

A year ago, to-day,

Thy little eyes first opened,

To the morning's blessed ray;

And, as I saw thee lying,

On thy gentle Mother's breast,

I felt, what only Fathers feel,
And cannot be expressed.

My beauty, what strange wonders,

Since that day, have been wrought;
Thy life, how wreathed with sunny smiles,
Thine eye, how full of thought!
How many a queer and quaint device,

How many a guileless art;

Thine infant nature's eloquence,

To win a parent's heart.

My blessing, such I feel thee,
With each returning day,
A fountain heaven-opened,

To refresh life's dusty way;
To cheer, with love, and hope, the path,
Else, ah! how lonely trod,

And lift the heart's affections, up,

In prayers, for thee, to God.

My beauty and my blessing,

For thee, my prayers shall rise,
With morning's dawn, and evening's fall,
Unfailing, to the skies;

That He, who gave thee, to us,
Would guard and guide thy way,
Through life, in peace and purity,
To Heaven's eternal day.

WRITTEN ON LEAVING HOME.

I LEAVE thee, dearest, for a while,
Yet leave thee, with our God;
His sheltering wing, is o'er us still,
At home, and when abroad.

I leave with thee, our little ones,
The lovely, and the loved;
And if, for only joy I sought,
My feet had never roved.

But He who gave, and guards them, still,
Has called me, as His own,

To bear His word, to sinful men,

And lead them, to His throne.

Thus must the Master's work be mine,
Till life's brief hour, is o'er;

I dare not "love thee," dear, so well,
Loved I not Jesus, more.

THE FOUNTAIN OPENED IN THE CHURCH.

WITHIN the Church, a fountain springs;
It started, from the Saviour's side;
Peace, pardon, joy, to all, it brings,-
The life-blood of the Crucified.

Its living streams, forever flow,
Forever pure, forever free;
The spirit's solace, here below,
Its succour, for eternity.

"Ho, every one that thirsts, draw nigh-"
Belovéd, hear the voice divine!
The broken heart, the contrite sigh,

Are welcome there; and these are thine.

Come, then-the Spirit calls,-come near,
In humble faith, in trembling love:
Drink comfort, for thy sorrows here,
And taste, before, the bliss above.

SPIRIT OF SPRING.

SPIRIT, that from the breathing south,
Art wafted hither, on dewy wing,
By the softened light, of that sunny eye,
And that voice, of wild-wood melody,
And those golden tresses, wantoning,
And the perfumed breath, of that balmy mouth,
We know thee, Spirit of Spring,

Spirit of beauty, these thy charms, Spirit of Spring.

Spirit of Spring, thou comest to wake,

The slumbering energies of earth,

The zephyr's breath, to thee, we owe,
Thine is the streamlet's silver flow,
And thine, the gentle floweret's birth;
And their silence, hark! the wild birds break,
For thy welcome, Spirit of Spring.

Spirit of Spring, when the cheek is pale,

There is health, in thy balmy air,

And peace, in that brow of beaming bright,

And joy, in that eye of sunny light;

And golden hope, in that flowing hair; Oh! that such influence e'er should fail, For a moment, Spirit of Spring,

Spirit of health, peace, joy, and hope, Spirit of Spring.