VI.

What can I plead with thee?-A contrite path
Through the dark pilgrimage of future years?
If the poor mourner give thee all he hath,
Wilt thou not stay thy too deserved wrath,
And grant the prayer of penitential tears?

VII.

Father, forgive!-Sin stains my very woe:

Could tears avail, no need of Calvary's blood; Or that, once slain, my risen Lord should go,

A wounded Lamb, to heaven's high courts, and show

The pierced side whence streamed the healing flood.

VIII.

Jesus, I trust in thee!-that boundless grace, Which prompted thee to bear the sinner's part, Now moves thee still, before thy Father's face To plead his cause :—so in thy hands I place This prayer for holiness of life and heart.

K

XXVI.

PLAYING WITH POESY.

I.

WHO plays with poesy had need beware:

The tenderest flower that blooms in sheltered vale, The frailest wing that fans the summer air,

The lightest gossamer that in the gale Waves on an autumn morn,-can scarcely be By one rude touch so marred as fairy poesy.

II.

In native beauty, 'tis all loveliness;

By nice art cultured, it is still the same;
Fitted to soothe, to captivate, to bless
The weary heart, and elevate its aim
Above the shadows of the earth and time,

To pure and lofty things-to all that is sublime.

III.

But when 'tis deemed a child of art alone,
And science fancies she can weave a song ;
Or gentle youths beneath the quiet moon,
Dream 'tis the wild child of the loving throng;
Oh! then, of all the ill-used things that be
Nought is so deeply wronged as fairy poesy.

IV.

Even when native taste, and polished art
Unite to form their high-born melody,

How trivial the error that shall thwart

Their brightest efforts!-till the strain shall be

A theme for pity, or contempt, or scorn,

That else were far from each as woodland songs at

morn.

V.

One bold conception with too bold a flight,
One image forced beyond its proper bound,
One chord in place or time not struck aright,
One thought that verges toward forbidden
ground,-

May mar the whole; like vulgar glance or air

In one who else were deemed a creature passing fair.

VI.

Shall I then throw my humble harp aside,
As claiming neither native gift, nor skill
From practice won?-No; I will rather hide

Where the stream winds unheard beneath the hill, Singing alone all through the tangled grove,

And with it blend the notes I blush to own I love.

VII.

I ask no praises from the listening throng;

I grant, ere censured, more than they will say; Rarely I try to reach a lofty song;

And in my simplest, least aspiring lay

Fail of my purpose: 'tis at best a strain,

Which the same heart that pours, confesses poor and vain.

VIII.

Would it were worthier! fitter for the ear

Of Him whose praises it would gladly tell!

Would that like holy anthems, deep and clear,
It spake the feelings which the bosom swell!
Then lovelier far, and dearer still to me
Would be the notes which then were sweetest poesy.