THE PENITENT.

WITH guilt and shame opprest,

Where shall I turn for rest,

Where look for timely succour from despair?

I try the world in vain.

I court earth's fluttering train,

But find, alas! no hope, no consolation, there.

Now glory's trumpet-call,

Now pleasure's crowded hall,

Now wealth, now grandeur, every thought employs;

Vain, weary, wasted hours!

E'en midst life's fairest flowers

Fell disappointment lurks and poisons all our joys.

Then whither shall I fly ?

To Christ, to God, on high

To Him lift up thy soul in contrite prayer!

He sees the lowly heart,

He will His grace impart,

And e'en to sinners yield a refuge from despair.

ON A DEAR CHILD.

"Of such is the kingdom of God."

FLOWERS for the loved, the lost! Bring flowers,
The sweetest of the year;

They charm'd him in life's happiest hours,
And let them strew his bier.

Meet emblems of a spring, like his,
That bloom'd but to decay,

That stole, in dreams of gentle bliss
And innocence, away.

We weep, though not in bitterness,
Ours are not tears of gloom;
No thoughts, but those of tenderness,
Shall glisten round his tomb.

No painful recollections rise

His morn-it dawn'd so blest,
And, ere a cloud had dimm'd its skies,
Sweet lamb, he was at rest.

He's far away! Yet still I gaze
Upon his smiling face,
Still mark his little winning ways,
His every infant grace:

I listen for his airy tread,

His voice I turn to hear,

Nor knew I, till their sounds had fled, That he was half so dear.

Each scene he loved, -the sandy wild,

The rocks, the lone-blue sea,

The birds, the flowers, on which he smiled,Shall long be dear to me.

Oh, had I been beside his bed,

But one sad kiss to share,

To soothe, perchance, his throbbing head,

To hear his heart's meek prayer.

To press his little grateful hand,

To watch his patient breath,

And gaze upon that smile, so bland,

So beautiful, in death.

But these are past. And why, my child,
Should I lament thy doom?

Thou wert a plant, too rare, too mild,
On earth's bleak wastes to bloom.

Oh, why should we disturb thy bliss,
(For such thy lot must be)
Why wish thee in a world like this,
From one, that's worthy thee?

TWYDEE.

Go, roam through this isle; view her oak-bosom'd towers,

View the scenes which her Stowes and her Blenheims impart;

See lawns, where proud wealth has exhausted its powers,

And nature is lost in the mazes of art;

Far fairer to me
Are the shades of Twydee,

With her rocks, and her floods, and her wildblossom'd bowers.

Here mountain on mountain exultingly throws Through storm, mist, and snow, its bleak crags to the sky;

In their shadow the sweets of the valley repose, While streams, gay with verdure and sunshine, steal by;

Here bright hollies bloom

Through the steep thicket's gloom,

And the rocks wave with woodbine, and hawthorn,

and rose.

'Tis eve; and the sun faintly glows in the west, But thy flowers, fading Skyrrid, are fragrant with dew,

And the Usk, like a spangle in nature's dark vest, Breaks, in gleams of far moonlight, more soft on the view;

By valley and hill All is lovely and still,

And we linger, as lost, in some isle of the blest.

Oh, how happy the man who, from fashion's cold ray, Flies to shades, sweet as these, with the one he

loves best!

With the smiles of affection to gladden their day,
And the nightingale's vespers to lull them to rest;

While the torments of life,
Its ambition and strife,

Pass, like storms heard at distance, unheeded away. blished Church, holding an important station in Birmingham, where his high intellectual qualities and deep earnestness of feeling attach to him the hearts of all who know him. He has been already introduced to American readers, by WASHINGTON IRVING's happy quotations from some of his poems in the "Sketch Book." Mr. KENNEDY also wrote and published, in 1837, a "Tribute in Verse to the

DOMESTIC BLISS.

THROUGH each gradation, from the castled hall,
The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade,
But chief from modest mansions numberless,
In town or hamlet, sheltering middle life,
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof'd shed,
Our Western Isle hath long been famed for scenes
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place;
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
(Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,)
Can centre in a little quiet nest

All that desire would fly for through the earth;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven;
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft,
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky;
Or, if it dwell where cultured grandeur shines,
And that which gives it being, high and bright,
Allures all eyes, yet its delight is drawn
From its own attributes and powers of growth-
Affections fair that blossom on its stem,
Kissing each other, and from cherish'd hope
Of lovely shoots, to multiply itself.

THE MERRY BELLS OF ENGLAND.

You hear, as I, the merry bells of England:
Can any country of the same extent
Boast of so many?-in their size and tone
Differing, yet all for harmonies combined: [cities,
Cluster'd, in frequent bands, through towns and
Lodgment they find in many a village tower

And tapering spire, that crowns an upland lawn,
Or peeps from grove and dell; while now and then,
Modest and low, a steeple ivy-clad,
Behind a rock, reveals its whereabout

To the lone traveller, only by their tongue.
Art's work they are, yet in their tendency,
Somewhat like nature to the human soul. [both;
Raised up 'twixt earth and heaven, they speak of
They speak to all of duty and of hope-

They speak of sorrow, and of sorrow's cure.

in 1840, his chief production, a volume from the press of Saunders and Otley, embracing "Britain's Genius; a Mask on occasion of the Marriage of Victoria," and a lyrical poem, "The Reign of Youth." The last illustrates the passions of youth as they successively arise. Wonder is succeeded by Mirth; Hope arises in the disappointment of Imagination, and Love succeeds to Ambition.

"Tis happy for a land and for its people, When the full spirits of the young and old Shall thus flow out in artlessness of sport. Waters, long pent, may swell to monstrous danger, Sullen and still, with deluge in their power. Far otherwise 't will be, when timely vents Give them to run in many a babbling rill Through vales or down the rocks, and then disperse, Yet leave a green effect on laughing fields Still more and more we hear those pealing bellsHow true in tone they are!

Sweet bells, oft heard, and most, if their discourse Shall meet life's daily ear, act wholesomely Upon life's daily mind.

AMBITION.

YET these are but a herald band-
The created chieftain is himself at hand;

These shall but wait

On his heroic state,

And act at his command.

He comes! Ambition comes; his way prepare!-
Let banners wave in air,

And loud-voiced trumpets his approach declare!
He comes! for glory has before him raised
Her shield, with godlike deeds emblazed.
He comes, he comes!-for purposes sublime
Dilate his soul; and his exulting eye
Beams like a sun, that, in the vernal prime,
With golden promise travels up the sky.
Onward looking, far and high,

While before his champion pride

Valleys rise, and hills subside,

His mighty thoughts, too swift for lagging time,
Through countless triumphs run;

Each deed conceived, appears already done,
Foes are vanquish'd, fields are won.
E'en now, with wreaths immortal crown'd,
He marches to the sound

TO A SLEEPING CHILD.

ART thou a thing of mortal birth, Whose happy home is on our earth? Does human blood with life embue Those wandering veins of heavenly blue, That stray along thy forehead fair, Lost mid a gleam of golden hair? Oh! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doom'd to death; Those features to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent; Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, A phantom of a blessed dream?

A human shape I feel thou art,

I feel it at my beating heart,
Those tremors both of soul and sense
Awoke by infant innocence!
Though dear the forms by fancy wove,
We love them with a transient love,
Thoughts from the living world intrud
Even on her deepest solitude:
But, lovely child! thy magic stole
At once into my inmost soul,
With feelings as thy beauty fair,
And left no other vision there.

To me thy parents are unknown;
Glad would they be their child to own!
And well they must have loved before,
If since thy birth they loved not more.
Thou art a branch of noble stem,
And, seeing thee, I figure them.
What many a childless one would give,
If thou in their still home wouldst live!
Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine!"
In time thou wouldst become the same
As their own child, -all but the name!

How happy must thy parents be
Who daily live in sight of thee!
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek
Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak,
And feel all natural griefs beguiled
By thee, their fond, their duteous child.
What joy must in their souls have stirr'd
When thy first broken words were heard,
Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd
The transports dancing in thy breast!
And for thy smile!-thy lip, cheek, brow,
Even while I gaze, are kindling now.

I call'd thee duteous; am I wrong?
No! truth, I feel, is in my song:
Duteous thy heart's still beatings move
To God, to nature, and to love!
To God!-for thou a harmless child
Has kept his, temple undefiled :
To nature! for thy tears and sighs
Obey alone her mysteries:

To love!-for fiends of hate might see
Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee!
What wonder then, though in thy dreams
Thy face with mystic meaning beams!

Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy : That light of dreaming soul appears

To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring!
And who can tell what visions high
May bless an infant's sleeping eye?
What brighter throne can brightness find
To reign on than an infant's mind,

Ere sin destroy, or error dim,
The glory of the seraphim?

But now thy changing smiles express
Intelligible happiness.
I feel my soul thy soul partake.
What grief! if thou shouldst now awake!
With infants happy as thyself
I see thee bound, a playful elf:
I see thou art a darling child
Among thy playmates, bold and wild.
They love thee well; thou art the queen
Of all their sports, in bower or green;
And if thou livest to woman's height,
In thee will friendship, love, delight.

And live thou surely must; thy life
Is far too spiritual for the strife
Of mortal pain, nor could disease
Find heart to prey on smiles like these.
Oh! thou wilt be an angel bright!
To those thou lovest, a saving light!
The staff of age, the help sublime
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime;
And when thou goest to heaven again,
Thy vanishing be like the strain
Of airy harp, so soft the tone
The ear scarce knows when it is gone!

Thrice blessed he! whose stars design
His spirit pure to lean, on thine;
And watchful share, for days and years,
Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears!
For good and guiltless as thou art,
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart,
Griefs that along thy alter'd face
Will breathe a more subduing grace,
Than even those looks of joy that lie
On the soft cheek of infancy.
Though looks, God knows, are cradled there,
That guilt might cleanse, or sooth despair.

Oh! vision fair! that I could be
Again, as young, as pure as thee!
Vain wish! the rainbow's radiant form
May view, but cannot brave the storm;
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes
That paint the bird of paradise,
And years, so fate hath order'd, roll
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul.
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace,
Such as the gladness of thy face,
O sinless babe! by God are given
To charm the wanderer back to heaven.

No common impulse hath me led
To this green spot, thy quiet bed,
Where, by mere gladness overcome,
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home.
When to the lake I would have gone,
A wondrous beauty drew me on,
Such beauty as the spirit sees

In glittering fields, and moveless trees,

After a warm and silent shower, Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. What led me hither, all can say, Who, knowing God, his will obey.

Thy slumbers now cannot be long:
Thy little dreams become too strong
For sleep-too like realities:
Soon shall I see those hidden eyes!
Thou wakest, and, starting from the ground,
In dear amazement look'st around;
Like one who, little given to roam,
Wonders to find herself from home!
But when a stranger meets thy view,
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue.
A moment's thought who I may be,
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy.

Fair was that face as break of dawn,
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn,
Like a thin veil that half-conceal'd
The light of soul, and half-reveal'd.

While thy hush'd heart with visions wrought,
Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought,
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak,
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek,
Such summer-clouds as travel light,
When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright;
Till thou awokest, then to thine eye
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy!

And lovely is that heart of thine,
Or sure these eyes could never shine
With such a wild, yet bashful glee,
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity!
Nature has breathed into thy face
A spirit of unconscious grace;
A spirit that lies never still,
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will.
As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake
Soft airs a gentle rippling make,
Till, ere we know, the strangers fly,
And water blends again with sky.

O happy sprite! didst thou but know
What pleasures through my being flow
From thy soft eyes! a holier feeling
From their blue light could ne'er be stealing;
But thou wouldst be more loth to part,
And give me more of that glad heart!
Oh! gone thou art! and bearest hence
The glory of thy innocence.

But with deep joy I breathe the air
That kiss'd thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair,
And feel, though fate our lives must sever,
Yet shall thy image live for ever!

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face
A thoughtful and a quiet grace ;-
Though happy still-yet chance distress
Hath left a pensive loveliness!
Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,
And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow, and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own.
Sounds sweeter, from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth, and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary time!
For thou art doom'd in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from wo;
The holy pride of high intent,
The glory of a life well spent.
When earth's affections nearly o'er
With peace behind, and faith before,
Thou renderest up again to God,
Untarnish'd by its frail abode,
Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn,
From bands of sister seraphim,
Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality!

THE HUNTER.

HIGH life of a hunter! - he meets, on the hill,
The new-waken'd daylight, so bright and so still;
And feels, as the clouds of the morning unroll,
The silence, the splendour, ennoble his soul!
"Tis his on the mountains to stalk like a ghost,
Enshrouded in mist, in which nature is lost;
Till he lifts up his eyes, and flood, valley, and height,
In one moment, all swim in an ocean of light,-
While the sun, like a glorious banner unfurl'd,
Seems to wave o'er a new, more magnificent world!
'Tis his, by the mouth of some cavern his seat,
The lightning of heaven to see at his feet,-
While the thunder below him, that growls from the
cloud,

To him comes in echo more awfully loud.
When the clear depth of noontide, with glittering

motion,

WITH laughter swimming in thine eye,

That told youth's heartfelt revelry!
And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow waken'd by the spring;
With accents blithe as voice of May,
Chanting glad nature's roundelay;
Circled by joy like planet bright
That smiles mid wreaths of dewy light,-

O'erflows the lone glens-an aërial ocean,-
When the earth and the heavens, in union profound,
Lie blended in beauty that knows not a sound,-
As his eyes in the sunshiny solitude close,
Neath a rock of the desert in dreaming repose,-
He sees in his slumbers such visions of old

As wild Gaelic songs to his infancy told;

O'er the mountains a thousand plumed hunters are

borne,

Thy image such, in former time,

When thou, just entering on thy prime,

And he starts from his dream, at the blast of the horn!