No mortal hand with lenient skill
Bind up the broken heart.

But One alone, who reigns above,
Our wo to joy can turn,

And light the lamp of joy and love
That long has ceased to burn.

Then, O my soul, to that One flee,
To God thy woes reveal;
His eye alone thy wounds can see,
His hand alone can heal.

THE HOUR OF DEATH.

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set ;-but all,

Thou hast ALL seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care,

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ;-—
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour,

Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears ;-but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee; but thou art not of those Who wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set ;—but all,

Thou hast ALL seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-ALL are ours to die!

Thou art where billows foam,

Thou art where music melts upon the air,
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And the world calls us forth-and thou art there!

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set ;-but all,

Thou hast ALL seasons for thine own, O Death!

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. T. SPENCER,

Who was drowned while bathing in the tide, on the 5th of
August, 1811, in his twenty-first year.

I WILL not sing a mortal's praise;
To Thee I consecrate my lays,

To whom my powers belong!
These gifts upon thine altar strown,
O God! accept-accept thine own;
My gifts are Thine,-be Thine alone
The glory of my song.

In earth and ocean, sky and air,
All that is excellent and fair,
Seen, felt, or understood,
From one eternal cause descends,
To one eternal centre tends,
With God begins, continues, ends,
The source and stream of good.

I worship not the sun at noon,
The wandering stars, the changing moon,
The wind, the flood, the flame;

I will not bow the votive knee

To wisdom, virtue, liberty;

"There is no god but God," for me;

-Jehovah is his name.

Him through all nature I explore,
Him in his creatures I adore,
Around, beneath, above;

But clearest in the human mind,

His bright resemblance when I find,
Grandeur with purity combined,
I most admire and love.

Oh! there was ONE,-on earth awhile
He dwelt ;-but, transient as a smile
That turns into a tear,

His beauteous image pass'd us by;
He came like lightning from the sky,
He seem'd as dazzling to the eye,
As prompt to disappear.

Mild, in his undissembling mien
Were genius, candor, meekness seen;
-The lips, that loved the truth;
The single eye, whose glance sublime
Look'd to eternity through time;

The soul, whose hopes were wont to climb
Above the joys of youth.

Of old, before the lamp grew dark,
Reposing near the curtain'd ark,
The child of Hannah's prayer
Heard, through the temple's silent round,
A living voice, nor knew the sound;
That thrice alarmed him, ere he found
The Lord, who chose him there.

Thus early call'd, and strongly moved,
A prophet from a child, approved,
SPENCER his course began;

From strength to strength, from grace to grace,
Swiftest and foremost in the race,

He carried victory in his face;

He triumph'd as he ran.

How short his day!—the glorious prize,
To our slow hearts and failing eyes,
Appear'd too quickly won:

-The warrior rush'd into the field,
With arm invincible to wield

The Spirit's sword, the Spirit's shield,
When, lo! the fight was done.

The loveliest star of evening's train
Sets early in the western main,
And leaves the world in night;
The brightest star of morning's host,
Scarce risen, in brighter beams is lost;
Thus sunk his form on ocean's coast;
Thus sprang his soul to light.

Who shall forbid the eye to weep,
That saw him, from the ravening deep,
Pluck'd like the lion's prey?

For ever bow'd his honor'd head,
The spirit in a moment fled,

The heart of friendship cold and dead,

The limbs, a wreath of clay!

Revolving his mysterious lot,

I mourn him, but I praise him not;
Glory to God be given,

Who sent him, like the radiant bow,
His covenant of peace to show,
Athwart the breaking storm to glow,
Then vanish into heaven.

O Church! to whom that youth was dear,
The angel of thy mercies here,