I wrote my artless verses without effort, toil, or aim—
I read them to a list'ning group without a hope of fame;
By grovelling schemes, by worldly views, my thoughts
were undefiled:

Would I were now as free from care-oh! would I were a child!

Yet soon my youthful heart began to spurn a life like this; I deem'd the far-off glittering world a fairy land of bliss; I left my playmates to their sports. Bright dreams came

o'er me then

Of stirring scenes, of crowded halls, high dames, and gifted

And, while

men;

my

short and simple tasks with careless speed I conn❜d,

I sigh'd to study learned lore my feeble power beyond : Like Rasselas, around me while the happy valley smiled, I long'd to quit its limits, and to cease to be a child.

The magic circle of the world I now have stood within ;
I turn from its frivolity-I tremble at its sin:
And knowledge-my long-cherish'd hope, the object of my
love-

She still eludes my eager quest, still soars my grasp above;
I add from her bright treasury new jewels to my store,
Yet, miser-like, I murmur that I cannot grasp at more;
Before me seem exhaustless heaps of mental riches piled,
Yet still, in learning's highest gifts, I feel myself a child.

O foolish, O repining heart! thus wilfully to cast
Fond wishes to the future, and vain longings to the past;
Panting to o'erleap the bounds of childhood's simple track,
Anxious to 'scape from woman's cares, and trace the journey
back!

Should I not rather be content to pass from youth to age, Striving to do my Maker's work in life's short pilgrimage— Owning His mercies undeserved, His chastening lessons mild,

As when a father kind and wise corrects an erring child?

Lord! I recall my heedless wish!—still let me, day by day, Beneath Thy pure all-seeing eye, pursue my humble way; The steep and rugged hill of life with cheerful patience

climb,

Trusting to reach fair Zion's land at Thy appointed time! Or, if my hurried prayer in part Thou deignest to fulfil, Grant that with infant meekness I may ever wait Thy will; Aid me to school my rebel heart, to calm my fancies wild, And make me in submissive love indeed a little child.

A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD.

REV. R. C. TRENCH.

WE walk'd within the churchyard bounds,

My little boy and I—

He laughing, running merry rounds,
I pacing mournfully.

"Nay, child! it is not well," I said,

66

Among the graves to shout,

To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout."

A moment to my side he clung,
Leaving his merry play—

A moment still'd his joyous tongue,
Almost as hush'd as they;

Then, quite forgetting the command,

In life's exulting burst

Of early glee, let go my hand,

Joyous as at the first.

And now I did not check him more,

For, taught by Nature's face, I had grown wiser than before Even in that moment's space.

She spread no funeral pall above
That patch of churchyard ground,
But the same azure vault of love

As hung o'er all around;

And white clouds o'er that spot would pass

As freely as elsewhere;

The sunshine on no other grass

A richer hue might wear;

And form'd from out that very mould
In which the dead did lie,
The daisy with its eye of gold
Look'd up into the sky.

The rook was wheeling overhead,

Nor hasten'd to be gone;

The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perch'd on a gray head-stone.

And God, I said, would never give
This light upon the earth,
Nor bid in childhood's heart to live
Those springs of gushing mirth,

If our one wisdom were to mourn,
And linger with the dead-
To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn
Of worm, and earthy bed.

Oh, no-the glory earth puts on, The child's uncheck'd delight, Both witness to a triumph won— (If we but judged aright ;)

A triumph won o'er sin and death— From these the Saviour saves; And, like a happy infant, Faith

Can play among the graves.