st us,
No home cares to press us,
Farther onward, and onward we roam;
But at length the skies lower,
And unhoped for the shower
Finds us many miles distant from home.

Even so is life's day,
Like a fair morn in May,
With hope's bright bow of promise it cheers;
But long before night,
The sun that so bright
In the morning had shone, disappears.

Do not then I entreat,
My beloved Margaret,
Be content with this world for thy portion;
Let ambition soar _higher_,
E'en _above_ earth aspire,
And to God give thy heart's true devotion.

April 29, 1853.

REPLY TO A TOAST,

SENT BY MR. W. TO THE LADIES OF WAYLAND, AT THEIR FAIR HELD ON MAY-DAY.

Many, _many_ kind thanks from the Waylanders fair,
Who are sorry, quite sorry you could not be there,
To receive their warm greeting, partake of their cheer,
And repaid by their smiles for your wishes sincere.
That health and content may your footsteps attend,
Believe me, dear sir, is the wish of your friend.

May 2, 1853.

TO MR. C.R.

FOR MANY YEARS DEPRIVED OF SIGHT.

They say the sun is shining
In all his splendor now,
And clouds in graceful drapery,
Are sailing to an fro.

That birds of brilliant plumage,
Are soaring on the wing;
Exulting in the daylight,
Rejoicing as they sing.

They tell me too that roses,
E'en in _my_ pathway lie;
And decked in rich apparel,
Attract the passers by.

They say the sun when setting,
Is glorious to behold;
And sheds on all at parting,
A radiant crown of gold.

And then the night's pale empress,
With all her glittering train,
The vacant throne ascending,
Resumes her peaceful reign.

That she in queenly beauty,
Subdued yet silvery light,
Makes scarcely less enchanting
Than day, the sober night.

But sights like these so cheering,
Alas, I cannot see!
The daylight and the darkness
Are both alike to me.

Yet there's a world above us,
So beautiful and fair,
That nothing here can equal,
And nought with it compare.

There, in a blaze of glory,
Amidst a countless throng,
The Saviour smiles complacent,
While listening to their song.

Ten thousand times ten thousand,
Their cheerful voices raise,
While golden harps in harmony
Are tuned to sound the praise

Of Him the blest deliverer,
Who conquered when he fell;
The man of many sorrows,
The _Great Immanuel_.

But stop--I dare not venture
Too far on holy ground;
Its _heights_ are too exalted,
Its _depths_ are too profound.

Yet may I be pe