t Time could have in store
Not one more shaft for me.

Long I had watched thy lingering bloom
That brightened 'mid decay;
And then its eloquent appeal
Would ask my heart if death _could_ steal
Such loveliness away.

And oh! could pure unsullied worth
Or peerless beauty save,
We had not stood as mourners here,
And shed the unavailing tear
O'er thy untimely grave.

But we have seen thee lowly laid,
And I am here alone;
Each morn I shuddering wake to feel
The consciousness around me steal,
That all my hopes are flown.

All, did I say? Ingrate indeed!
Oh, be the thought forgiven;
Has he not hopes and interests here,
Whose sacred task it is to rear
A family for Heaven?

Rebellious heart! some tendril ties
Around thee still are thrown;
Oh, while this cherub group is mine,
Heaven's dearest gift I can resign,
And say, "Thy will be done."

1826.

LINES,

ON HEARING IT SAID "THAT IT WAS UNREASONABLE TO SUPPOSE MAN SHOULD BELIEVE
WHAT HE COULD NOT COMPREHEND."

"Thou great First Cause," Creator, King, and Lord,
The worm that breathed at Thy commanding word,
And dies whene'er Thou wilt, presumptuous man,
Has dared the mazes of Thy path to scan;
Guided by reason's powerless rays alone,
Would pierce the veil of mystery round Thee thrown.

Tell me, proud being!--flutterer of an hour--
(Who thus would comprehend creative power),
Why worlds were made, why man was formed at all,
Or crimeless once, permitted then to fall,
The why, the wherefore, boots not us to know,
Enough--that God ordained it to be so.

Go thou, and cull the simplest flower that blows,
The hillside daisy or the wilding rose,
And tell me why so bright their hues appear,
Why they return with each revolving year;
Or how, when countless worlds are all in bloom,
O'er every bud is breathed its own perfume.
Yes, solve me this, and I'll believe with thee,
'Twas meant that man should doubt all mystery.

Presumptuous worm! enough to know is given--
'Tis fearful meddling with the things of Heaven;
Its sacred mysteries belong alone
To Him whose paths are awful and unknown;
Who wings the storm, or whispers "Peace, be still;"
Cradling to rest the mountain wave at will;
Who for our souls his Son a ransom gave,
And guards "his fold" from childhood to the grave.
Confess, proud man, all his kno