But though so feebly sings my muse,
  I trust her song thou’lt not refuse;
  But all unaided by the Nine,
  Accept the boon from friendship’s shrine. 
  Youth round thee her garland weaves,
  Of varied flow’rs and verdant leaves,
  And leads thee forth in gardens fair,
  To cull exotics rich and rare. 
  And knowledge bids thy youthful mind,
  Wisdom, in her choice fruits to find. 
  But sober age holds stern control
  O’er the deep currents of my soul;
  I may not pause to cull the flow’rs,
  That bloom in fancy’s fairy bow’rs,
  But onward press, from day to day,
  In duty’s stern and rugged way;
  Yet ever upward may I rise,
  To yon bright world beyond the skies.

  Your cheek is ting’d with youthful bloom,
  While mine is faded for the tomb,
  And blended time with anxious care,
  Have left their deep impressions there.

  In graceful curls your ringlets stray,
  While mingle mine with mournful gray. 
  Hope spreads gay roses in your way,
  And points to many a future day,—­
  And flinging wild her scented flow’rs,
  Beckons to her rosy bow’rs;
  But I have seen such hopes decay,
  And each fair promise fade away;
  Have seen the syren beckon on:—­
  And spread new charms when one had flown,
  Till ev’ry blooming flow’ret died,
  And wither’d leaves hung by my side.

  Then, maiden, do not cling to earth,
  Whose hopes are of so little worth,
  But now in youth thy heart be given,
  In childlike confidence, to heav’n;
  Then hope within your breast shall rise,
  Ever to bloom in paradise;
  And you, an angel bright, shall stand,
  To sing and shine at God’s right hand.

  Maiden, this is my prayer for thee—­
  Far reaching to eternity;
  And when, like mine, your setting sun
  Proclaims life’s journey almost run,
  O, may his last—­his sinking ray,
  Beam on a brighter, happier day. 
  Forgive, dear maid, my truthful strain—­
  Say not, such reas’ning is in vain;
  Say not that age is ever blind,
  And disappointment sours the mind;
  But, oh! the voice of warning heed—­
  And quickly to the Saviour speed;
  For Jesus tells you “there is room,”
  And to the weary soul says, “Come;”
  Then lean your head upon his breast. 
  And you shall have the promised rest.

  When you shall touch your gifted lyre,
  Glowing with sweet, seraphic fire,
  O then, remember me again,
  And wake for me one pleasing strain.

Lines, Written in an Album.

“Then Jesus said unto her, Mary.”

  “Mary,” the ris’n Saviour said,
    In accents sweet and low;
  “Mary:”  she rais’d her drooping head,
    The form she sought to know.

  Mary had lingered by the cross,
    To see her Saviour die;
  Had seen him wrapp’d in linen fine,
    In Joseph’s tomb to lie.