At once his own bright prospect to be blest, Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine, Grasp the whole world of reason, life, and sense, And height of bliss but height of charity. God loves from whole to parts, but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake. As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake; The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds, Another still, and still another spreads; Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace, His country next, and next all human race; Wide and more wide th' o'erflowings of the mind Take every creature in, of every kind; Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blest, And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. EASTER DAY. [JOHN MASON GOOD.] Truly this was the Son of God.-Matt. xxvii. 54. YES, this was the Son of God. "Tis for man he bears the rod: Earth and skies are veiled in grief; Man alone shews unbelief. ''Tis finish'd.'—Through creation's bound Fly, O fly, triumphant sound! "Tis finish'd!' Heaven transported sings; "Tis finish'd!' Earth re-echoing rings. "Tis finish'd!'-Through the realms of woe The hated accents sternly flow: "Tis finish'd!' man the traitor lives; The ransom's paid, and God forgives. 'Tis finish'd!'-Yes, the toil is o'er : Sing the cross:-O badge of shame! "Tis finish'd!'-The mysterious plan, "Tis finish'd!'-All the vision high "Tis finish'd!'-See the victor rise; "Tis finish'd!'-But what mortal dare Then I'll sing the cross! the cross! ODE, TO A SWEET-BRIAR IN INDIA. [REV. JOHN LAWSON, LATE MISSIONARY AT CALCUTTA.] O STRANGER, welcome as a long-lost dream We meet, but O how chang'd! Not that thy form less lovely seems to me- Hung o'er my weary head. Thou seem'st a tender shade of what thou wert, Of thy transparent leaves. But there is magic in thy odorous breath, With thee in other climes. I see thy shadow at the cottage door Where wealth had never been. And there re-blooms the jessamine that help'd With thee to form the poor man's silent bower, Weaving o'er head her flowers Like snow-stars, with thine own. Nor was the honeysuckle absent then, But twisted her streak'd blossoms with thy leaves, Asking support from thee, Repaying with her grace. The low thatch met thy topmost branches, where The deep green moss, and golden stone crop grew, And house-leek, never sere, Smiled in her sunny bed. The busy wren there lodged her curious nest, Full on the rushing wind, Like melody from heaven. Yon scented garden charmed my infant days Beside the balmy thyme. O what of beauty graced that lovely spot! Or Their plumes upon the breeze; pea with slender stem; or spicy pink That opes her vermiel near the humble bed Of heart-reviving mint, And the wild origan; Or roses cheek by cheek, bow'd laughing down Scarce ting'd but with a blush. One, more than all that bloomed in that retreat, I called it 'Sarah's love.' For her cold hand, all motionless in death, Calm held the blossoms. Some were strewn to hide The dark cloud gathered round Her lovely faded eyes. And some were mingled with her auburn braids My Sister's beauteous form. Oft have I wept at thoughts of her, and can And thou, sweet-briar, too, Didst sigh thy odours where she rests her head. Since last we met, long years have slowly rolled; And more than human love Hath hover'd, like some heavenly spirit near. And bid sweet-briars grow Where thorns beset my path. The Power that bids thee spring in foreign earth, |