Yet there be vast and dim dominions, Ocean without a shore,

Which not the boldest angel-pinions
Have ventured to explore;

And there be myfteries fathomless,
Wrought in a realm of fire,
Whereat the Cherubim may guefs,
But have not dared enquire.

back,

One thing we know, that ages Before your earth was made, There rofe a cloud, fo densely black It caft e'en Heaven in fhade.

That darkness paft, and light on high
Again ferenely fhone;

But when we looked along the sky,
Ten thousand stars were gone!

Again the angel-watch was fet
The eternal gates before;

But many a face we there had met,
We met again no more.

God o'er their fate a veil has spread,

Nor further may we win; Save of its caufe a rumour dread, That fighed the name of fin.

God guard us fafe from aught of ill, In knowledge or in deed!

To know His love, to do His will

We ask no higher meed.

May naught avert the bleffing given
His creatures at their birth;
Disturb the harmonies of Heaven,
Or mar the peace of earth.

HANKINSON.

XXXII.

DEATH.

HE feeble pulfe, the gafping breath,
The clenched teeth, the glazed eye,-
Are these thy fting, thou dreadful death?
O grave, are these thy victory?

The mourners by our parting bed,
The wife, the children weeping nigh,

The difmal pageant of the dead-
These, these are not thy victory!

But from the much-loved world to part,
Our luft untamed, our fpirit high,
All nature ftruggling at the heart,
Which, dying, feels it dare not die!

To dream through life a gaudy dream
Of pride, and pomp, and luxury,
Till waken'd by the nearer gleam
Of burning, boundless agony ;

To meet o'er foon our angry King,
Whofe love we paffed unheeded by
Is this, O death, thy deadlieft fting?
O grave, and this thy victory?

O Searcher of the fecret heart,
Who deigned for finful man to die!
Reftore us ere the spirit part,

Nor give to hell the victory.

Canft thou her bold career foretell,

What rocks she shall o'erleap or rend,
How far in Ocean's fwell

Her freshening billows fend?

* This powerful defcription of untamed fin at its clofing hour will more forcibly remind the reader of that awful hymn by Peter Damian on "the Laft Day," which is given in this collection, than what is ufually found in modern compofitions.

Perchance that little brook fhall flow
The bulwark of fome mighty realm,
Bear navies to and fro

With monarchs at their helm.

Even fo, the course of prayer who knows?
It fprings in filence where it will,
Springs out of fight, and flows
At first a lonely rill:

But streams shall meet it by and bye
From thousand fympathetic hearts,
Together fwelling high

Their chaunt of many parts.

Unheard by all but angel ears
The good Cornelius knelt alone,

Nor dreamed his prayers and tears
Would help a world undone.

The while upon his terraced roof
The loved Apostle to his Lord
In filent thought aloof
For heavenly vision foared,

Far o'er the glowing western main
His wiftful brow was upward raised,
Where, like an Angel's train
The burnifh'd water blazed.

The faint befide the ocean prayed,
The foldier in his chosen bower,
Where all his eye furveyed

Seemed facred in that hour.

To each unknown his brother's prayer,

Yet brethren true in deareft love

and now they share

Were they,