Such were the simple things that first

The spirit of hope in my bosom nurst.

Hope of my youth!-thy intensity
Was like the glow of the summer sky;

Thou wert a dream of loveliness,

Fixed in my bosom's inmost recess;-
That I might be gazed on tenderly,
By the eyes that were as heaven to me;
That the heart I loved might pour again
Its love on mine, like the summer rain;
That that spirit might melt in affection's power:
Such were the hopes of my youth's warm hour!

Hope of my summer!-wild and vain

Wert thou, although my fevered brain
Cherished thee with that mad desire,

Whose wild flames are like a lava fire,

That my name might blend with many a name

That is uttered by the voice of fame ;

Oh, how I tried my heart to deceive!

Even as when a sweet dream doth leave,
We try and long, and long in vain,
To sleep, and dream it o'er again.

Hope of my age!-and what art thou?
Oh, not on fading things below

Is thy foundation,-thou art no dream,

To melt away like the summer beam.

I have known some hopes that looked most bright, Perish like dreams in Truth's morning light.

I have known others as blossoms fair,

Wither like them in the blast of Care;

But thou, thou can'st not be faded or riven,

For thy spring is Truth-thy source is Heaven!

STANZAS.

"The peace of God that passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God."

OH, what can compare to the peace of God,

When it cometh upon the heart,

Where once contending passions trod,-
When it bids them all depart !

Oh! not the peace of the battle plain,
When the day's hot fight is o'er;

There war may madly rage again,—

In that heart it can rage no more.

'Tis not like the peace to the ocean given, When above the soft skies smile;

True, it may image the face of heaven,

And be gentle and calm for awhile;-

But shall not the clouds again be hung
O'er it, in gorgeous gloom,

And shall not many a life be flung
Away on that stormy tomb?

'Tis not like the peace of the fruitful land, When the valleys are thick with corn;

That peace all hearts may understand,

For of earthly things 't is born;

But thou wouldst not call it peace hadst thou knelt

Before God's holy shrine,

And that blessed calm in thy spirit felt,

That none can e'er define.

Turn not to earth, for its brightest joys

Beside His light are dim;

But there is a pleasure nought destroys,

And it flows alone from him.

Oh, be that peace upon thy breast,
And thou shalt surely know,

That save His pure and holy rest,

There is no true peace below!