SONNETS,

DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

I.

THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the Harp of poesy regain
That old victorious tone of prophet-years,

A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,

And showers of holy quiet, with its fall, Sank on the soul:-Oh! who may now recall The mighty music's consecrated reign ?— Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung

A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between, So let thy presence brood, though now unseen, O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strungFeeling and Thought!-till the rekindled chords Give the long buried tone back to immortal words!

II.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine, Cling reverently!—of anxious looks beguiled

My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,

Each day were bent ;-her accents, gravely mild
Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child
Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft away,

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest:-yet would the solemn Word
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be

A seed not lost;-for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

II.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine, Cling reverently!-of anxious looks beguiled

My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,

Each day were bent ;-her accents, gravely mild

Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child

Wandered on breeze-like fancies oft

away,

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest:-yet would the solemn Word
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be

A seed not lost;-for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

III.

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

From an Old Italian Picture.

Under a palm tree, by the green old Nile,

Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair Child lies,

With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes.

While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,

Regal and still as everlasting things!—

Vain pomps! from Him, with that pure flowery cheek,

Soft shadowed by his mother's drooping head,

A new born Spirit, mighty, and yet meek,

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread !

And bid all earthly Grandeurs cast the crown,

Before the suffering and the lowly, down.