Better 'twere to tell, How with a nobler zeal, and warmer love, She served her _heavenly Master_.

I have seen That reverend form bent down with age and pain, And rankling malady.

Yet not for this Ceased she to praise her Maker, or withdrew Her trust in Him, her faith, an humble hope-- So meekly had she learn'd to bear her cross-- For she had studied patience in the school Of Christ; much comfort she had thence derived, And was a follower of the NAZARENE.
* * * * * THE SABBATH BELLS.
The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion: chiefly when Their piercing tones fall _sudden_ on the ear Of the contemplant, solitary man, Whom thoughts abstruse or high have chanced to lure Forth from the walks of men, revolving oft, And oft again, hard matter, which eludes And baffles his pursuit--thought-sick and tired Of controversy, where no end appears, No clue to his research, the lonely man Half wishes for society again.
Him, thus engaged, the Sabbath bells salute _Sudden!_ his heart awakes, his ears drink in The cheering music; his relenting soul Yearns after all the joys of social life, And softens with the love of human kind.
* * * * * FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.
The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid.

She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By crystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death forever.
* * * * * COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.
From broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again.
How total a privation of all sounds, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven.
'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups.
Those are the meanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs.
So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light.
What can that do for him, or what restore?
Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices.
And little images of pleasures past, Of health, and active life--health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages.

On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end.
'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears.