Oh! there was ONE,-on earth a while

He dwelt ;-but transient as a smile

That turns into a tear,

His beauteous image pass'd us by;

He came, like lightning from the sky,

He seem'd as dazzling to the eye,

As prompt to disappear.

Mild, in his undissembling mien,

Were genius, candour, meekness seen;
-The lips, that loved the truth;

The single eye, whose glance sublime
Look'd to eternity through time;

The soul, whose hopes were wont to climb

Above the joys of youth.

Of old,-before the lamp grew dark,

Reposing near the curtain'd ark,

The child of Hannah's prayer

Heard, through the temple's silent round,

A living voice, nor knew the sound,

-That thrice alarm'd him, ere he found

The Lord, who chose him there.*

* 1 Sam. chap. iii.

Thus early call'd, and strongly moved,

A prophet from a child, approved,

SPENCER his course began ;

From strength to strength, from grace to grace,

Swiftest and foremost in the race,

He carried victory in his face;

He triumph'd as he ran.

How short his day!-the glorious prize,
To our slow hearts and failing eyes,

Appear'd too quickly won :

-The warrior rush'd into the field,

With arm invincible to wield

The Spirit's sword, the Spirit's shield,
When lo! the fight was done.

The loveliest star of evening's train
Sets early in the western main,

And leaves the world in night;
The brightest star of morning's host,
Scarce-risen, in brighter beams is lost;
Thus sunk his form on ocean's coast,

Thus sprang his soul to light.

Who shall forbid the eye to weep,

That saw him, from the ravening deep,

Pluck'd like the lion's prey?

For ever bow'd his honour'd head,

The spirit in a moment fled,

The heart of friendship cold and dead,
The limbs a wreath of clay!

Revolving his mysterious lot,

I mourn him, but I praise him not;

Glory to God be given,

Who sent him, like the radiant bow,

His covenant of peace to show;

Athwart the breaking storm to glow,

Then vanish into heaven.

O Church! to whom that youth was dear,

The Angel of thy mercies here,

Behold the path he trod,

"A milky way" through midnight skies!

-Behold the grave in which he lies,

Even from this dust thy prophet cries,

"Prepare to meet thy GOD."

WHERE Babylon's proud waters roll,

In exile we sate down to weep;

For thoughts of Zion, o'er our soul,
Came like departed joys in sleep,

Whose forms to sad remembrance rise,
Though lost for ever from our eyes.

Our harps upon the willows hung,
Where worn with toil our limbs reclined;
The chords, untuned and trembling, rung

With mournful music on the wind;

While foes, insulting o'er our wrongs,
Cried, "Sing us one of Zion's songs."

How can we sing the songs we love,

Far from our own delightful land?

If I prefer thee not above

My chiefest joy, may this right hand,

Jerusalem!-forget her skill,

My tongue lie mute, my pulse be still.