BY

INDIFFERENCE.

THE REV. R. POLWHELE.

How dreadful to affliction is thy look,
Indifference! Who can brook,
Where he expected sympathy,
The cold repulsive eye?

Where all is openness-reserve?

Where grief is eager to pour out its store,

The glance that tells us, "Say no more”? It is too much

For feeling to encounter, and not die!

'Tis the torpedo touch

Upon the trembling, shuddering, nerve

Of sensibility!

That nerve must shiver! To its thrilling There must succeed an icy chilling!

And the twinkling flame

Of life must faint away,

And leave the mortal frame

Fit only for the grave;

Unless full soon a pitying ray

From sweet Eliza re-illume the clay

Unless an angel save!

A BIRTH-DAY MEDITATION.

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ.

Is this the day that gave me birth ?
Returning year by year,

Still, as a stranger on the earth,
It finds and leaves me here.

But, oh! the day, the day draws nigh,
When I must hence depart,
Leave all things pleasant to the eye,
Or precious to the heart.

Where shall my lonely spirit then
Flee from the failing breath?

Alas! I must be born again,
Or die a tenfold death!

While everlasting ages roll
Without a change away,

My ransom'd, or my ruin'd soul,
Shall bless or curse this day.

Lord Jesus, who thyself wast born
To live and die for me,

Thy doctrine may my life adorn,-
Death take me home to thee.

HAST thou seen, with flash incessant,
Bubbles gliding under ice,
Bodied forth, and evanescent,

No one knows by what device?

Such are thoughts—a wind-swept meadow Mimicking a troubled sea :

Such is life-and death a shadow

From the rock Eternity.

THE COTTAGE DOOR.

CHILDHOOD! as the laughing hour
When the dew is on the flower;
As the cheerful voice of spring,
Many a sun-smile promising ;
As the rainbow's colours bright;
Gentle as the dawning light,
And as wandering breezes free,
Whispering o'er the silver lea.
While we gaze on scenes like this,
How returns thy long-past bliss,
And those thornless pleasures, known
Ere thy fairy power had flown!
'Neath the elm's broad shade to lie,

Gazing on the cloudless sky;

Where the stream stole dark and mute

'Neath the willow's tangled root,

To behold the trout divide,
Swift as thought, the gleaming tide.
In grey woods to listen long,
To the blackbird's mellow song;
Then, as sank the peaceful day,
At the threshold's verge to play,