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94    LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Say, shall it find the cherish'd grasp
Of friendship's fervour cold?
Or, shuddering, feel the envenom'd clasp
Of treachery's serpent-fold?

Yet, oh! may that Almighty Friend,
From whom existence came,
That dear and powerless hand defend
From deeds of guilt and shame.

Grant it to dry the tear of woe,
Bold folly's course restrain,
The alms of sympathy bestow,
The righteous cause maintain-

Write wisdom on the wing of time,
Even 'mid the morn of youth,
And with benevolence sublime
Dispense the light of truth-

Discharge a just, an useful part
Through life's uncertain maze,
Till coupled with an angel's heart,
It strike the lyre of praise.

SILENT DEVOTION.

"The Lord is in his holy temple;- let all the Earth keep silence before him."

The Lord is on his holy throne,
He sits in kingly state;
Let those who for his favour seek,
In humble silence wait.

Your sorrows to his eye are known,
Your secret motives clear,
In needeth not the pomp of words
To pour them on his ear.

LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.    95

Doth Death thy bosom's cell invade?
Yield up thy flower of grass:
Swells the world's wrathful billow high?
Bow down, and let it pass.

Press not thy purpose on thy God,
Urge not thine erring will,
Nor dictate to the Eternal mind,
Nor doubt thy Maker's skill.

True prayer is not the noisy sound
That clamorous lips repeat,
But the deep silence of a soul
That clasps Jehovah's feet.

TO A DYING INFANT.

Go to thy rest, my child!
Go to thy dreamless bed,
Gentle and undefiled,
With blessings on thy head,
Fresh roses in thy hand,
Buds on thy pillow laid,
Haste from this fearful land,
Where flowers so quickly fade.

Before thy heart might learn
In waywardness to stray,
Before thy foot could turn
The dark and downward way;
Ere sin might wound the breast,
Or sorrow wake the tear,
Rise to thy home of rest,
In yon celestial sphere.