Come blest Religion, meek-eyed maid,
In all thy heavenly charms arrayed,
Descend with healing in thy wing,
And touch my heart while yet I sing.
Heaven's own child of simple truth,
The stay of age, the guide of youth,
All spotless, pure and undefiled,
How blest are those on whom you've smiled.
Oh! come, as thou wert wont, and bless
The widow and the fatherless—
Temper the wind to the shorn lamb,
Pour on the wounded heart thy balm;
Strew softest flowers, where e're they stray,
And pluck, oh! pluck the thorns away.
Come like the good Samaritan,
Bind up the sick and wounded man;
Not like the Priest thy love display—
Just look devout, and turn away.
Oh! no—the bruised with kindness greet,
And set the mourner on his feet.
Teach me with warm affections pure,
That holy Fountain to adore,
From whence proceeds or life or thrift—
The source of every perfect gift:
Teach me thy fear—thy grace impart,
And twine thy virtues round my heart;
With pity's dew suffuse my eye,
And teach me heavenly charity—
That blessed love, which will not halt,
Or stumble at a brother's fault;
But with affection's tender care,
Will still pursue the wanderer.
Oh! teach my heart enough to feel,
For human woe and human weal.
Not that mad zeal, which works by force,
And poisons goodness, at its source;
But that mild, pure, persuasive love,
Which thou hast brought us from above.
Thro' thy fair fields, oh! fatal change,
Let no distempered maniac range,—
No frantic bigot spoil thy bowers,
And blight thy pure and spotless flowers.
Still, still, thou pure and heavenly dove,
Still speed thy work of perfect love.
Pursue the pilgrim on his road,
And oh! take off his heavy load.
Peace whisper to the troubled breast,
And give the weary mourner rest—
And when in that last awful hour,
Death shall exert his fatal power,
Oh! blunt the print of his keen dart,
And sooth the pangs that rend the heart.
When the last vital throb shall cease,
Oh! be then present, with thy peace:
Then let thy healing grace be given
To light and waft our souls to Heaven.

L.

Pittsylvania.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY AND TIME.

[Written under a vignette, representing a branch of roses
with a scythe suspended over it, in a Lady's Album.]

Emblem of woman's beauty,
This blooming rose behold!
Time's scythe is hanging o'er it,
While yet its leaves unfold.
Alas! that Time is ever
To Beauty such a foe!
How can she shun his power?
How ward his withering blow?
Has she no art to foil him,
And turn his scythe aside?
Must she, who conquers others,
To him yield up her pride?
Yes, yes, there is a conquest
That Beauty gains o'er Time:
Forget it not, ye fair ones,
But prize the homely rhyme.
For every charm he pilfers
From Beauty's form or face,
Upon the mind's fair tablet,
Some new attraction trace.
Thus, Time's assaults are fruitless,
For, when her bloom is o'er,
Woman, despite his malice,
Is lovelier than before.

S.