THE POET'S PRAYER.

O could my spirit fly from this dark world of woe,
Methinks on wings of gladness it would go,
Rejoicing on its way, to meet its God
In yon pure, heavenly, sinless, blest abode.
O could it thus depart, ere years on years

Have brought with them a weight of sin and tears,

.

And bent this head in sorrow to the gloom

That hangs around an aged sinner's tomb :
How blest would that young glorious spirit be,
From all the ills of life thus-thus to flee,
And in the spring of life devote its youth
To praise the God of mercy, love, and truth.———
But, hush my soul! thou canst not flee away

From this cold world, nor leave this house of clay;

It is thy home-He wills it thy abode.

Bow down thy head, and say-Thy will, not mine, be done,

O God.