PREDICTION TO JOSHUA RELATIVE TO AMERICA. FAR o'er yon azure main thy view extend, Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend : Lo, there a mighty realm, by Heaven designed The last retreat for poor, oppressed mankind; Formed with that pomp which marks the hand divine, And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumbered shine. Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade; Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave, And inland seas for commerce spread the wave. With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll, And fairer lustre purples round the pole. Here, warmed by happy suns, gay mines unfold The useful iron and the lasting gold; Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow, And mock the splendors of the covenant bow. On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod, That smile to see the future harvest nod, In glad succession plants unnumbered bloom, And flowers unnumbered breathe a rich perfume. Hence life once more a length of days shall claim, And health, reviving, light her purple flame. Far from all realms this world imperial lies, Seas roll between. and threat'ning tempests rise. Alike removed nd ambition's pale, And the bold pinions of the venturous sail; Till circling years the destined period bring, And a new Moses lift the daring wing, Through trackless seas an unknown flight explores, O! smile, thou sky serene; ye storms, retire; Swift o'er the main behold the canvass fly, In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar, And, hark! what strange, what solemn breaking strain JOHN QUINCY ADAMS, THE sixth president of the United States, and one of the most learned men of his time, was a poet of no mean rank, though his political relations prevented a just estimate of his literary abilities by his contemporaries. Among his poems are "Oberon, translated from the German of Wieland;" "Dermot McMorrogh, or the Conquest of Ireland;" and "Poems of Religion and Society," a posthumous collection of his hymns and other short pieces, with notices of his life and character. Some of the religious poems of Mr. Adams are of great excellence. He was born in Braintree, Massachusetts, in 1767, and died in the capitol, at Washington, in 1848. TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. SURE, to the mansions of the blest When infant innocence ascends, The spotless spirit's flight attends. On wings of ecstasy they rise, Beyond where worlds material roll, Till some fair sister of the skies Receives the unpolluted soul. That inextinguishable beam, With dust united at our birth, Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam Closed in this dark abode of clay, The stream of glory faintly burns :— Not unobserved, the lucid ray To its own native fount returns. But when the Lord of mortal breath Decrees his bounty to resume, And points the silent shaft of death Which speeds an infant to the tomb No passion fierce, nor low desire, Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire Reverts, unclouded as it came. Fond mourner! be that solace thine! The anguish of a mother's heart. Bask in the bosom of their God. Of their short pilgrimage on earth Each anxious care, each rending sigh, That wrung for them the parent's breast, Dwells on remembrance in the sky, Amid the raptures of the blest. O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend; They smooth the pillow of thy bed; Oft, till the morn's returning light, Still watchful hover o'er thy head. Hark! in such strains as saints employ, Calm the perturbed heart to joy, And bid the streaming sorrow cease. Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; Their part and thine inverted see:Thou wert their guardian angel here, They guardian angels now to thee. THE HOUR GLASS. ALAS! how swift the moments fly! See childhood, youth, and manhood pass, Time was—Time shall be-drain the glass- Time is the measure but of change; No present hour is found; The past, the future, fill the range Of Time's unceasing round. Where, then, is now? In realms above, With God's atoning Lamb, In regions of eternal love, Where sits enthroned I AM. Then, pilgrim, let thy joys and tears But henceforth all thy hopes and fears To God let votive accents rise; LORD OF ALL WORLDS. LORD of all worlds, let thanks and praise With blessings thou hast crowned my days, O, let no vain presumptions rise, |