Help thou, or else my children die. 
  To thee my inmost thoughts arise;
  By faith I pierce the vaulted skies,
  And there I see thy risen Son,
  Seated beside thee on the throne,
  His pitying accents cry “Forgive,”
  And let the thoughtless sinner live. 
  “Father, I have been crucified—­”
  “An ignominious death have died,—­”
  “Deep agony for sin have known;”
  “Father, and will not this atone?”
  I come, too, leaning on His breast,
  There all my hopes and wishes rest,
  And join with His my pleading voice,
  That they may all in god rejoice. 
  May one melodious concert rise
  From angels, bending from the skies:—­
  O’er new-born souls, redeemed on earth,
  Rejoicing in their heav’nly birth. 
  Lead them in pastures green and fair,
  And gardens planted by thy care;
  Where streams of free salvation flow,
  And fruitful trees of knowledge grow. 
  Father, I ask not sordid wealth,
  Nor the more precious boon of health;
  The only blessing that I crave
  Is endless life beyond the grave;
  That when the icy hand of death
  Shall seize their frames, and stop their breath,
  Their souls on wings of faith may rise
  To life and joy beyond the skies. 
  O Father, grant me this request
  And I shall be supremely bless’d;
  Bend ev’ry stubborn, wilful knee,
  And draw each wand’ring heart to thee. 
  But hark!  I hear a cheering voice
  That bids my waiting soul rejoice. 
  “Be still, and know that I am God,”
  And bow submissive to the rod. 
  It seems almost that voice from heav’n,
  Had spoke my childrens’ sins forgiven,
  So suddenly had calmness stole
  O’er the deep currents of my soul. 
  Glory to God, who whispers peace,
  And bids our hope and faith increase;
  Glory to God, be echoed then,
  ’Till earth repeats the long amen.

Lines, Written in an Album.

  Earthly beauties soon decay,
  Earthly pleasures fade away;
  Then raise your fond desires to heaven,
  And let not all to earth be giv’n.

  Though touch’d by brilliant rainbow dyes,
  Earth can contain no lasting prize. 
  But high above yon azure dome,
  The ransom’d spirit finds a home.

  O, then make wisdom’s ways your choice
  In early youth.  You will rejoice
  To tread the straight and narrow way,
  That upward leads to endless day.

  Then when life’s little day is past,
  Angels shall welcome thee at last
  To yonder blissful, happy shore,
  Where sin and sorrow come no more.

On The Death of a Mother.

  O bring a robe of snowy white,
    And fold it lightly o’er her breast;
  Cold and pulseless now it lies,
    The sainted spirit’s sunk to rest;

  And gently fold the toil-worn hands,
    And softly close the weary eyes;
  Life’s rugged journey now is past,
    And calm in death’s cold sleep she lies.