Some mountain's craggy steep he'll gain The eagle's plume to bring, And strip the gay enamell'd plain One votive wreath to string: To humbler deeds, as well, he'll deign, But should he once his meed attain, A tyrant soon he'll grow. III. How oft a mystic shape he'll wear— To draw the heart within his snare And make the mind his throne; But, Oh! of all his subtle schemes, Beware, beware the toils He throws around sweet Friendship's dreams, For hearts are then his spoils ! Oh! many tokens Love can find, His witching tale to tell; But, when he seems most fair and kind, Beware, beware his spell! SONG OF A SUNBEAM. I COME, I come from my throne above, To each leaflet and blossom growing: I am a creature of blessing and mirth :— I've come, weary heart! I've come to thee, Though thou'rt sighing with toil and sorrow, To try if a ramble abroad with me Would give thee fresh strength for the morrow! Welcome me, welcome me, children of earth !— Welcome me ever with gladness!— I am a creature of blessing and mirth :— Summer is no time for sadness! AN ADDRESS FOR THE TWELFTH ANNIVERSARY FESTIVAL IN AID OF THE ASYLUM FOR AGED AND DECAYED FREEMASONS, Held in Freemasons' Hall, June 16, 1847, WHEN some grand structure, falling to decay, Give strength and soundness to its mould'ring halls; |