A friend to chide me when I'm wrong,

My inmost soul to see ;

And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me.

I want a kind and tender heart,
For others' wants to feel;

A soul secure from Fortune's dart,
And bosom armed with steel,
To bear divine chastisement's rod
And mingling in my plan
Submission to the will of God
With charity to man.

I want a keen, observing eye,

An ever-listening ear,

The truth through all disguise to spy,

And Wisdom's voice to hear; A tongue to speak, at Virtue's need,

In heaven's sublimest strain, And lips the cause of man to plead, And never plead in vain.

I want uninterrupted health
Throughout my long career,
And streams of never-failing wealth
To scatter far and near-
The destitute to clothe and feed,

Free bounty to bestow,
Supply the helpless orphan's need

And soothe the widow's woe.

I want the genius to conceive,
The talents to unfold,
Designs the vicious to retrieve,
The virtuous to uphold;
Inventive power, combining skill,
A persevering soul,

Of human hearts to mould the will

And reach from pole to pole.

I want the seals of power and place,

The ensigns of command, Charged by the people's unbought grace To rule my native land; Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask, But from my country's will, By day, by night, to ply the task Her cup of bliss to fill.

I want the voice of honest praise
To follow me behind,

And to be thought in future days
The friend of humankind,
That after-ages, as they rise,
Exulting may proclaim,
In choral union, to the skies,

Their blessings on my name.

These are the wants of mortal man;

I cannot need them long,
For life itself is but a span

And earthly bliss a song.
My last great want, absorbing all,
Is, when beneath the sod,
And summoned to my final call,
The mercy of my God.

And oh, while circles in my veins

Of life the purple stream,
And yet a fragment small remains

Of nature's transient dream,
My soul, in humble hope unscared,
Forget not thou to pray
That this thy want may be prepared
To meet the judgment-day.

sail no more;

Vigor and youth and active

days are past:

Relentless demons urge me

to that shore

Such is the picture in my boding mind.

Fine tales, indeed, they tell
Of shades and purling rills
Where our dead fathers dwell
Beyond the Western hills;

funeral song,

low,

Where all is strange and all is new, Companion to the airy throng.

What solitary streams,

In dull and dreary dreams, All melancholy, must I rove along!

"To what strange lands must Chequi take his way!

Groves of the dead departed mortals trace;
No deer along those gloomy forests stray,
No huntsmen there take pleasure in the
chase,

But all are empty, unsubstantial shades
That ramble through those visionary glades:
No spongy fruits from verdant trees de-
pend,

But sickly orchards there

Do fruits as sickly bear,

And apples a consumptive visage show, And withered hangs the whortleberry blue.

"Ah me! what mischiefs on the dead attend! Wandering, a stranger, to the shores below, Where shall I brook or real fountain find?

out,

With a growl at my world within, Till I heard the merry voices ring

Of a lordly companie, And straight to myself I began to sing, "It is there that I ought to be."

And long I gazed through a lattice raised

Which smiled from the old gray wall, And my glance went in with the evening breeze,

And ran o'er the revellers all;

Who sat in the light bright hall, And one there was-oh, dream of life!— The loveliest 'mid them all.

She sat alone by an empty chair;

The queen of the feast was she; And I said to myself, "By that lady fair I certainly ought to be.'

And aloud she spoke: "We have waited long
For one who in fear and doubt
Looks wistfully into our hall of song

As he sits on the steps without.