Only Thou canst grant assistance,
Gracious God! to thee I come.
Pity, O my Father shew me!

Pity dwells within thy breast;
But thy grace and love bestow me,
Sooth, O sooth my griefs to rest!
Saviour, once when here sojourning,
Thou with weeping friends didst weep;
Visit now the house of mourning-
In the grave our children sleep.
While we shed the tear of sorrow,
O'er your tombs, beloved youth,
May we from religion borrow
Consolation, built on truth.
From this world of tribulation
You've been early called away,
Taught, I trust, the great salvation--
Should we wish your longer stay?
When by duty's call directed

To this pestilential shore, Little had we then expected Thus to part to meet no more. Tho' in youth, that giddy season, You could share a parent's pain; To our hearts endear'd-good reason! Death, alas! our peace hath slain. Let us then with due submission, To thy will our Father bow, With sincere and deep contrition, Bless the hand afflicts us now. Thou art still the good, the gracious, All thy ways and dealings just; To our souls thy word is precious, On thy promise, sure, we trust. Though our friends and children leave us, Here a few short days to mourn,

*In this world.

He that died and rose to save us,

To our joy, will soon return.
May we then with rapt'rous pleasure,
Be prepar'd to meet above,

All who sought the heav'nly treasure,
All who priz'd a Saviour's love.
There no pestilential fever,

Nor that worse distemper, sin,
Shall approach, but bliss, forever
Pure and unalloy'd, begin.
Let thy love, our Father, cheer us,
While this wilderness we roam;
Be thy gracious presence near us,
Till thou art pleas'd to call us home

The first effusions of parental sorrow, occasioned by the death of three beloved and promising youths,* during the months of August and September, 1819, were writ ten in the country, and appeared in the New Orleans Chronicle, in November last. The following were penned after the return of their afflicted parent to that city, the principal scene of his late sufferings, where almost every circumstance serves to remind him of his loss, and to renew the painful feelings of his deeply wounded heart.

I will sing of mercy and of judgment. Ps. ci. 1..

No, tho' I would, I cannot cease to mourn,
A complicated grief afflicts my breast,
With ev'ry rising sun my sighs return,
And painful recollections break my rest.

*Mr. Haslett had three sons:

WILLIAM, born 22d August, 1800; departed this life at St. George's, Bermuda, on the 16th August, 1819, aged 18 years, 11 months, 24 days.

SAMUEL, born October 1, 1801; departed this life at New Orleans, 26th September, 1819, aged 17 years, 11 months, 21 days.

My busy thoughts new streams of grief supply, And mem❜ry still recounts my sorrows o'er; To shun the retrospect in vain I try,. My aching bosom bleeds at every pore.

With holy Job, my heart within me says, In sad review of dear delights now flown, Would it were with me as in former days, Ere "melancholy mark'd me for her own" When round me stood my fondest earthly props, My children, guardians of declining years: But now bereft-now blasted all my hopes, Am left to mourn in solitude and tears.

Beloved youths! tho' for a time we part, Short season ere, I hope, we'll meet again,

Your mem'ry's deeply grav'd upon my heart, And there, must still indelible remain.

What tho' no monument your tombs supply, 'No sculptur'd stone points out your lowly bed, Though in obscurity your ashes lie,

Your worth outlives the marbles of the dead.
Denied alas! a parting, last adieu!

Unconscious of the impending, dreadful stroke,
Your souls were gone, ere the sad tale I knew,
The flash had struck, ere yet the thunder broke.
No father near to lift the fervent prayer,
Or succour yield in that most trying hour,
No mother's fond endearments could you share,
Nor in her bosom all your sorrows pour:
No weeping sisters press around your bed,
With deep solicitude to give relief;

No dear companions tears of friendship shed,
Nor join their sorrows to this sum of grief.
But all was melancholy-all was wo!
When from this world of sin your spirits fled,

THOMAS, born 28th December, 1803, departed this life at New Orleans, 11th September, 1819, aged 15 years, 8 months, 14 days.

When strangers kindly other cares forego To soothe your pains and smooth your dying bed. By strangers were your obsequies perform'd, By strangers shed the sympathetic tear,

By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd, By strangers follow'd, was your lonely bier. But is there then, my scul, no healing balm? No bow of promise glimmering through the cloud? Yes, gracious Saviour, thou canst say "be calm," Amidst the raging of the tempest loud.

Yes, in the book of God the humble find

A sure resource when earthly comforts flee,
Nor will Thou e'er forsake the lowly mind,
That casts its cares and burdens, Lord, on thee.
Now, while I turn the sacred pages o'er

In quest of truth and consolation sure,
I see new beauties unobserv'd before,
I feel new pleasures permanent and pure:
There too I learn, O that I felt it more!
SUBMISSION, unreserv'd, to Heaven's decree;
To bow in silence and the hand adore
That smites and heals, that wounds and comforts me.
Now while the loss of earthly joys I feel,
Wither'd my gourds and blasted every flower,
May grace divine both sanctify and heal,
And fit me for my last departing hour:
That I amidst my difficulties may,
While passing through this vale of Bacca dry,
The sacred pleasure have to weep and pray-
And meet a Father's smile, and pitying eye.
O privilege divine! how great! how sweet!
To cast our burdens on th' Almighty's care,
To sit, like Mary, at a Saviour's feet,
And there dissolve in penitence and pray'r,
To see his countenance, to hear his voice,
Whatever woes betide or comforts flee,

Drowns all our sorrows and awakes our joys,
And leads, O God, to happiness and Thee.

A Saviour's presence can a bliss impart, E'en when affliction fill the tide of wo;

A word from him can cheer the drooping heart, And bid the threat'ning billows cease to flow. A word from him can all our fears destroy, When thro' death's gloomy vale we're call'd to go, Can waft our spirits to that world of joy, Where bliss supreme his grace and love bestow.

STANZAS, in memory of WILLIAM HASLETT, ESQ. of
Philadelphia, who died at Woodville, 1821.

Servant of Christ! the meed divine,
Which crowns the just when life has run;
The wealth of deathless love is thine,
The plaudit of thy God-"Well done."
Borne on affliction's stormy deep,
The path thy Saviour trod before,
"Twas thine in solitude to weep,
Yet lowly, meekly, to adore.

In foreign climes, when far away,
From those whose solace could befriend,
Faith trusted the Immortal Stay,
Who said, "I'm with you to the end;"
And when thy offspring met their God,
The father wept upon their dust,

The Christian, humbled, 'neath the rod,
Confess'd Jehovah's dealings just.

Servant of Christ! the night of gloom
That cheerless gather'd o'er thy brow,
Awoke the day-spring of the tomb,
Which brightly breaks upon thee now.
Oh ye! who by stern sorrow tried,
Yet linger in life's wilderness,

Come! lean on Him, the widow's guide,
The Father of the Fatherless!

S.