The beacon light, like a quiet star,
Its ray on the waves has shed.

And o'er our hill the harvest moon
Is risen broad and clear;

There is not a passing sound to tell
That the haunts of men are near.

But many a boat at its moorings lies,
Dark in the flood of light;

So deep round the bay the shadows fall,
Not a ripple seems stirred to-night.

The voice of the sea was never hushed!
It comes with measured sound,
Steadily booming on the shore,

And the rocks stand listening round.

Through its ancient woods the abbey* shews
A dim and silvery gleam-

I would not change an hour like this
For the morning's brightest beam.

The God of Peace round His sleeping world
His wings has folded nigh;

* Tor Abbey ;-the seat of the ancient Devonshire family, Cary of Tor Abbey. Vide Burke's History of the Commoners, and Prince's Worthies of Devon. A rude engraving of the original edifice may be found in Dugdale's Monasticon, portions of which, both habitable and in ruins, adjoin the manor-house, a building itself some two centuries old.-ED.

As a father mourns o'er an erring child,
Who dreams not he is by;-

And thinks of all that once he was,

Ere the work of sin was wrought;

And yearns for the day when home once more
The strayed one shall be brought.

DIES IRE.

(Imitated.)

J. A. W.

THE Day of Wrath! the day of gloom,
When lightning shall the world consume,
As royal David witness bore,

With Rome's pale prophetess of yore.*

How awful then must be the dread,
When He who comes to judge the dead,
Shall every hidden sin unfold,

-Or present, or of days of old.

The trumpet, sending forth its sound,
Shall wake the sepulchres around,

"David testâ cum Sybilla."-It is said that, according to Sybilline prophecy, there was a belief among the ancient Romans that the world should be destroyed by fire.

Through the wide earth, and to the throne Call myriads, wakened by its tone.

Then Death and Nature, in amaze,
Shall on that scene of wonder gaze,
When, rising from the grave so drear,
All nations stand, their doom to hear.

Then, too, the Books shall open lie,
In which the deeds of low and high,
Alike recorded, meet His view,

With whom we, trembling, have to do.

Seated aloft on His high throne,

Each secret shall the Judge make known; While sins, long shrouded in the night, Vainly elude His piercing sight.

How wretched then must I appear!
What saint, what prophet, in my fear,
Shall I invoke, when scarce the just
May in redeeming mercy trust!

O, King of Majesty divine,

Who savest those thou callest thine,
By power of grace,-O, save Thou me,
Source of all good, to whom I flee!

Remember, O, my Saviour-God,
For me Thou hast in anguish trod
This world of sin, which scorned thy sway—
O, spurn me not in that great day!

Weary, Thou hast thy suppliant soughtHis ransom with thy Cross hast wrought: O, let not this, thy labour, prove

In vain, Thou mighty God of love!

Just Judge of vengeance, ere too late,
Shew pity to my hapless state!
Remit and cancel every sin,

Ere thy dread Day of Wrath begin!

Guilty, I groan with culprit fear;
Shame's blushes on my cheek appear;
Spare me, O God! O, spare awhile
The wretch that supplicates thy smile.

Thou who hast Mary's sins absolved,
And heard the Thief that on Thee called,
On me Thy beams of hope divine,
On me, a contrite rebel! shine.

All worthless though my prayers may be,
Do Thou benignant prove to me;
Nor in the everlasting flame

Consume thy child, who owns his shame.

Among the sheep at thy right hand,
O, place me! nor condemn to stand
Amid the outcast flock thy son,
Who mourns the evil he has done!

While to accursed fires of woe
The wicked shall for ever go,

With voice of blessing, cheer and call
The captive, freed from Satan's thrall.

Suppliant and prostrate, lo! I pray:
Like ashes crushed, amid dismay,
My heart to Thee, I trembling bring,-
Spare me in death, my God,-my King!

The Day of Wrath!—that day of gloom, When from the dust, and from the tomb, Frail men to judgment shall arise,— Spare him, good Lord of earth and skies!

STANZAS WRITTEN ON BRENT-TOR CHURCH, DARTMOOR, DEVON.

July 7, 1837.

J. A. W.

IT stands alone,-that olden fane,

High raised to meet the moorland storm,
And dark above the lonely plain,
Uprears its venerable form.

Where erst the beacon-fire, with blaze
Of lurid red, dispelled the night,
Its rude walls meet the wanderer's gaze,
Its towers detain the stranger's sight.

As dim tradition tells the tale,

In days of eld,-forgotten now,

D D