140 HENRY KIRKB WHITE's POEMS. 



O pleasures past, what are ye now 

 But thorns about my bleeding brow ? 

 Spectres that hover round my brain, 

 And aggravate and mock my pain. 



For pleasure I have given my soul , 

 Now, Justice, let thy thunders roll ! 

 Now, Vengeance, smile — and with a blow, 

 Lay the rebellious ingrate low. 



Yet, Jesus, Jesus ! there I'll cling, 

 I'll crowd beneath his sheltering wing ; 

 111 clasp the cross, and holding there, 

 Even me, oh bliss ! — His wrath may spare. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 



'•Vhen marshall'd on the nightly plain^ 

 The glitt'ring host bestud the sky, 



One star alone, of all the train, 



Can fix the sinner's wand'ring eye. 



Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks. 

 From ev'ry host, from ev'ry gem ; 



But one alone the Saviour speaks, 

 It is the star of Bethlehem. 



Once on the raging seas I rode, 



The storm was loud, — the night was dark. 

 The ocean yawn'd, — and rudely blow'd 



The wind that toss'd my found'ring bark. 



