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النشر الإلكتروني

DAYBREAK.

"The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened towards the sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace; where he slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang."— The Pilgrim's Progress.

Now, brighter than the host, that, all night long,

In fiery armor, up the heavens high

Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song.
Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh.
Star of the dawning, cheerful is thine eye;
And yet in the broad day it must grow dim.
Thou seem'st to look on me as asking why

My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim;

Thou bid'st me turn to God, and seek my rest in him.

"Canst thou grow sad," thou say'st, "as earth grows bright?

And sigh, when little birds begin discourse

In quick, low voices, e'er the streaming light

Pours on their nests, as sprung from day's fresh source?
With creatures innocent thou must, perforce,

A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure.

And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse,

Of ills and pains of life must be the cure,

And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure."

I feel its calm. But there's a sombrous hue
Along that eastern cloud of deep, dull red;
Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew;
And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread
With dusky lights, which warmth nor comfort shed.
Still-save the bird that scarcely lifts its song-

The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead-
The silent city emptied of its throng,

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate, and wrong.

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife,
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth

With discord strange, and all that man calls life.

With thousand scattered beauties nature's rife ;

And airs, and woods, and streams, breathe harmonies :

Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife;

Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties :

He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies.

And 'tis because man useth so amiss

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad;
Else why should she, in such fresh hour as this,
Not lift the veil, in revelation glad,

From her fair face?-It is that man is mad!

Then chide me not, clear star, that I repine,

When Nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad.

Thou look'st towards earth; but yet the heavens are thine;

While I to earth am bound:-When will the heavens be mine?

If man would but his finer nature learn,
And not in life fantastic lose the sense

Of simpler things; could Nature's features stern
Teach him be thoughtful; then, with soul intense,
I should not yearn for God to take me hence,
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed,
Remembering, humbly, why it is, and whence:
But when I see cold man of reason proud,
My solitude is sad—I'm lonely in the crowd.

But not for this alone, the silent tear

Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn,
Nor for this solemn hour:-fresh life is near,-
But all my joys!—they died when newly born.
Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorn,
And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye,
Shall see them pass. Breathe calm-my spirit's toru;
Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high !——
Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh.

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be
That I-whom Nature taught to sit with her
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea-
Who, when the winds are up, with mighty stir
Of woods and waters, feel the quickening spur
To my strong spirit;-who, as mine own child,
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur

A beauty see-that I this mother mild

Should leave, and go with Care, and passions fierce and wild

G

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft
Shot 'thwart the earth !-in crown of living fire
Up comes the Day!—as if they conscious quaffed
The sunny flood, hill, forest, city, spire
Laugh in the wakening light.—Go, vain Desire!
The dusky lights have gone; go thou thy way!
And pining Discontent, like them, expire!

Be called my chamber, PEACE, when ends the day; And let me with the dawn, like PILGRIM, sing and pray!

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

THOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea,
Why takest thou its melancholy voice?
Why with that boding cry

O'er the waves dost thou fly?

O, rather, bird with me,

Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by a beating storm at sea;

Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared
The doom of us. Thy wail-

What does it bring to me?

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,
Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord

With motion, and with roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge—

The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands thou, both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead,
From out thy gloomy cells,

A tale of mourning tells-
'Tells of man's wo and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more.

Come, quit with me the shore,

For gladness and the light,

Where birds of summer sing.

THE CONSTANCY OF NATURE CONTRASTED WITH THE CHANGES IN HUMAN LIFE.

How like eternity doth nature seem

To life of man-that short and fitful dream!
I look around me ;-no where can I trace
Lines of decay that mark our human race.

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