« السابقةمتابعة »
SWEET DAY, SO COOL, SO CALM, SO BRIGHT.
SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.
Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.
Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses;
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives,
But when the whole world turns to coal
Then chiefly lives.
SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.
It is not only in the sacred fane
That homage should be paid to the Most High : There is a temple, one not made with hands,— The vaulted firmament; far in the woods,
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom;
Nor yet less pleasing at the Heavenly Throne,
And wonders why he weeps. The volume closed,
HYMN OF THE CITY.
NoT in the solitude
Alone may man commune with heaven, or see Only in savage wood
And sunny vale the present Deity,
Or only hear His voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.
Even here do I behold
Thy steps, Almighty !-here, amidst the crowd
With everlasting murmur, deep and loud,
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind.
Thy golden sunshine comes
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies, And lights their inner homes;
For them Thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, And givest them the stores
and the harvest of its shores.
Thy spirit is around,
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throngLike the resounding sea,
Or, like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee.
And when the hours of rest
The spirit of that moment too is Thine;
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.*
NOVEMBER chill blows loud with angry sugh; The shortening winter day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The blackening trains of crows to their repose; The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes,
This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes,
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend,
At length his lonely cot appears in view, Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
The expectant wee things, todlin, stacher thro' To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. His wee bit ingle blinkin' bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does all his weary, carking cares beguile, And make him quite forget his labor and his toil.
Belyve the elder bairns come dropping in, At service out among the farmers roun';
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town;
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers;
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, with her needle and her shears,
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ;
The father mixes a' with admonition due.
Their master's an' their mistress's command The younkers all are warned to obey,
An' mind their labors with an eydent hand, And ne'er, though out of sight, to jauk or play; "An' O! be sure to fear the Lord alway!
An' mind your duty duly morn an' night !— Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,