But soon as to the starry altitudes

They reached, then what a storm of sound tremendous
Swelled through the realms of space. The morning stars
Together sang, and all the sons of God

Shouted for joy! Loud was the peal; so loud
As would have quite o'erwhelmed human sense:
But to the earth it came a gentle strain,

Like softest fall breathed from Eolian lute,
When 'mid the chords the evening gale expires.
"Day of the Lord! creation's hallowed close
Day of the Lord! (prophetical they sung)
Benignant mitigation of that doom

Which must ere long consign the fallen race,
Dwellers in yonder star, to toil and wo."

THE SABBATH AS A DAY OF REST.

BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor

man's day,

On other days the man of toil is doomed

To eat his joyless bread lonely; the ground

Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree:

But on this day, embosomed in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently
With covered face, and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
While wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys

With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

A SPRING SABBATH WALK.

Most earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;—

He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
Feed, feed my sheep," are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is before his eyes.

aye

Oh how I love with melted soul to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What though the opening spring be chill!
Although the lark, checked in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod
That still o'ertops the blade! although no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand

That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream;

What though the clouds oft lower! their threats but end
In summer-showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violets, or interrupt

The merle's dulcet pipe,-melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
Sweet is the sunny nook to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed,
Unheeding where, so lovely all around
The works of God arrayed in vernal smile.
Oft at this season, musing, I prolong

My devious range, till sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward slanting ray, the breast
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight;
While disregardful of yon lowly star,

The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,-
Sweet red breast, Scotia's Philomela, chants
In desultory strains his evening hymn.

A SUMMER

SABBATH

WALK

DELIGHTFUL is this loneliness! it calms

My heart pleasant the cool beneath these elms
That throw across the stream a moveless shade!
Here nature in her midnoon whisper speaks;
How peaceful every sound!—the ringdove's plaint,
Moaned from the twilight centre of the grove,
While every other woodland lay is mute,

Save when the wren flits from her down-eaved nest.
And from the root-sprig trills her ditty clear,-
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp,—the buzz
Angrily shrill of moss-entangled bee,

That soon as loosed booms with full twang away,-
The sudden rushing of the minnow-shoal,
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread,
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or, from above
Some feathered dam, purveying midst the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize :-sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf,
(Where safe and happily he might have lurked,)
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,

Forgetful of his origin, and, worse,

Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream,
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.
Now let me trace the stream up to its source,
Among the hills; its runnel by degrees

Diminishing, the murmur runs a trickle:
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air; grateful the breeze

That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain
Spread wide below; how sweet the placid view!
But oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought!
That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons
Of toil, partake this day the common joy
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale,
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath-day.
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb,
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.
Again I turn me to the hill, and trace

The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned;
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down.
Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt:
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He,-who listens to the halleluiahs
Of choiring seraphim,-delights to hear:

It is the music of the heart, the voice

Of venerable age,-of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicket door: behold the man!
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks.
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropped sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight!
While, heedless, at his side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

AN AUTUMN

SABBATH

WALK.

WHEN homeward bands their several ways disperse,

I love to linger in the narrow field

Of rest; to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind, that from those ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass :
The sere and yellow wreaths with eddying sweep
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend, conjunction rare!
A man he was indeed of gentle soul,

Though bred to brave the deep; the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild, but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range;

(It was not wide,) no dog would bay at him: Children would run to meet him on his way,

And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb

His knees, and wonder at his oft-told tales;
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship;
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit! that now looks on me
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wandering darkling on thy way.