With windows narrow, long, and high;
By time imbued with purple dye,
Through which, the twinkling sunbeams play,
And strike the wall with colour'd ray.
Slow wand'ring on, how sweet to hear
The chiming bells break on the ear;
And from the taper spire so neat
Their pleasing melody repeat.
Hark! to the simple echoing sound,
How soft it strikes the rising ground;
Or bolder now along the vale,
Swells richly on the increasing gale.
Hast'ning along I gain the yard,
And meet the rustic's kind regard,
Who, hat in hand, doth lowly greet,
And lead me to the stranger's seat.
Attentive, now, I pause to share
The pious pastor's morning care;
And while he feeds his sacred charge,
The feelings of my heart enlarge.
What comfort in each prayer we find;
Pardon renew'd, peace, hope combined!
At length, with Christian truths imprest,
Our passions hush'd, our cares at rest,
Trusting to Him, who died to save,
We fearless view the approaching grave.
'Tis done-and now the service o'er,
With pensive steps I seek the door,
And moving onwards, list'ning meet
The Sunday-school girls' pattering feet;
As hand in hand along the green
The length'ned train is smiling seen:
Beneath each arm, the Bible see,
(Blest guide to immortality,)
Careful done up in covers neat,
With book of prayer, companion meet.
How pleasing is the grateful sight,
Their russet gowns, and tippets white,
And aprons short-kind gifts of those
Who feel their fellow-creatures' woes.
Thus clad, they meet those rites to share
And join their benefactors' prayer.
To hear with them the words of truth,
As beacons to their helpless youth,
And learn, in season fit, to know
"Virtue alone is bliss below."
Left to myself I range alone,
From grave to grave, from stone to stone.
The breezes sleep; and peace serene
In quiet guards the sylvan scene;
Stands motionless the taper fir,
The quiv'ring aspen's leaves scarce stir;
The blackbird gay, who all the morn
Had pour'd his matins from the thorn,
Now silent seeks the ivy'd bower
And leaves me to reflection's hour:
Reflection sweet, I prize thee most
Where man so little has to boast;
No "storied urn," no chisell❜d bust,
Is here to mark the sleeping dust;
But verdant alders over head
Hang drooping o'er the peaceful dead;
Yet still "some frail memorial's" found,
To point to man the hallow'd ground;
And warn him from a course of sin,
Ere the next turf may cover him.
Look round and pause-in uncouth words That stone, two hundred years records!— Two hundred years ?-how strange, how vast The changes in that period past,
These great! these vast! what then must be
That boundless space, Eternity?
Eternity! thou solemn theme,—
Compared to thee, man's life's a dream,
An atom to a world,— -no more
Than is a drop to ocean's store.
In fear, in awful wonder lost,
On seas of fatal error tost,
Man stands dismay'd, and views with dread Eternity's wide circle spread.
But thou, with matchless glory bright, Religion, thou canst point aright Our path, through error, doubt, and woe, To joys, which only good men know: A harbinger of peace to man Ere he return to dust again.
"THERE is a God," all Nature cries:
A thousand tongues proclaim
His arm almighty, mind all wise,
And bid each voice in chorus rise
To magnify his name.
Thy name, great Nature's Sire divine,
Assiduous we adore;
Rejecting godheads, at whose shrine
Benighted nations, blood and wine
In vain libations pour.
Yon countless worlds in boundless space,
Myriads of miles each hour,
Their mighty orbs as curious trace,
As the blue circle studs the face
Of that enamell'd flower.
But Thou, too, mad'st that floweret gay
To glitter in the dawn;
The hand that fired the lamp of day,
The blazing comet launch'd away,
Painted the velvet lawn.
As falls a sparrow to the ground,
Obedient to Thy will,
By the same law those globes wheel round,
Each drawing each, yet all still found
In one eternal system bound,
One order to fulfil.
Be not thy tears too harshly chid;
Repine not at the rising sigh :-
Who, if they might, would always bid
The breast be still, the cheek be dry?
How little of ourselves we know
Before a grief the heart has felt!
The lessons that we learn of woe
May brace the mind as well as melt.
The energies, too stern for mirth,
The reach of thought, the strength of will, 'Mid cloud and tempest have their birth; Through blight and blast their course fulfil.
Love's perfect triumph never crown'd
The hope unchequer'd by a pang;
The gaudiest wreaths with thorns are bound;
And Sappho wept before she sang.
Tears at each pure emotion flow;
They wait on Pity's gentle claim,
On Admiration's fervent glow,
On Piety's seraphic flame.
"Tis only when it mourns and fears,
The loaded spirit feels forgiven;
And through the mist of falling tears
We catch the clearest glimpse of Heaven.
ROBERT GILFILLAN.
song of peace!
Let nations join the strain;
The march of blood and pomp of war
We will not have again.
Let fruit-trees crown our fields;
And flowers our valleys fair;
And on our mountains steep the songs
Of happy swains be there.
Too long the man of blood
Hath ruled without control;
Nor widows' tears nor orphans' sighs,
Could touch his iron soul.
But, lo! the mighty's fallen!
And from his lofty brow
The chaplet fades that circles there:
Where are his trophies now?
Look to the countless graves,
Where sleep the thousands slain ! The morning songs no more call forth The stirring bands again;
The din, the strife is past
Of foe with falling foe;
grassy leaves wave o'er their heads, And quiet they rest below.
Sound high the harp of song,
And raise the joyous strain;
But war's rough note, be it never heard
To swell the chords again.
Put all its trappings past-
Vain pomp of bygone years;
To ploughshares grind the pointed swords, To pruning-hooks the spears.
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