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HE steeps reclining in the autumnal calm,
The woodland nook retired, and quiet field,
Upon the tranquil eve

The Sabbath chime is borne ;

Rising and sinking in the silent air,
With many a dying fall most musical.
And fitful bird hard by,

Blending harmoniously.

The sky is looking on the sunny earth,
The fleecy clouds stand still in heaven,
Making the blue expanse

More still and beautiful.

There is unearthly balm upon the air,
And holier lights which are with Sunday born,
That man may lay aside

Himself, and be at rest.

Not that these musical wings would bear us up
On buoyant thoughts, too high for sinful man,
But that they speak the best
Which earth hath left to give.

Of better hopes, and prayer and penitence,
Rising in incense on the sacred air,

From many a woodland spire,

Or hill embosomed tower.

The Cathedral.


S there a time when moments flow
More lovelily than all beside?
It is, of all the times below,

A Sabbath eve in summer tide

O then the setting sun smiles fair,
And all below, and all above,

The different forms of nature wear
One universal garb of love.

And then the peace that Jesus beams,
The life of grace, the death of sin,
With nature's placid woods and streams,
Is peace without, and peace within.

Delightful scene! a world at rest,
A God all love, no grief nor fear,
A heavenly hope, a peaceful breast,
A smile unsullied by a tear.

If heaven be ever felt below,
A scene so heavenly sure as this,
May cause a heart on earth to know
Some foretaste of celestial bliss.

Delightful hour! how soon will Night
Spread her dark mantle o'er thy reign;
And morrow's quick returning light,
Must call us to the world again.

Yet will there dawn at last a day-
A Sun that never sets shall rise;
Night will not veil his ceaseless ray—
The heavenly Sabbath never dies!



HE day hath passed in praise and prayer; Now evening comes, more still and fair: The holy heavens are free from gloom; The earth is green, and gay with bloom;

The black-bird's whistled note is high,
Ringing in woodland melody;
And though the cushat 'mid the grove
Be 'plaining, still his plaint is love.
How calm, how still this hallowed eve!
Methinks the heart might cease to grieve
While gazing on that arch so blue,
With mercy mirrored in its hue,
And think how short a time may bring
Repose from earthly suffering,

Or lend a wing to mount above

The spheres in which the planets move. --
The vesper star begins to beam,

But scarce its image strikes the stream,
For summer's faintness o'er it creeps,
And every bolder sparkle keeps
Entangled 'mid the misty light
Which fills the azure vault of night;
While earth and sky appear imbued
With the deep soul of solitude.

If we could feel as men should feel
When heaven and earth their sweets reveal,

Our selfish sorrows all would cease

On such a solemn eve of peace;

And nature's stillness would compose
Our souls and dissipate our woes;
And from our spirits softly call

Pure hopes and thoughts devotional.



ELCOME the hour of sweet repose,

The evening of the Sabbath day! In peace my wearied eyes shall close When I have tuned my vesper lay

In humble gratitude to Him

Who waked the morning's earliest beam.

In such an hour as this, how sweet,
In the calm solitude of even,

To hold with heaven communion meet-
Meet for a spirit bound to heaven;
And, in this wilderness beneath,
Pure zephyrs from above to breathe!

It may be that the Eternal Mind

Bends sometimes from his throne of bliss: Where should we then his presence find,

But in an hour so blest as this

An hour of calm tranquillity,

Silent as if to welcome Thee?

Yes! if the Great Invisible,

Descending from his seat divine,
May deign upon this earth to dwell,
Where shall he find a welcome shrine,
But in the breast of man who bears
His image, and his spirit shares?

Now let the solemn thought pervade
My soul, and let my heart prepare
A throne:-Come, veiled in awful shade,
Spirit of God, that I may dare
Hail thee, nor, like the prophet, be
Blinded by thy great majesty.

Then turn my wand'ring thoughts within,
To hold communion, Lord, with thee;

And, purified from taint of sin,

And earth's pollutions, let me see Thine image,--for a moment prove, If not thy majesty, thy love;-

That love which over all is shed

Shed on the worthless as the just; Lighting the stars above our head,

And waking beauty out of dust;

And rolling in its glorious way
Beyond the furthest comet's ray.

To him alike the living stream,

And the dull regions of the grave;
All watched, protected all by him
Whose eye can see, whose arm can save,
In the cold midnight's dangerous gloom,
Or in the dark prison of the tomb.

Thither we hasten-as the sand

Drops in the hour-glass, never still;
So, gathered in by Death's rude hand,
The storehouse of the grave we fill;
And sleep in peace, as safely kept,
As when on earth we smiled or wept.

What is our duty here?—to tend

From good to better-thence to best;
Grateful to drink life's cup,-then bend
Unmurmuring to our bed of rest;

To pluck the flowers that round us blow,
Scattering their fragrance as we go.

And so to live, that when the sun
Of our existence sinks in night,
Memorials sweet of mercies done

May 'shrine our names in memory's light;
And the blest seeds we scattered bloom
A hundredfold in days to come.



HRICE happy he who, far in Scottish glen Retired, (yet ready at his country's call), Has left the restless emmet-hill of man! He never longs to read the saddening tale,

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