Sounds the most faint attract the ear,-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods: The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.

Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.

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 neighbouring 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 heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.

William Motherwell.

Born 1797.

Died 1835.

SONG OF THE DANISH SEA-KING.

OUR bark is on the waters deep, our bright blades in our hand,

Our birthright is the ocean vast-we scorn the girdled

land;

And the hollow wind is our music brave, and none can bolder be

Than the hoarse-tongued tempest raving o'er a proud and swelling sea!

Our bark is dancing on the waves, its tall masts quivering bend

Before the gale, which hails us now with the hollo of a friend;

And its prow is sheering merrily the upcurled billow's foam,

While our hearts, with throbbing gladness, cheer old Ocean as our home!

Our eagle-wings of might we stretch before the gallant wind,

And we leave the tame and sluggish earth a dim mean speck behind;

We shoot into the untracked deep, as earth-freed spirits

soar,

Like stars of fire through boundless space-through realms without a shore !

Lords of this wide-spread wilderness of waters, we bound free,

The haughty elements alone dispute our sovereignty; No landmark doth our freedom let, for no law of man

can mete

The sky which arches o'er our head—the waves which kiss our feet!

The warrior of the land may back the wild horse, in his pride;

But a fiercer steed we dauntless breast-the untamed ocean tide;

And a nobler tilt our bark careers, as it quells the

saucy wave,

While the Herald storm peals o'er the deep the glories of the brave.

Hurrah! hurrah! the wind is up-it bloweth fresh

and free,

And every cord, instinct with life, pipes loud its fearless glee;

Big swell the bosomed sails with joy, and they madly

kiss the spray,

As proudly, through the foaming surge, the Sea-King bears away!

Professor Wilson.

Born 1785. Died 1854.

THE WIDOWED MOTHER.

BESIDE her babe, who sweetly slept,
A widowed mother sat and wept
O'er years of love gone by;

And as the sobs thick-gathering came,
She murmured her dead husband's name
'Mid that sad lullaby.

Well might that lullaby be sad,
For not one single friend she had

On this cold-hearted earth;

The sea will not give back its prey—
And they were wrapt in foreign clay
Who gave the orphan birth.

Steadfastly as a star doth look
Upon a little murmuring brook,
She gazed upon the bosom

And fair brow of her sleeping son—
"O merciful Heaven! when I am gone
Thine is this earthly blossom!"

While thus she sat—a sunbeam broke
Into the room; the babe awoke,

And from his cradle smiled!

Ah me! what kindling smiles met there!
I know not whether was more fair,
The mother or her child!

With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
The smiler stretched his rosy arms,
And to her bosom leapt―

All tears at once were swept away,
And said a face as bright as day,—

Sufferings there are from nature sprung, Ear hath not heard, nor poet's tongue

May venture to declare;

But this as Holy Writ is sure,

"The griefs she bids us here endure

She can herself repair !"