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SWEET DAY, SO COOL, SO CALM, SO BRIGHT.
Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
For thou must die.
And thou must die.
And all must die:
Then chiefly lives.
SABBATH IN THE COUNTRY.
It is not only in the sacred fane
Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
spray; When not a floweret bends its little stalk, Save where the bee alights upon the bloom ; — There, rapt in gratitude, in joy and love, The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon : Silence his praise, his disembodied thoughts, Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend Beyond the empyream! Nor yet less pleasing at the Heavenly Throne, The Sabbath service of the shepherd boy. In some lone glen, where every sound is lulled To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill, Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry, Stretched on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son, Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold ; And wonders why he weeps. The volume closed, With thyme sprig laid between the leaves, he sings The sacred lays, his weekly lesson conned With meikle care beneath the lowly roof, Where humble lore is learned, where humble worth Pines unrewarded by a thankless state. Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen, The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps, Till, on the heights, he marks the straggling bands Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
HYMN OF THE CITY.
Not in the solitude
Only in savage wood
Or only hear His voice
Even here do I behold
Through the great city rolled,
Choking the ways that wind '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;
And givest them the stores
Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;
And this eternal sound-
Like the resounding sea,
And when the hours of rest
Hushing its billowy breast,
It breathes of Him who keeps
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 home,
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,
In youthful bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, Comes home, perhaps to show a braw new gown,
Or déposite her sair-won penny fee, 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;
Anticipation forward points the view.
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,