Of slavery's footstep violate the strand,
Let not the tardy tide efface the mark;
Sweep off the stigma with a sea of blood!
Thrice 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
Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear
The tale of wo; and ere it reaches him,
Rumour, so loud when new, has died away
Into a whisper, on the memory borne
Of casual traveller:-as on the deep,
Far from the sight of land, when all around
Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell,
That gently heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls,
Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown.
O Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales:
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the gray-hair'd man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field,
To commune with his God in secret prayer,-
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: Sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close,-heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down,
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health,
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come,
Clinging to death.-
Or mark that female face,
The faded picture of its former self,-
The garments coarse, but clean;-frequent at church
I've noted such a one, feeble and pale,
Yet standing, with a look of mild content,
Till beckon'd by some kindly hand to sit.
She had seen better days; there was a time
Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give
To those who were in want; but now old age,
And lingering disease, have made her helpless.
Yet she is happy, ay, and she is wise,
(Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,)
Although her Bible is her only book;
And she is rich, although her only wealth
Is recollection of a well-spent life-
Is expectation of the life to come.
Examine here, explore the narrow path
In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize
Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure:-
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mix'd.
The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of Him
Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures
less:*
Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven;
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.
And should all bounty that is clothed with
Be deem'd unworthy?-Far be such a thought!
E'en when the rich bestow, there are sure tests
Of genuine charity;-Yes, yes, let wealth
Give other alms than silver or than gold,-
Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness,
Exposure to disease;-yes, let the rich
Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof;
Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart,
And hopes of health, the melancholy range
Of couches in the public wards of wo:
There let them often bless the sick man's bed,
With kind assurances that all is well
At home, that plenty smiles upon the board,-
The while the hand that earn'd the frugal meal
Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks.
Above all duties, let the rich man search
Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn
The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime.
Ye, bless'd with wealth! (another name for power
Of doing good,) O would ye but devote
A little portion of each seventh day
To acts of justice to your fellow men!
The house of mourning silently invites:
Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend
Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp;
Nor seem impatient to be gone: Inquire,
Console, instruct, encourage, soothe, assist;
Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord;
Make tears of joy down grief-worn furrows flow.
O health! thou sun of life, without whose beam
The fairest scenes of nature seem involved
In darkness, shine upon my dreary path
Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope,
That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray !
Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most
Like midnight music, stealing on the ear,
Then gliding past, and dying slow away.
Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved
Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul;
So light its loveliest effect displays
In lowering skies, when through the murky rack
A slanting sunbeam shoots, and instant limns
"And Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury: and many that were rich cast in much. And there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. And he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, Verily, I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast more in than all they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abun dance, but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living." Mark xii. 41-44.
The ethereal curve of seven harmonious dyes,
Eliciting a splendour from the gloom :
O music! still vouchsafe to tranquillize
This breast perturb'd; thy voice, though mournful,
And mournful aye are thy most beauteous lays,
Like fall of blossoms from the orchard boughs,-
The autumn of the spring. Enchanting power!
Who, by thy airy spell, canst whirl the mind
Far from the busy haunts of men, to vales
Where Tweed or Yarrow flows; or, spurning
time
Recall red Flodden field; or suddenly
Transport, with alter'd strain, the deafen'd ear
To Linden's plain !—But what the pastoral lay,
The melting dirge, the battle's trumpet peal,
Compared to notes with sacred numbers link'd
In union, solemn, grand! O then the spirit,
Upborne on pinions of celestial sound,
Soars to the throne of God, and ravish'd hears
Ten thousand times ten thousand voices rise
In hallelujahs;-voices, that erewhile
A SPRING SABBATH WALK.
MOST earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he bless'd 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 aye before his eyes.
O, 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, check'd in his airy path
Eke out his song, perch'd 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 sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Were feebly tuned perhaps to low-breathed hymns Of moss-couch'd violet, or interrupt
Of solace in the chambers of the poor,-
The Sabbath worship of the friendless sick.
Bless'd be the female votaries, whose days
No Sabbath of their pious labours prove,
Whose lives are consecrated to the toil
Of ministering around the uncurtain'd couch
Of pain and poverty! Bless'd be the hands,
The lovely hands, (for beauty, youth, and grace,
Are oft conceal'd by pity's closest veil,)
That mix the cup medicinal, that bind
The wounds which ruthless warfare and disease
Have to the loathsome lazar-house consign'd.
Fierce superstition of the mitred king!
Almost I could forget thy torch and stake,
When I this blessed sisterhood survey,-
Compassion's priestesses, disciples true
Of him whose touch was health, whose single
word
Electrified with life the palsied arm,—
Of him who said, Take up thy bed and walk,—
Of him who cried to Lazarus, Come forth.
And he who cried to Lazarus, Come forth,
Will, when the Sabbath of the tomb is past,
Call forth the dead, and reunite the dust
(Transform'd and purified) to angel souls.
Ecstatic hope! belief! conviction firm!
How grateful 'tis to recollect the time
When hope arose to faith! Faintly at first
The heavenly voice is heard; then, by degrees,
Its music sounds perpetual in the heart.
Thus he, who all the gloomy winter long
Has dwelt in city crowds, wandering a field
Betimes on Sabbath morn, ere yet the spring
Unfold the daisy's bud, delighted hears
The first lark's note, faint yet, and short the
song,
Check'd by the chill ungenial northern breeze;
But, as the sun ascends, another springs,
And still another soars on loftier wing,
Till all o'erhead, the joyous choir unseen,
Poised welkin high, harmonious fills the air,
As if it were a link 'tween earth and heaven.
The merle's dulcet pipe,-melodious bird'
He, hid behind the milk-white slow-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 roam d
Unheeding where, so lovely all around
The works of God, array'd 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 lonely star,-
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,-
Sweet Redbreast, 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 ring-dove's plaint,
Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove,
While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprig trills her ditty clear,-
The grasshopper's oft pausing chirp,-the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,
"So when he had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou re more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my lambs. He saith to him again the second time. Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? Peter was grieved, because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me ? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all tnings, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep." John xxi
That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away, His comfort, stay, and ever new delight!
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
While, heedless, at his side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or from above,
Some feather'd dam, surveying 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 lurk'd,)
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 th' 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 turns a tinkle.
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 dangle, 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, O! 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 discern'd;
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,
And thinly strew'd 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 athwart 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-roof'd shielin; now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He, who listens to the hallelujahs
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 wicker door. Behold the man!
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray: before him lies,
Upon the smooth cropt sward, the open book,
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 tcmb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.
Sad sighs the wind, that from those ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the wither'd grass:
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock'd 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 indeed he was of gentle soul,
Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimm'd, 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 knee, 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
But let me quit this melancholy spot,
And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod
That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears;
Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreata
That circles Autumn's brow: the ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble
bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs
With auburn branches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam
Or rowan's cluster'd branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.
A WINTER SABBATH WALK.
How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day,-
Not even a foot-fall heard.-Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain:
Hid are the bushes, save that, here and there,
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reach'd
The powder'd key-stone of the churchyard porch.
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried,
No step approaches to the house of prayer.
The flickering fall is o'er; the clouds disperse,
And show the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge;
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time,
To visit nature in her grand attire ;
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretch'd far below!
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood.
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns inthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Ainong yon rocky fells, that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold!
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm,
The mantled echoes no response return.
But let me now explore the deep sunk dell.
No foot-print, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes; and full oft a heavier fall
Heap'd by the blast, fills up the shelter'd glen,
While, gurgling deep below, the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way. O! then,
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift
So the great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures, full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,
Bedimm'd with showers: Then to the pastures
green
He brings them, where the quiet waters glide,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.
Silence was o'er tne deep; the noiseless surge,
The last subsiding wave,-of that dread tumult
Which raged, when ocean, at the mute command,
Rush'd furiously into his new-cleft bed,—
Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore ;
While, on the swell, the sea-bird with her head
Wing-veil'd, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven,
Entranced in new delight, speechless adored;
Nor stopp'd their fleet career, nor changed their
form
Encircular, till on that hemisphere,
In which the blissful garden sweet exhaled
Its incense, odorous clouds,-the Sabbath dawn
Arose; then wide the flying circle oped,
And soar'd, in semblance of a mighty rainbow
Silent ascend the choirs of seraphim;
No harp resounds, mute is each voice; the burst
Of joy and praise reluctant they repress,-
For love and concord all things so attuned
To harmony, that earth must have received
The grand vibration, and to the centre shook:
But soon as to the starry altitudes
They reach'd, then what a storm of sound tremendous
Swell'd 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'erwhelm'd the human sense;
But to the earth it came a gentle strain,
Like softest fall breathed from Æolian lute,
When 'mid the chords the evening gale expires.
Day of the Lord! creation's hallow'd close!
Day of the Loid! (prophetical they sang,)
Benignant mitigation of that doom
Which must, ere long, consign the fallen race,
Dwellers in yonder star, to toil and wo!
Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast,
Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compass'd wide this orb,
And with the forming mass floated along,
In rapid course, through yet untravell'd space,
Beholding God's stupendous power,—a world
Bursting from chaos at the omnific will,
And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star
On Paradise arose. Blessed that eve!
The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete,
In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand,
Creation bloom'd; when Eden's twilight face
Smiled like a sleeping babe. The voice divine
A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly work;
Mildly the sun, upon the loftiest trees,
Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reign'd,
And love, and gratitude; the human pair
Their orisons pour'd forth; love, concord, reign'd;
The falcon, perch'd upon the blooming bough
With Philomela, listen'd to her lay;
Among the antler'd herd, the tiger couch'd
Harmless; the lion's mane no terror spread
Among the careless ruminating flock.
THE FINDING OF MOSES.
SLOW glides the Nile: amid the margin flags,
Closed in a bulrush ark, the babe is left,-
Left by a mother's hand. His sister waits
Far off; and pale, 'tween hope and fear, beholds
The royal maid, surrounded by her train,
Approach the river bank,--approach the spot
Where sleeps the innocent: She sees them stoop
With meeting plumes; the rushy lid is oped,
And wakes the infant, smiling in his tears,
As when along a little mountain lake
The summer south-wind breathes, with gentle sigui,
And parts the reeds, unveiling, as they bend,
A water-lily floating on the wave.
JACOB AND PHARAOH.
PHARAOH upon a gorgeous throne of state
Was seated; while around him stood submiss
His servants, watchful of his lofty looks.
The patriarch enters, leaning on the arm
Of Benjamin. Unmoved by all the glare
Of royalty, he scarcely throws a glance
Upon the pageant show; for from his youth
A shepherd's life he led, and view'd each night
The starry host; and still, where'er he went,
He felt himself in presence of the Lord.
His eye is bent on Joseph, him pursues.
Sudden the king descends; and, bending, kneels
Before the aged man, and supplicates
A blessing from his lips! the aged man
Lays on the ground his staff, and stretching forth
His tremulous hand c'er Pharaoh's uncrown'd head,
Prays that the Lord would bless him and his land.
FROM Conquest Jephthah came, with faltering step
And troubled eye; his home appears in view;
He trembles at the sight. Sad he forbodes,—
His vow will meet a victim in his child:
For well he knows, that, from her earliest years,
She still was first to meet his homeward steps:
Well he remembers, how, with tottering gait,
She ran,
and clasp'd his knees, and lisp'd, and look'd
Her joy; and how, when garlanding with flowers
His helm, fearful, her infant hand would shrink
Back from the lion couch'd beneath the crest.
ELIJAH FED BY RAVENS.
SORE was the famine throughout all the bounds
Of Israel, when Elijah, by command
Of God, journeyed to Cherith's failing brook.
No rain-drops fall, no dew-fraught cloud, at morn
Or closing eve, creeps slowly up the vale;
The withering herbage dies; among the palms
The shrivell'd leaves send to the summer gale
An autumn rustle; no sweet songster's lay
Is warbled from the branches; scarce is heard
The rill's faint brawl. The prophet looks around
And trusts in God, and lays his silver'd head
Upon the flowerless bank; serene he sleeps,
Nor wakes till dawning: then with hands enclasp❜d,
And heavenward face, and eyelids closed, he prays
To Him who manna on the desert shower'd,
To Him who from the rock made fountains gush :
Entranced the man of God remains: till roused
By sound of wheeling wings, with grateful heart,
He sees the ravens fearless by his side
What sound is that, which, from the palm-tree Alight, and leave the heaven-provided food.
Floats now with choral swell, now fainter falls
Upon the ear? It is, it is the song
He loved to hear,-a song of thanks and praise,
Sung by the patriarch for his ransom'd son.
Hope from the omen springs: O blessed hope!
It may not be her voice!-Fain would he think
'Twas not his daughter's voice that still approach'd,
Blent with the timbrel's note. Forth from the grove
She foremost glides of all the minstrel band:
Moveless he stands; then grasps his hilt, still red
With hostile gore, but, shuddering, quits the hold:
And clasps in agony his hands, and cries,
"Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me low."
The timbrel at her rooted feet resounds.
DEEP was the furrow in the royal brow,
When David's hand, lightly as vernal gales
Rippling the brook of Kedron, skimm'd the lyre:
He sung of Jacob's youngest born, the child
Of his old age,-sold to the Ishmaelite;
His exaltation to the second power
In Pharaoh's realm; his brethren thither sent;
Suppliant they stood before his face, well known,
Unknowing, till Joseph fell upon the neck
Of Benjamin, his mother's son, and wept.
Unconsciously the warlike shepherd paused;
But when he saw, down the yet quivering string,
The tear-drop trembling glide, abash'd, he check'd,
Indignant at himself, the bursting flood,
And, with a sweep impetuous, struck the chords:
From side to side his hands transversely glance,
Like lightning 'thwart a stormy sea; his voice
Arises 'mid the clang, and straightway calms
The harmonious tempest, to a solemn swell
Majestical, triumphant; for he sings
Of Arad's mighty host by Israel's arm
Subdued; of Israel through the desert led
He sings; of him who was their leader, call'd
By God himself, from keeping Jethro's flock,
To be a ruler o'er the chosen race.
Kindles the eye of Saul; his arm is poised;-
Harmless the javelin quivers in the wall.
THE BIRTH OF JESUS ANNOUNCED.
DEEP was the midnight silence in the fields
Of Bethlehem; hush'd the folds; save that at times
Was heard the lamb's faint bleat: the shepherds,
stretch'd
On the green sward, survey'd the starry vault.
The firmament shows forth thy handy-work:
The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
Thus they, their hearts attuned to the Most High-
When suddenly a splendid cloud appear'd,
As if a portion of the milky way
Descended slowly in the spiral course.
Near and more near it draws; then, hovering, floats
High as the soar of eagle, shedding bright,
Upon the folded flocks, a heavenly radiance,
From whence was utter'd loud, yet sweet, a voice,-
Fear not, I bring good tidings of great joy;
For unto you is born this day a Saviour!
And this shall be a sign to you,—the babe,
Laid lowly in a manger, ye shall find.—
The angel spake; when, lo! upon the cloud,
A multitude of seraphim, enthroned,
Sang praises, saying,-Glory to the Lord
On high; on earth be peace, good will to men.
With sweet response harmoniously they choir'd,
And while, with heavenly harmony, the song
Arose to God, more bright the buoyant throne
Illumed the land: the prowling lion stops,
Awe-struck, with mane uprear'd, and flatten'd
head;
And, without turning, backward on his steps
Recoils, aghast, into the desert gloom.
A trembling joy th' astonish'd shepherds prove,
As heavenward reascends the vocal blaze
Triumphantly; while by degrees the strain
Dies on the ear, that, self-deluded, listens-
As if a sound so sweet could never die.
BEHOLD MY MOTHER AND MY BRETHREN.
WHO is my mother, or my brethren?
He spake, and look'd on them who sat around,
With a meek smile of pity blent with love,
|