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Calm, cloudless, and serene around,

The Heavens her form embower; How beauteous art thou, gentle Moon !

This Sabbath’s Evening Hour!

How placidly the stars look down

Upon the earth's repose !
Her mighty heart is filled with prayer,

With prayer her breath o’erflows.
List! how the streams that glide along

Their grateful homage pour : The voice of streams! how sweet their song

This Sabbath's Evening Hour!

Hark! how the forest murmurs steal

From out the forest boughs;
Hark! how the Bird of Evening sings

Her holy Sabbath vows.
List! how the silken zephyrs breathe

Their music to the flower,
That bends in dewy bashfulness

This Sabbath's Evening Hour.

I've watch'd the ruby sun retire,

Within his crimson shrine;
I've watch'd his boundless sea of fire

Into a speck decline.
I've felt the sunset breezes play

Around his splendid bower;
But it was nought, compared to this

Sweet moon-light Sabbath hour.

Oh! many a winged thought will rise

From out the quiet heart, And spring like bright Birds to the skies,

Of which they are a part. Pure thoughts, pure purposes, have claim

To high celestial dower; Oh! they should burn with loftier flame

This Sabbath's Evening Hour.

All nature with extatic praise

Pours the deep song of love : Shall man alone forget to raise

His gratitude above ?

The Hills, the Forests, and the Streams,

Their solemn homage pour, Laud, child of vanity and dreams,

This Sabbath’s Evening Hour!

The seraph Stars are shining bright;

They are the eyes of Heaven; () lift to them thy lowly sight,

This blessed hallow'd even.
Praise Him who fills their silver urns

With light to cheer their bower;
And raise thy hymn of thankfulness

This Sabbath’s Evening Hour! Praise Him, who is beyond all praise,

Who rolls the clouds aside, And makes the Day-spring from on high

Shoot down its golden tide. Praise Him, who o'er the Earth's attire

Breathes blessings every hour ; And magnify thy soul with prayer

To thy Creator's power!

O build between the earth and sky

A viewless Temple there ; And in the silence of thy soul

Pray with the depth of prayer.
Praise Him, who bent the purple bow

O’er thy terestrial bower;
And teach thy sinful heart to know

The Sabbath’s Evening Hour !

EPITAPH ON KETURAH, THE WIPE OF THE REV. WILLIAM

MITFORD.

BY MISS MITFORD.

MITFORD! when all who view'd thee, saw

how gay,

How sweet, how peaceful, was thy earthly

way; When all who knew thee mark'd how

firmly trod, That cheerful path to Virtue and to God;

Mark'd thee, though pleas'd to enjoy,

more pleas’d to give; “How pleasant (said they) like the good to

live!” But when in calmest slumbers sank thy

breath, When thy sad husband ask'd, Can this be

Death? Even friends and sisters 'mid their sorrows

cry, “How pleasant is it like the good to die !"

CHILDHOOD.

Childhood is like the silken bud folded within its calyx : the different parts, destined to form the future flower, are all there, though concealed from the eye. The character is not distinctly marked: it has no perfume--no colouring. It requires a favourable soil, air, showers, sunshine, and diligent culture, to bring it to perfection,

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