"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine." EDWARD LORD LYTTON. THE SABBATH. FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale, Six days' stern labor shuts the poor This holy respite to the breast, Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, Thy strength thy master's slave must The seventh the limbs escape the chain, The fields that yester-morning knew Thy footsteps as their serf, survey; On thee, as them, descends the dew, The baptism of the day. Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale, So rest, O weary heart!— but, lo, The church-spire, glistening up to Lone through the landscape's solemn rest, When rich and poor, with juster rule, Shall share the altered world. Alas! since time itself began, That fable hath but fooled the hour; fair Yet every day in seven, at least. One bright republic shall be known; Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring-| From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee: Rest not content in thy darkness, -8 clod! Work for some good, be it ever SO slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : JONES VERY. [U. S. A.] THE PRESENT HEAVEN. FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have selAround us ever lies the enchanted land, dom strayed; In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. In finding thee are all things round us found; In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied. Open our eyes, that we that world may see! Open our ears, that we thy voice may hear, And in the spirit-land may ever be, near. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou, THOMAS MILLER. - JOHN KEBLE. And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow! Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart. I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale. I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and wellknown tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. Fair child of art! thy charms decay, And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime: But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And, rich with memory's sweet perfume, Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee, My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. THOMAS MILLER. EVENING SONG. 177 How many days with mute adieu Come softened by the distant shore; And in this hushed and breathless close, Now Nature sinks in soft repose, JOHN KEBLE, [1796 - 1821.] MORNING. O, TIMELY happy, timely wise, New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove, Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life and power and thought. New mercies, each returning day, If, on our daily course, our mind Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be, As for some dear familiar strain Untired we ask, and ask again, Ever in its melodious store Finding a spell unheard before, Such is the bliss of souls serene, When they have sworn, and steadfast mean, Counting the cost, in all to espy Their God, in all themselves deny. O, could we learn that sacrifice, We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbor and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky. The trivial round, the common task, Seek we no more: content with these, Only, O Lord, in thy dear love Fit us for perfect rest above; And help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray! |