Has grace, descending from above, In meekness, patience, truth, and love, Great is the peace such grace bestows If thus my cheerful hours have sped, MISS TAYLOR. SUMMER EVENING. H! there is-there is a balm Sweet oblivion of the cares, If a foretaste e'er be given While beckoning seraph points the way; JOHN RAMSAY. DAY: A PASTORAL. MORNING. N the barn the tenant cock, Close to Partlet perched on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock !) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night! And the Lark to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roofed cottage ridge, See the chattering swallow spring! Darting through the one-arched bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale: Kidlings now begin to crop From the balmy sweets uncloyed, Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng, Echoes to the rising day. NOON. FERVID on the glittering flood, Not a dew-drop decks the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines ; Now the flock forsakes the glade, Where unchecked the sunbeams fall; Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivied abbey wall. Echo in her airy round Over river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill. Cattle court the zephyrs bland, Not a leaf has leave to stir ;- Languid is the landscape round, Till the fresh descending shower, Grateful to the thirsty ground, Raises every fainting flower. EVENING. O'ER the heath the heifer strays Now he hides behind the hill, Trudging as the ploughmen go, (To the smoking hamlet bound), Giant-like their shadows grow Lengthened o'er the level ground. Where the rising forest spreads As the lark, with varied tune, Now the hermit owlet peeps From her barn, or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake. Tripping through the silken grass, With her well-poised milking pail ! Linnets with unnumbered notes, And the cuckoo-bird with two, J. W. CUNNINGHAM. EVENING IN AUTUMN. T was an eve of Autumn's holiest mood; The corn fields, bathed in Cynthia's silver light, Stood ready for the reaper's gathering hand; And all the winds slept soundly; nature seemed, In silent contemplation, to adore Its Maker: now and then the aged leaf Fell from its fellows, rustling to the ground; On lake and vale, on wood and mountain higli, POLLOK. EVENING IN AUTUMN. (RANQUIL and clear the Autumnal day declined; Without; far up in the pale atmosphere, |