The gulls and guilemots, with short, quaint cry, A voice amidst the hushed and listening world BOWLES. AN EVENING SERVICE. HE cold wind strips the yellow leaf, The songs have ceased,—and busy men Oh, in an hour so still as this, From care, and toil, and tumult stealing, To meek devotion's holy feeling; And rise to thee to thee, whose hand Being, whose all-pervading might Thon, Ruler of our destiny! With million gifts thou hast supplied us, Hidden from our view futurity, Unveiling all the past to guide us. Though dark may be earth's vale and damp, A thousand stars shine sweetly o'er us, And immortality's pure lamp Gladdens and gilds our path before us. And in the silence of the scene Sweet tones from heaven are softly speaking, Celestial music breathes between, The slumbering soul of bliss awaking. Short is the darkest night, whose shade Wraps nature's breast in clouds of sadness; And joy's sweet flowers, that seem to fade, Shall bloom anew in kindling gladness. Death's darkness is more bright to him The silent tear, the deep-fetched sigh, Smiles from a conscience purified, This joy be ours-our weeks shall roll- BOWRING. EVENING IN JUDEA. To show forth thy loving-kindness in the morning, and thy faithfulness every night."-PSALM XCII. 2. HE sun is set—and yet his light Is lingering in the crimson sky, Of holy men that die. O'er Tabor's hill, o'er Baca's dale, The shades of evening softly creep— Softly as mother draws the veil The dews fall gently on the flower, Their freshening influence to impart— As pity's tears of soothing power Revive the drooping heart. The twilight star from Hermon's peak Comes mildly o'er the glistening earth; And weary hirelings joy to seek Their dear domestic hearth. Who sends the sun to ocean's bed? Who brings the night-shade from the west? Who bids the balmy dews be shed? Even He who, at the season due, Sends forth the sun's returning light, Whose mercies every morn are new, Whose faithfulness each night. KNOX. MORNING AND EVENING. OW beautiful is Morn! When day-light, newly born, From the bright portals of the east is breaking, While songs of joy resound From countless warblers round, To light and life from silent slumber waking. The parting clouds unfold Their edges tinged with gold; Touched by the rustling breeze, Are bright and tuneful as the muse's fountain. As upward mounts the sun, The valleys, one by one, Ope their recesses to the living splendour; Heaves upward to be blest, And bids its waves reflected light surrender. Each humble flower lifts up Its dewy bell or cup, Smiling through tears that know no tinge of sadness; The insect tribes come out, And, fluttering all about, Fill the fresh air with gentle sounds of gladness. Oh! who can witness this, Nor feel the throb of bliss With which creation's every pulse seems beating? Or who, 'mid such a store Of rapture flowing o'er, The tribute of the heart forbear repeating? Yet have I known an hour Of more subduing power Than this of beauty glowing-music gushing- Diffused a holier balm, Whose watch-word, "peace be still!" the inmost heart was hushing. It is the close of day, When Evening's hues array The western sky in all their radiant lustre: His goal of glory won, 'Tis when day's parting light, Dazzling no more the sight, Its chastening glory to the eye is granting, Unearthly hopes and fears, And voiceless feelings in the heart are panting. While thus the western sky Delights the gazing eye, With thrilling beauty, touching, and endearing;- What still of earth is fair Borrows its beauty there, Though every borrowed charm is disappearing. Ere yet those charms grow dim, Creation's vesper hymn, Grateful and lovely, is from earth ascending; |