Calm, cloudless, and serene around, How placidly the stars look down Her mighty heart is filled with prayer, The voice of streams! how sweet their song 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 That bends in dewy bashfulness This Sabbath's Evening Hour. I've watch'd the ruby sun retire, I've watch'd his boundless sea of fire Into a speck decline. I've felt the sunset breezes play But it was nought, compared to this Oh! many a winged thought will rise And spring like bright Birds to the skies, 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 The Hills, the Forests, and the Streams, Their solemn homage pour, Laud, child of vanity and dreams, The seraph Stars are shining bright; Praise HIM who fills their silver urns Praise Him, who is beyond all praise, 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 O build between the earth and sky And in the silence of thy soul Pray with the depth of prayer. Praise Him, who bent the purple bow And teach thy sinful heart to know EPITAPH ON KETURAH, THE WIFE 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, |