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And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, Oh! who can witness this,
And some to sounds from the city borne ; Nor feel the throb of bliss
And some to the rolling of torrent floods, With which creation's every pulse seems
Far’midst old mountains, and solemn woods.

beating?

Or who, 'mid such a store So are we roused on this chequer'd earth,

Of rapture flowing o'er, Each onto light hath a daily birth, The tribute of the heart forbear repeating? Tho' fearful or joyous, tho' sad or sweet, Be the voices which first our opspringing

Yet have I known an hour meet.

Of more subduing power But ONE must the sound be, and ONE the Than this of beauty glowing-music gushcall,

ing;Which from the dust shall awake us all!

An hour whose quiet calm, ONE, tho' to sever'd and distant dooms-

Diffus'd an holier balm, How shall the sleepers arise from their Whose watch-word, “ Peace, be still !" the tombs?

inmost heart was hushing.

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ness.

Then from those purta's bright,

A farewell gleam of light
Breaks with unearthly glory on the vision ;

NIGHT.

And through the folding doors,

The eye of thought explores Seraphic forms, and phantasies elysian.

MONTGOMERY.

Night is the time for rest
These pass like thought away !
Yet may their hallow'd sway

How sweet, when labours close,
Rest on the heart,—as dew-drops round To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, adorning The drooping, silent flowers

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the bead
Feed them through night's dark hours, Down on our own delightful bed!
And keep them fresh and living till the
morning.

Night is the time for dreams;
The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems, Thus should the sunset hour,

Mix in fantastic strife : With soul-absorbing power,

Ah! visions, less beguiling far Nurse by its glories the immortal spirit;

Than waking dreams by day-light are! And plume its wings for flight To realms of cloudless light,

Night is the time for toil; Regions its God hath form'd it to inherit.

To plough the classic field,

Intent to find the buried spoil Fair, bright, and sweet is MORN!

Its wealthy furrows yield; When daylight, newly born,

Till all is ours that sages taught, In all its beauty is to sense appealing; That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Yet Eve to me is fraught

With more unearthly thought, Night is the time to weep;
And purer touches of immortal feeling! To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years ;
Hopes, that were angels at their birth,
But died when young like things of earth.

EVENING.

Night is the time to watch ;

O'er ocean's dark expanse,
ANON.

To hail the Pleiades, or catch
A CRIMSON glow adorns the western sky; The full moon's earliest glance,

The setting sun louks broad at his decline That brings into the home-sick mind, The star of Evening twinkling, smiles on All we have loved and left behind.

high, And sings, The hand that made me is Night is the time for care; divine.

Brooding on hours mispent,

To see the spectre of Despair, The silent moon begins her journey bright; Come to our lonely tent;

Across the ether blue, serenely glides ; Like Brutus, 'midst bis slumbering host, And smiling o'er the gloomy face of night, Surmon’d to die by Cæsar's ghost. Sublime in placid majesty she rides.

Night is the time to think; Religion thus, across this world of care, When, from the eye, the soul

Calmly majestic throws her peaceful beam, | Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink Bids earth's dull scenes a heavenly aspect of yonder starry pole wear,

Discerns beyond the abyss of night And all creation with fresh beauty teem. The dawn of uncreated light.

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AND now on earth the seventh

O DAY most calm, most bright, Evening arose in Eden, for the sun The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Was set, and twilight from the east came on, Th' endorsement of supreme delight, Forerunning night; when at the holy mount Writ by a friend, and with his blood; Of heav'n's high-seated top, the imperial | The couch of time, care's balm and bay! throne

The week were dark, but for thy light: Of Godhead, fixed for ever firm and sure, Thy torch doth shew the way. The Filial Power arrived, and sat him down With his great Father; for he also went The other days and thou Invisible, yet staid, (such privilege

Make up one man; whose face thou art, Hath (mnipresence) and the work ordained, Knocking at Heaven with thy brow: Author and End of all things; and, from The workie days are the back part ; work

The borthen of the week lies there, Now resting, blessed and hallowed the se- Making the whole to stoup and bow, venth day,

Till thy release appear.
As resting on that day from all his work,
But not in silence holy kept; the barp

Man hath straight forward gone Had work and rested not; the solemn pipe To endless death ; but thou dost pull And dulcimer, all organs of sweet stop, And turn us round to look on One, All sounds on fret by string or golden wire, Whom, if we were not very dull, Tempered soft tunings, intermixed with We could but choose to look on still; voice

Since there is no place so lone, Choral or unison : of incense clouds,

The which he doth not fill. Fuming from golden censers, bid the mount. Creation and the six-days' act they sing: Sundays the pillars are, “ Great are thy works, Jehovah ! infinite On which Heaven's palace arched lies: Thy power! What thought can measure The other days fill up the spare thee, or tongue

And hollow room with vanities. Relate thee! Greater now in thy return They are the fruitful beds and borders Than from the giant angels: thee that day of God's rich garden : that is bare Thy thunders magnified; bnt to create

Which parts their ranks and orders. Is greater, than created to destroy."

The Sundays of man's life,
So sung they, and the empyrean rung Threaded together on Time's string,
With hallelujahs: thus was Sabbath kept. / Make bracelets to adorn the wife

or the eternal glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife,

More plentiful than hope.

Eternity in Time—the steps by which

We climb to future ages-lamps that light Man through his darker days, and thought

enrich, Yielding redemption for the week's dull

flight.

This day my Saviour rose,
And did enclose this light for his,
That, as each beast his inanger knows,
Man might not of his fodder miss.
Christ hath took in this piece of ground,
And made a garden there for those

Who want herbs for their wouud.

Wakeners of prayer in man-his resting

bowers As on he journeys in the narrow way, Where, Eden-like, Jehovah's walking hours,

Are waited for as in the cool of day.

Days fix'd by God for intercourse with dust, The rest of our creation

To raise our thoughts, and purify our Our great Redeemer did remove,

powers ; With the same shake which, at his passion, Periods appointed to renew our trust : Did th' earth and all things with it move.

A gleam of glory after six days' showers! As Sampson bore the doors away, Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our

A milky way mark'd out through skies else salvation,

drear, And did unhinge that day.

By radiant suns that warm as well as

shine; The brightness of that day

A clue, wbich he who follows knows no fear, We sullied by our foul offence;

Though briers and thoros around his pathWherefore that robe we cast away, Having a new at bis expense, Whose drops of blood paid the full price

Foretastes of heaven on earth; pledges of joy That was required to make us gay,

Surpassing fancy's flights and fiction's And fit for Paradise.

story ; The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy,

And the bright out-courts of immortal
Thou art a day of mirth :

glory!
And where the week day's trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth,
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,

SABBATH MORNING.
Fly hand in hand to heaven!

GRAHAME.

way twine.

BARTON.

Types of eternal rest-fair buds of bliss,
In heavenly flowers unfolding week by

week;
The next world's gladness imaged forth in

this; Days of whose worth the Christian's heart

can speak!

How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour; hoshed
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's

song.
The sithe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the

breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear--the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
T'he distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned ou yon unmoving

cloud.

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