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Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight
And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
took, Praising the farmer's home. He only spake, Looking into the sunset o'er the lake,
Like onę to whom the far-off is most near: “ Yes, most folks think it has a pleasant look ; I love it for my good old mother's sake, Who lived and died here in the peace of
God!” The lesson of his words we pondered o'er, As silently we turned the eastern flank Of the mountain, where its shadow deepest sank, Doubling the night along our rugged road : We felt that man was more than his abode,
The inward life than Nature's raiment more ; And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill,
The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim Before the saintly soul, whose human will
Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod, Making her homely toil and household ways An earthly echo of the song of praise
Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim !
POR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT THE LAURELS" ON THE MERRI
Once more on yonder laurelled height
The summer flowers have budded ;
The vales of home are flooded; And once more, by the grace of Him
Of every good the Giver,
The praises of our river :
The west wind down it blowing,
Beheld it seaward flowing,-
To soothe a martyr's sadness,
His prison-walls with gladness.
Renowned in song and story,
Of human love and glory:
And Rhine has castled shadows,
Go singing down their meadows.
By painter or by poet,
And cunning hand to show it, -
Above it, warm with blessing,
Awakes to our caressing.
That graze its shores in keeping ;
The youth beside it sleeping: Our Christian river loveth most
The beautiful and human;
The heathen streams of Naiads boast,
But ours of man and woman.
The miner in his cabin hears
The ripple we are hearing;
Around the settler's clearing :
Or Santee's bloom of cotton, Our river by its valley-born
Was never yet forgotten.
The drum rolls loud,—the bugle fills
The summer air with clangor;
Beneath its tread of anger :
Now point the rifle's barrel,
Bear redder stains of quarrel.
But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,
And rivers still keep flowing: -
On good and ill bestowing.
His flowers are prophesying
His love is underlying.
We ask the wise Allotter
The calmness of thy water,
Thy rugged slopes with beauty, To match our spirits to our day
And make a joy of duty.
ANDREW RYKMAN'S PRAYER.
ANDREW RYKMAN 's dead and gone :
You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon
Read his name and date.
“ Trust is truer than our fears,"
Runs the legend through the moss, 6 Gain is not in added years,
Nor in death is loss.”
Still the feet that thither trod,
All the friendly eyes are dim; Only Nature, now, and God
Have a care for him.
There the dews of quiet fall,
Singing birds and soft winds stray ; Shall the tender Heart of all
Be less kind than they ?
What he was and what he is
They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his
Which he left behind.
Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare