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Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight
Of sun-brown children, listening, while they

swung,
The welcome sound of supper-call to hear;

And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
Thus soothed and pleased, our backward path we

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 !

OUR RIVER.

POR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT THE LAURELS" ON THE MERRI

MACK

Once more on yonder laurelled height

The summer flowers have budded ;
Once more with summer's golden light

The vales of home are flooded; And once more, by the grace of Him

Of every good the Giver,
We sing upon its wooded rim

The praises of our river :
Its pines above, its waves below,

The west wind down it blowing,
As fair as when the young Brissot

Beheld it seaward flowing,-
And bore its memory o'er the deep,

To soothe a martyr's sadness,
And fresco, in his troubled sleep,

His prison-walls with gladness.
We know the world is rich with streams

Renowned in song and story,
Whose music murmurs through our dreams

Of human love and glory:
We know that Arno's banks are fair,

And Rhine has castled shadows,
And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr

Go singing down their meadows.
But while, unpictured and unsung

By painter or by poet,
Our river waits the tuneful tongue

And cunning hand to show it, -
We only know the fond skies lean

Above it, warm with blessing,
And the sweet soul of our Undine

Awakes to our caressing.
No fickle Sun-God holds the flocks

That graze its shores in keeping ;
No icy kiss of Dian mocks

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;
It whispers soft to homesick ears

Around the settler's clearing :
In Sacramento’s vales of corn,

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;
The war-storm shakes the solid hills

Beneath its tread of anger :
Young eyes that last year smiled in ours

Now point the rifle's barrel,
And hands then stained with fruits and flowers

Bear redder stains of quarrel.

But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,

And rivers still keep flowing: -
The dear God still his rain and sun

On good and ill bestowing.
His pine-trees whisper, “ Trust and wait ! ”

His flowers are prophesying
That all we dread of change or fate

His love is underlying.
And thou, O Mountain-born !--no more

We ask the wise Allotter
Than for the firmness of thy shore,

The calmness of thy water,
The cheerful lights that overlay

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
Shape in words a mortal's prayer !
Prayer, that, when my day is done,
And I see its setting sun,
Shorn and beamless, cold and dim,
Sink beneath the horizon's rim,-
When this ball of rock and clay

Crumbles from

my
feet

away,
And the solid shores of sense
Melt into the vague immense,
Father! I may come to Thee
Even with the beggar's plea,
As the poorest of Thy poor,
With my needs, and nothing more.
Not as one who seeks his home
With a step assured I come;
Still behind the tread I hear
Of my life-companion, Fear;
Still a shadow deep and vast
From my westering feet is cast,
Wavering, doubtful, undefined,
Never shapen nor outlined :
From myself the fear has grown,
And the shadow is my own.
Yet, O Lord, through all a sense
Of Thy tender providence
Stays my failing heart on Thee,
And confirms the feeble knee;
And, at times, my worn feet press
Spaces of cool quietness,
Lilied whiteness shone upon
Not by light of moon or sun.
Hours there be of inmost calm,
Broken but by grateful psalm,
When I love Thee more than fear Thee,
And Thy blessed Christ seems near me,
With forgiving look, as when
He beheld the Magdalen.
Well I know that all things move
To the spheral rhythm of love,-
That to Thee, O Lord of all !
Nothing can of chance befall:
Child and seraph, mote and star,
Well Thou knowest what we are;
Through Thy vast creative plan

24

VOL. I.

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