light and advantage. They are genuine relics of home; like the memorials of domestic affection and early felicity, cherished the more fondly the farther the wanderer has strayed from the scenes which they recall. Compared in these respects with the works of more impassioned contemporary writers, the poetry of Grahame realizes the fable of the sun and the wind alternately beating and playing on the traveller. But apart from this moral excellence, Grahame, if not among the greatest, is one of the most delightful of our poets; and he was one of the best of men. The fountain of his finest poetry was, indeed, in his own heart, from whence it welled up in freshness and purity. No Naiad interposed her urn to catch the crystal drops; no marble fount, scooped out and embellished by classic art, received them as they fell. They gathered unheeded to a little rill, which wound freely through the heath-flowers and clover-blooms of the rushy meadow, singing a quiet tune" as it glided on its way to Ocean.
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How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe 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,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles with heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms,-the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's day. On other days the man of toil is doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, SABBATH! thee I hail, the poor man's
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While, wandering slowly up the river's side,
He meditates on HIM, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one SABBATH without end
But now his steps a welcome sound recalls: Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile, Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe :
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved ground:
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind
Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well-
pleased;
These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God; these, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in. A placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Arise, and read the anointed shepherd's lays.
His locks of snow, his brow serene, his look
Of love, it speaks, "Ye are my children all,
The grey-haired man, stooping upon his staff,
As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye
Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome."
Loud swells the song: O how that simple song,
Though rudely chanted, how it melts the heart,
Commingling soul with soul in one full tide
Of praise, of thankfulness, of humble trust!
Next comes the unpremeditated prayer,
Breathed from the inmost heart, in accents low,
But earnest.-Altered is the tone; to man
Are now addressed the sacred speaker's words.
Instruction, admonition, comfort, peace,
Flow from his tongue: O chief let comfort flow!
It is most needed in this vale of tears:
Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy;
The stranger to discern the Almighty's shield
Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child
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