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Beasts, strong to labour, o'er the lea
Have drawn the cumberous plough;
And feed in pastures, glad and free,
Their toil accomplished now.

Laborious man fulfils his task,
And seeks repose; but I—
Is mine accomplished?—let me ask—
And conscience shall reply.

Birds, beasts, and trees, unmoved by choice,

Have each improved the day,

Obedient still to nature's voice :

But whose did I obey?

Were Christ's commands before my sight

In all I thought and spoke?
And have I borne his burden light,

And worn his easy yoke?

Has pride or wrath disturbed my breast,
Or wishes wild and vain?

Has sinful sloth my powers possessed

And bound them in its chain?

Has not my resolution failed?

Lord, search, for thou didst see; And has not base self-love prevailed Instead of love to thee?

Did I this day, for small or great,
My own pursuits forego,
To lighten by a feather's weight

The mass of human woe?

'Mid cares and hopes and pleasures mean,

With eager fondness sought,

Oh, has one glance at things unseen

Sublimed my earthly thought?

Has grace, descending from above,
This evil heart possessed?

In meekness, patience, truth, and love,
To all around expressed?

Great is the peace such grace bestows
'Mid storms of earthly strife;
And calm and sweet is their repose
Who live this hidden life.

If thus my cheerful hours have sped,
How blest the day's decline!
'Tis past!-but though for ever fled,
To-morrow still is mine.

MISS TAYLOR.

SUMMER EVENING.

H! there is-there is a balm
In this hour of Eve so calm!
On its downy wings it bears

Sweet oblivion of the cares,

Toils and fears, and woes of life,
In its little span so rife!

If a foretaste e'er be given

Of the treasured bliss of heaven;
If sainted spirit e'er be sent
Earthward, on Mercy's errand lent,
Prompting good, averting ill,
Faithful-though unheeded still,
If a chosen time there be
For the unfettered soul to flee
From its prison-house of clay,
While beckoning seraph points the way;
Heaven-caught feeling whispers reason-
This-this must be the hallowed season!
JOHN RAMSAY.

DAY: A PASTORAL.

MORNING.

N the barn the tenant cock,

Close to Partlet perched on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock !)

Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Swiftly from the mountain's brow
Shadows, nursed by night, retire;
And the peeping sunbeam now

Paints with gold the village spire.

Philomel forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night!
And the Lark to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.

From the low-roofed cottage ridge,
See the chattering swallow spring!
Darting through the one-arched bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.

Now the pine tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale :
Kidlings now begin to crop
Daisies in the dewy dale.

From the balmy sweets uncloyed,
(Restless till her task be done,)
Now the busy bee's employed,
Sipping dew before the sun.

Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossomed spray!
Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

NOON.

FERVID on the glittering flood,
Now the noontide radiance glows;
Drooping o'er its infant bud,

Not a dew-drop decks the rose.

By the brook the shepherd dines;
From the fierce meridian heat
Sheltered by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his grassy seat.

Now the flock forsakes the glade,

Where unchecked the sunbeams fall;

Sure to find a pleasing shade

By the ivied abbey wall.

Echo in her airy round

Over river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill.

Cattle court the zephyrs bland,
Where the streamlet wanders cool;
Or with languid silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.

Not a leaf has leave to stir ;-
Nature's lulled, serene and still;

Quiet even the shepherd's cur,
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill;

Languid is the landscape round,

Till the fresh descending shower,

Grateful to the thirsty ground,

Raises every fainting flower.

EVENING.

O'ER the heath the heifer strays
Free (the furrowed task is done);
Now the village windows blaze,
Burnished by the setting sun.

Now he hides behind the hill,
Sinking from a golden sky;
Can the pencil's mimic skill
Copy the refulgent dye ?

Trudging as the ploughmen go,

(To the smoking hamlet bound), Giant-like their shadows grow Lengthened o'er the level ground.

Where the rising forest spreads
Shelter for the lordly dome,
To their high-built airy beds,
See the rooks returning home!

As the lark, with varied tune,
Carols to the Evening loud,
Mark the mild resplendent moon
Breaking through a parted cloud!

Now the hermit owlet peeps

From her barn, or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake.

Tripping through the silken grass,
O'er the path-divided dale,
Mark the rose-complexioned lass,

With her well-poised milking pail !

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