"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine."

EDWARD LORD LYTTON.

THE SABBATH.

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days' stern labor shuts the poor
From Nature's careless banquet-hall;
The seventh an angel opes the door,
And, smiling, welcomes all!
A Father's tender mercy gave

This holy respite to the breast,
To breathe the gale, to watch the wave,
And know the wheel may rest!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,

Thy strength thy master's slave must
be;

The seventh the limbs escape the chain,
A God hath made thee free!

The fields that yester-morning knew

Thy footsteps as their serf, survey; On thee, as them, descends the dew, The baptism of the day.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
But yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

So rest, O weary heart!— but, lo,

The church-spire, glistening up to
heaven,
To warn thee where thy thoughts should go
The day thy God hath given!

Lone through the landscape's solemn rest,
The spire its moral points on high.
O soul, at peace within the breast,
Rise, mingling with the sky!
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,

When rich and poor, with juster rule,
Of power from old dominion hurled,

Shall share the altered world.

bloweth ;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee:

Rest not content in thy darkness, -8

clod!

Work for some good, be it ever SO slowly;

Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly :
Labor!- all labor is noble and holy;
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to
thy God.

JONES VERY.

[U. S. A.]

THE PRESENT HEAVEN.

FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have selAround us ever lies the enchanted land, dom strayed; In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed.

In finding thee are all things round us found;

In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices sound,

And to our eyes the vision is denied.

Open our eyes, that we that world may

see!

Open our ears, that we thy voice may hear,

And in the spirit-land may ever be,
And feel thy presence with us, always

near.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou,

THOMAS MILLER.

- JOHN KEBLE.

And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow!

Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and wellknown tree,

And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand of
Time;

And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime:

But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled;

And, rich with memory's sweet perfume,

Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed.

There shalt thou live and wake the glee

That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee,

My infant feet will seem to seek thee still.

THOMAS MILLER.

EVENING SONG.

177

How many days with mute adieu
Have gone down yon untrodden sky,
And still it looks as clear and blue
As when it first was hung on high.
The rolling sun, the frowning cloud
That drew the lightning in its rear,
The thunder tramping deep and loud.
Have left no foot-mark there.

Come softened by the distant shore;
The village-bells, with silver chime,
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A listening awe pervades the air;
A silence rests upon the hill,
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bowed as if in prayer.

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook, -
All these their Maker own.

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, "Behold a God!"

JOHN KEBLE,

[1796 - 1821.]

MORNING.

O, TIMELY happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove,

Through sleep and darkness safely

brought,

Restored to life and power and thought.

New mercies, each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of
heaven.

If, on our daily course, our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,
As more of Heaven in each we see;
Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on every cross and care.

As for some dear familiar strain Untired we ask, and ask again, Ever in its melodious store Finding a spell unheard before,

Such is the bliss of souls serene,

When they have sworn, and steadfast

mean,

Counting the cost, in all to espy Their God, in all themselves deny.

O, could we learn that sacrifice,
What lights would all around us rise!
How would our hearts with wisdom talk
Along life's dullest, dreariest walk!

We need not bid, for cloistered cell, Our neighbor and our work farewell, Nor strive to wind ourselves too high For sinful man beneath the sky.

The trivial round, the common task,
Will furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us, daily, nearer God.

Seek we no more: content with these,
Let present rapture, comfort, ease,
As Heaven shall bid them, come and go;
The secret this of rest below.

Only, O Lord, in thy dear love Fit us for perfect rest above; And help us, this and every day, To live more nearly as we pray!