It is most needed in this vale of tears:
Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy;
The stranger to discern th' Almighty's shield
Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child
Feel, 'mid his tears, I have a father still!
'Tis done. But hark that infant querulous voice
Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear;

And see the father raise the white-robed babe
In solemn dedication to the Lord:

The holy man sprinkles with forth-stretch'd hand
The face of innocence; then earnest turns,
And prays a blessing in the name of Him
Who said, Let little children come to me;
Forbid them not: the infant is replaced
Among the happy band: they, smilingly,
In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth,
The poor man's festival, a jubilee day,
Remember'd long.

Nor would I leave unsung
The lofty ritual of our sister land :
In vestment white, the minister of God
Opens the book, and reverentially

The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full:

The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms; harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long drawn aisles,
At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a mellow'd stop controls,
In softer harmony the people join,
While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud-rolling, meets
The hallelujahs of the choir: Sublime,
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still his heart is cheer'd;
He smiles on death; but, ah! a wish will rise,-
"Would I were now beneath that echoing roof!
No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow;
My heart would sing; and many a Sabbath-day
My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild flowers blow,
There would I bless his name, who led me forth
From death's dark vale, to walk amid those sweets,
Who gives the bloom of health once more to glow
Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye."

It is not only in the sacred fane

That homage should be paid to the Most High;
There is a temple, one not made with hands-
The vaulted firmament: Far in the woods,

*"And they brought young children to him that he should touch them; and his disciples rebuked those that brought them. But when Jesus saw it, he was much dis. pleased, and said unto them, Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of God. Verily, I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein. And he took them up in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them." Mark x. 13-16.

Almost beyond the sound of city chime,
At intervals heard through the breezeless air;
When not the limberest leaf is seen to move,
Save where the linnet lights upon the spray;
When not a floweret bends its little stalk,
Save where the bee alights upon the bloom;-
There, rapt in gratitude, in joy, and love,
The man of God will pass the Sabbath noon;
Silence his praise; his disembodied thoughts,
Loosed from the load of words, will high ascend
Beyond the empyrean.-

Nor yet less pleasing at the heavenly throne,
The Sabbath-service of the shepherd-boy.
In some lone glen, where every sound is lull'd
To slumber, save the tinkling of the rill,
Or bleat of lamb, or hovering falcon's cry,
Stretch'd on the sward, he reads of Jesse's son ;
Or sheds a tear o'er him to Egypt sold,
And wonders why he weeps; the volume closed,
With thyme-sprig laid between the leaves, he sings
The sacred lays, his weekly lesson, conn'd
With meikle care beneath the lowly roof,
Where humble lore is learnt, where humble worth
Pines unrewarded by a thankless state.
Thus reading, hymning, all alone, unseen,
The shepherd-boy the Sabbath holy keeps,
Till on the heights he marks the straggling bands
Returning homeward from the house of prayer.
In peace they home resort. O blissful days!
When all men worship God as conscience wills
Far other times our fathers' grandsires knew,
A virtuous race, to godliness devote.

What though the skeptic's scorn hath dared to soil
The record of their fame! what though the men
Of worldly minds have dared to stigmatize
The sister-cause, religion and the law,
With superstition's name! yet, yet their deeds,
Their constancy in torture and in death,-
These on tradition's tongue still live; these shall
On history's honest page be pictured bright
To latest times. Perhaps some bard, whose muse
Disdains the servile strain of fashion's quire,
May celebrate their unambitious names.
With them each day was holy, every hour
They stood prepared to die, a people doom'd
To death;-old men, and youths, and simple maids.
With them each day was holy; but that morn
On which the angel said, See where the Lord
Was laid, joyous arose; to die that day
Was bliss. Long ere the dawn, by devious ways,
O'er hills, through woods, o'er dreary wastes, they

sought

The upland muirs, where rivers, there but brooks,
Dispart to different seas: Fast by such brooks
A little glen is sometimes scoop'd, a plat
With green sward gay, and flowers that strangers

seem

Amid the heathery wild, that all around
Fatigues the eye; in solitudes like these,
Thy persecuted children, Scotia, foil'd
A tyrant's and a bigot's bloody laws:
There, leaning on his spear, (one of the array,
Whose gleam, in former days, had scathed the rose
On England's banner, and had powerless struck
The infatuate monarch and his wavering host,)
The lyart veteran heard the word of God

By Cameron thunder'd, or by Renwick pour'd
In gentle stream; then rose the song, the loud
Acclaim of praise. The wheeling plover ceased
Her plaint; the solitary place was glad,
And on the distant cairns the watcher's ear*
Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note,
But years more gloomy follow'd; and no more
Th' assembled people dared, in face of day,
To worship God, or even at the dead

Of night, save when the wintry storm raved fierce,
And thunder-peals compell'd the men of blood
To couch within their dens: then dauntlessly
The scatter'd few would meet, in some deep dell
By rocks o'er-canopied, to hear the voice,
Their faithful pastor's voice: He by the gleam
Of sheeted lightning oped the sacred book,
And words of comfort spake: Over their souls
His accents soothing came,-as to her young
The heathfowl's plumes, when, at the close of eve,
She gathers in, mournful, her brood dispersed
By murderous sport, and o'er the remnant spreads
Fondly her wings; close nestling 'neath her breast,
They, cherish'd, cower amid the purple blooms.

But wood and wild, the mountain and the dale,
The house of prayer itself,-no place inspires
Emotions more accordant with the day,
Than does the field of graves, the land of rest:-
Oft at the close of evening prayer, the toll,
The solemn funeral toll, pausing, proclaims
The service of the tomb: the homeward crowds
Divide on either hand; the pomp draws near:
The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing,
I am the resurrection and the life.

Ah me! these youthful bearers robed in white,
They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend
Is gone, dead in her prime of years :-"Twas she,
The poor man's friend, who, when she could not
give,

With angel tongue pleaded to those who could;
With angel tongue and mild beseeching eye,
That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd
For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,-
Rejoiced to die; for happy visions bless'd
Her voyage's last days,† and hovering round,
Alighted on her soul, giving presage
That heaven was nigh:

what a burst

Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy

With melancholy ornaments-(the name, The record of her blossoming age)-appears Unveil'd, and on it dust to dust is thrown, The final rite. O! hark that sullen sound! Upon the lower'd bier the shovell'd clay Falls fast, and fills the void.

But who is he That stands aloof, with haggard, wistful eye, As if he coveted the closing grave? And he does covet it-his wish is death: The dread resolve is fix'd; his own right-hand Is sworn to do the deed: The day of rest No peace, no comfort brings his wo-worn spirit: Self-cursed, the hallow'd dome he dreads to enter; He dares not pray; he dares not sigh a hope; Annihilation is his only heaven. Loathsome the converse of his friends: he shuns The human face; in every careless eye Suspicion of his purpose seems to lurk. Deep piny shades he loves, where no sweet note Is warbled, where the rook unceasing caws: Or far in moors, remote from house or hut, Where animated nature seems extinct. Where e'en the hum of wandering bee ne'er breaks The quiet slumber of the level waste; Where vegetation's traces almost fail, Save where the leafless cannachs wave their tufts Of silky white, or massy oaken trunks Half buried lie, and tell where greenwoods grew,There on the heathless moss outstretch'd he broods O'er all his ever-changing plans of death: The time, place, means, sweep like a stormy rack, In fleet succession, o'er his clouded soul;The poniard, and the opium draught, that brings Death by degrees, but leaves an awful chasm Between the act and consequence,-the flash Sulphureous, fraught with instantaneous death;The ruin'd tower perch'd on some jutting rock, So high that, 'tween the leap and dash below, The breath might take its flight in midway air,This pleases for a while; but on the brink, Back from the toppling edge his fancy shrinks In horror: sleep at last his breast becalms,He dreams 'tis done; but starting wild awakes, Resigning to despair his dream of joy. Then hope, faint hope, revives-hope, that despair May to his aid let loose the demon frenzy,

closed;

But all her loveliness is not yet flown:

She smiled in death, and still her cold, pale face
Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake,
In which the wintry stars all bright appear,
Is sheeted by a nightly frost with ice,
Still it reflects the face of heaven unchanged,
Unruffled by the breeze or sweeping blast.
Again that knell! The slow procession stops:
The pall withdrawn, death's altar, thick emboss'd

Of self-destruction's cataract of blood.
Most miserable, most incongruous wretch!
Darest thou to spurn thy life, the boon of God,
Yet dreadest to approach his holy place?
O dare to enter in! maybe some word,
Or sweetly chanted strain, will in thy heart
Awake a chord in unison with life.
What are thy fancied woes to his, whose fate
Is (sentence dire ) incurable disease,-
The outcast of a lazar house, homeless,
Or with a home where eyes do scowl on him!

give warning of the approach of the military.

Towards the end of Columbus's voyage to the new world, when he was already near, but not in sight of land, the drooping hopes of his mariners (for his own confidence seems to have remained unmoved) were revived by the appearance of birds, at first hovering round the ship, and then alighting on the rigging.

With trembling voice joins in the song of praise.
Patient he waits the hour of his release;
He knows he has a home beyond the grave.

Or turn thee to that house with studded doors, And iron-visor'd windows; even there

The Sabbath sheds a beam of bliss, though faint;

The debtor's friends (for still he has some friends)
Have time to visit him; the blossoming pea,
That climbs the rust-worn bars, seems fresher tinged;
And on the little turf, this day renew'd,

The lark, his prison mate, quivers the wing
With more than wonted joy. See, through the bars
That pallid face retreating from the view,

That glittering eye following, with hopeless look,
The friends of former years, now passing by
In peaceful fellowship to worship God:

With them, in days of youthful years, he roam'd
O'er hill and dale, o'er broomy knowe; and wist
As little as the blithest of the band

Of this his lot; condemn'd, condemn'd unheard,
The party for his judge;-among the throng,
The Pharisaical hard-hearted man

He sees pass on, to join the heaven-taught prayer,
Forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors:
From unforgiving lips most impious prayer!
O happier far the victim than the hand
That deals the legal stab! The injured man
Enjoys internal, settled calm; to him

The Sabbath bell sounds peace; he loves to meet
His fellow sufferers to pray and praise:

And many a prayer, as pure as e'er was breathed
In holy fanes, is sigh'd in prison halls.

Ah me! that clank of chains, as kneel and rise
The death-doom'd row. But see, a smile illumes
The face of some; perhaps they're guiltless: O!
And must high-minded honesty endure
The ignominy of a felon's fate!

No, 'tis not ignominious to be wrong'd:
No; conscious exultation swells their hearts
To think the day draws nigh, when in the view
Of angels, and of just men perfect made,
The mark which rashness branded on their names
Shall be effaced;-when wafted on life's storm,
Their souls shall reach the Sabbath of the skies ;-
As birds from bleak Norwegia's wintry coast
Blown out to sea, strive to regain the shore,
But, vainly striving, yield them to the blast.-
Swept o'er the deep to Albion's genial isle,
Amazed they light amid the bloomy sprays
Of some green vale, there to enjoy new loves,
And join in harmony unheard before.

The land is groaning 'neath the guilt of blood
Spilt wantonly: for every death-doom'd man,
Who, in his boyhood, has been left untaught
That wisdom's ways are ways of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace, unjustly dies.
But, ah! how many are thus left untaught,-
How many would be left, but for the band
United to keep holy to the Lord

His child shall still receive instruction's boon.
But hark, a noise,-a cry,-a gleam of swords!-
Resistance is in vain,—he's borne away,
Nor is allow'd to clasp his weeping child.

My innocent, so helpless, yet so gay!
How could I bear to be thus rudely torn
From thee;-to see thee lift thy little arm,
And impotently strike the ruffian man,—
To hear thee bid him chidingly—begone!

O ye who live at home, and kiss each eve
Your sleeping infants ere you go to rest,
And, waken'd by their call, lift up your eyes
Upon their morning smile,-think, think of those,
Who, torn away without one farewell word
To wife or children, sigh the day of life

In banishment from all that's dear to man ;-
O raise your voices in one general peal
Remonstrant, for th' oppress'd. And ye, who sit
Month after month devising impost laws,
Give some small portion of your midnight vigils
To mitigate, if not remove, the wrong.

Relentless justice! with fate-furrow'd brow;
Wherefore to various crimes of various guilt,
One penalty, the most severe, allot?
Why, pall'd in state, and mitred with a wreath
Of nightshade, dost thou sit portentously,
Beneath a cloudy canopy of sighs,

Of fears, of trembling hopes, of boding doubts;
Death's dart thy mace !-Why are the laws of God,
Statutes promulged in characters of fire,*
Despised in deep concerns, where heavenly guidance
Is most required? The murderer-let him die,
And him who lifts his arm against his parent,
His country, or his voice against his God.
Let crimes less heinous dooms less dreadful meet
Than loss of life! so said the law divine:
That law beneficent, which mildly stretch'd,
To men forgotten and forlorn, the hand
Of restitution: Yes, the trumpet's voice
The Sabbath of the jubileet announced:
The freedom-freighted blast, through all the land
At once, in every city, echoing rings,
From Lebanon to Carmel's woody cliffs,
So loud, that far within the desert's verge
The couching lion starts, and glares around.
Free is the bondman now, each one returns
To his inheritance: The man, grown old
In servitude far from his native fields,
Hastes joyous on his way; no hills are steep,
Smooth is each rugged path; his little ones

A portion of his day, by teaching those

bless!

Behold yon motley train, by two and two,
Each with a Bible 'neath its little arm,
Approach well pleased, as if they went to play,
The dome where simple lore is learnt unbought:
And mark the father 'mid the sideway throng;
Well do I know him by his glistening eye,
That follows steadfastly one of the line,
A dark seafaring man he looks to be;
And much it glads his boding heart to think,
That when once more he sails the valley'd deep,

trembled." Exod. xix. 16.

"And thou shalt number seven Sabbaths of years unto thee, seven times seven years; and the space of the seven Sabbaths of years shall be unto thee forty and nine years. Then shalt thou cause the trumpet of the jubilee to sound on the tenth day of the seventh month; in the day of atonement shall ye make the trumpet sound throughout all your land. And ye shall hallow the fiftieth year, and proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof: it shall be a jubilee unto you; and ye shall return every man unto his possession, and ye shall return every man unto his family." Lev. xxv. 8-10.

Sport as they go, while oft the mother chides

The lingering step, lured by the way-side flowers:
At length the hill, from which a farewell look,
And still another parting look, he cast
On his paternal vale, appears in view:
The summit gain'd, throbs hard his heart with joy
And sorrow blent, to see that vale once more;
Instant his eager eye darts to the roof
Where first he saw the light; his youngest born
He lifts, and, pointing to the much-loved spot,
Says" There thy fathers lived, and there they
sleep."

Onward he wends; near and more near he draws:
How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bower'd brook!
The sunbeam slanting through the cedar grove
How lovely, and how mild! But lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first! and dear the fig-tree shade
"Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told*.
Of Israel from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desert to the promised land;-
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrow'd bark bedews:
And still, at midnight hour, he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy!

Did ever law of man a power like this
Display power marvellous as merciful,
Which, though in other ordinances still
Most plainly seen, is yet but little mark'd
For what it truly is,—a miracle!
Stupendous, ever new, perform'd at once
In every region,-yea, on every sea
Which Europe's navies plough;—yes, in all lands
From pole to pole, or civilized to rude,
People there are, to whom the Sabbath morn
Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts:
Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave,
Amid Columbia's wildernesses vast,

The words which God in thunder from the mount
Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obey'd.
Thy children, Scotia, in the desert land,
Driven from their homes by fell monopoly,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
Assembled under loftiest canopy

Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low
They sing, By Babel's streams we sat and wept.
What strong mysterious links enchain the heart
To regions where the morn of life is spent!
In foreign lands, though happier be the clime,
Though round our board smile all the friends we
love,

The face of nature wears a stranger's look.
Yea, though the valley which we loved be swept
Of its inhabitants, none left behind,

Not e'en the poor blind man who sought his bread
From door to door, still, still there is a want;
Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows

"And these words which I command thee this day shall be in thine heart: And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thy house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up. Thou shalt say unto thy son, We were Pharaoh's bondmen in Egypt; and the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand." Deut. vi. 6,7. 21.

tempts

The traveller's hand; though birds of dazzling plume
Perch on the loaded boughs;-"Give me thy woods,
(Exclaims the banish'd man,) thy barren woods,
Poor Scotland! Sweeter there the reddening haw,
The sloe, or rowan's bitter bunch, than here
The purple grape; dearer the redbreast's note,
That mourns the fading year in Scotia's vales,
Than Philomel's, where spring ever new;
More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit,
So like a wither'd leaflet, than the glare
Of gaudy wings, that make the iris dim."
Nor is regret exclusive to the old :

The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main,
A ship his cradle, by the billows rock'd,-
"The nursling of the storm,"-although he claims
No native land, yet does he wistful hear
Of some far distant country still call'd home,
Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills;
Where gold-speck'd fishes wanton in the streams:
Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air,
Light on the floor, and peck the table crumbs,
And with their singing cheer the winter day.
But what the loss of country to the woes
Of banishment and solitude combined!
O! my heart bleeds to think there now may live
One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desert island of that main
Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore
To Acapulco. Motionless he sits,

As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days,
With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste;
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time
Upon the shell-notch'd calendar to mark

*Mountain ash.

Another day, another dreary day,—
Changeless ;-for, in these regions of the sun,
The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil,
Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annull'd; for there the trees,
Adorn'd at once with bud, and flower, and fruit,
Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread
And blossoms on the ground. But yet by him,
The hermit of the deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes. "Tis his great delight.
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think,-that setting sun
Is now impurpling Scotland's mountain tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church;
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full,-where, not without a tear
They are remember'd who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand,
The widow'd hand, that veils the eye suffused;
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil
Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On winds of cloudless wing;t though lightnings

burst

So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
In awful alternation: Calm he views
The far exploding firmament, and dares
To hope-one bolt in mercy is reserved
For his release: and yet he is resign'd
To live; because full well he is assured,
Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds.‡
And thy right hand does lead him. Lo! at last,
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,
As if th' imbodied spirit of such sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows,-a hymn of old,
Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state
Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced,
In midnight music, by an angel choir,

To Bethlehem's shepherds,§ as they watch'd their flocks.

Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell.
He looks, and starts to see, moving along,
A fiery wave," (so seems it,) crescent form'd,
Approaching to the land: straightway he sees
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fill'd sails
That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world,
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again.
Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides;
It seems as it would pass away. To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain,
Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream:
Not so his hand: he strikes the flint, a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of wither'd leaves:
The music ceases, accents harsh succeed,
Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop the

sails;

Ingulf'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd;
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn:

O then the transport of the man unused
To other human voice besides his own,-
His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interposed.

Of perils of the sea he has no dread,
Full well assured the mission'd bark is safe,
Held in the hollow of th' Almighty's hand.
(And signal thy deliverances have been
Of these thy messengers of peace and joy.)
From storms that loudly threaten to unfix
Islands rock-rooted in the ocean's bed,
Thou dost deliver them, and from the calm,
More dreadful than the storm, when motionless
Upon the purple deep the vessel lies

For days, for nights, illumed by phosphor lamps;
When sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float
When backward starts the boldest mariner
To see, while o'er the side he leans, his face
As if deep tinged with blood.-

Let worldly men
The cause and combatants contemptuous scorn,
And call fanatics them who hazard health
And life in testifying of the truth,
Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ!
What were the Galilean fishermen
But messengers, commission'd to announce
The resurrection, and the life to come!
They too, though clothed with power of mighty
works

without a cloud.

"If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me." Psal. cxxxix. § "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo! the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for, behold! I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you, Ye shall find

But, when their efforts fail'd, unweariedly They onward went, rejoicing in their course.

the babe wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." Luke ii. 8-14.

"In some seas, as particularly about the coast of Malabar, as a ship floats along, it seems during the night to be surrounded with fire, and to leave a long track of light behind it. Whenever the sea is gently agitated, it seems converted into little stars: every drop as it breaks emits light, like bodies electrified in the dark."-Darwin