AN

AUTUMN SABBATH WALK.

WHEN homeward bands their several ways disperse,

I love to linger in the narrow field

Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent sleep below.

Sad sighs the wind, that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass:
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.

But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,

His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend-conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,

Though bred to brave the deep: the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild, but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range;
(It was not wide:) no dog would bay at him:
Children would run to meet him on his way,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rushy cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit! that now looks on me,
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt

To see thee wandering darkling on thy way.

But let me quit this melancholy spot,

And roam where nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the blue-bells linger on the sod

That copes the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appears,

Flowers faintly tinged, and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath,
That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws.
Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs

With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along, and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: Oft, statue like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,

And chace, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

WINTER SABBATH WALK.

How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep The stillness of the winter Sabbath day,—

Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain :

Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged, the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered key-stone of the church-yard porch.

Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried; No step approaches to the house of prayer.

The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse, And shew the sun, hung o'er the welkin's verge, Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam

On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire:

Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompence the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below!
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood.
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells, that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold!