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Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillock'd graves.
Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me,
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wand'ring 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, Tlowers faintly ting'd, and breathing no perfume. But fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland
wreath That circles Autumn's brow: The ruddy haws Now clothe the half-leaPd 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
WINTER SABBATH WALK.
Axow dazzling white the snowy scene! deep,
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day,—
Not ev'n 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-ridg'd the whirl'd drift has almost reach'd
The powder'd 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. Tho' perilous the mountainous ascent, A noble recompence the danger brings. How beautiful the plain stretch'd far below, Unvaried tho' it be, save by yon stream With azure windings, or the leafless wood. But what the beauty of the plain, compar'd To that sublimity which reigns enthron'd,