Diminishing, the murmur runs a trickle:
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air; grateful the breeze

That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain
Spread wide below; how sweet the placid view!
But oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought!
That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons
Of toil, partake this day the common joy
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale,
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath-day.
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb,
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline: to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.
Again I turn me to the hill, and trace

The wizard stream, now scarce to be discerned;
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves,
And thinly strewed with heath-bells up and down.
Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon the adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chasm,
As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush! the torrent's channel dry
Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt:
But hark, a plaintive sound floating along!
'Tis from yon heath-roofed shielin: now it dies
Away, now rises full; it is the song
Which He,-who listens to the halleluiahs
Of choiring seraphim,-delights to hear:

It is the music of the heart, the voice

Of venerable age,-of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicket door: behold the man!
The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray; before him lies,
Upon the smooth-cropped sward, the open book,
His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight!
While, heedless, at his side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.

AN AUTUMN

SABBATH

Ꮃ Ꭺ Ꮮ Ꮶ .

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.

up

Sad sighs the wind, that from those ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass :
The sere and yellow wreaths with eddying sweep
Fill 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 he was indeed 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 knees, 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 circle's autumn's brow: the ruddy haws
Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs

With auburn branches, 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 chase with dreaming eye the eddying foam;
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest-sheaf
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

A WINTER

SABBATH WALK.

How dazzling white the snowy scene; deep, deep,
The stillness of the winter Sabbath-day,-

Not even a footfall 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 keystone of the churchyard 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 show 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 recompense 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!
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the calm,
The mantled echoes no response return.
But let me now explore the deep sunk dell:
No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs
Still rear the grassy blade of vivid green.
Beware, ye shepherds, of these treacherous haunts,
Nor linger there too long: the wintry day
Soon closes, and full oft a heavier fall,

Heaped by the blast, fills up the sheltered glen.
While gurgling deep below the buried rill
Mines for itself a snow-coved way. Oh! then
Your helpless charge drive from the tempting spot,
And keep them on the bleak hill's stormy side,
Where night-winds sweep the gathering drift away:
So the Great Shepherd leads the heavenly flock
From faithless pleasures full into the storms
Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast,
Until at length the vernal sun looks forth,

Bedimmed with showers; then to the pastures green
He brings them where the quiet waters glide,
The streams of life, the Siloah of the soul.

JAMES BEATTIE,

THE author of the "Minstrel,” and other poems, and of various works in prose, was born in Laurencekirk in 1735, and died in 1803.

Ar the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove:
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,
A hermit his song of the night thus began,
No more with himself or with nature at war,
He thought as a sage, while he felt as a man.

"Ah! why thus abandoned to darkness and wo,
Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
For spring shall return and a lover bestow,
And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
Yet if pity inspire thee, ah, cease not thy lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away—
Full quickly they pass, but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguished, her crescent displays;
But lately I marked, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendor again,
But man's faded glory no change shall renew,
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

""Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more:
mourn, but ye woodlands I mourn not for you,

I

For morn is approaching your charms to restore,
Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew.