H

A WINTER SABBATH WALK.

ow 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 key-stone 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!

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

A WINTER SABBATH WALK.

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-covered 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 pastures full into the storms Of life, where long they bear the bitter blast ; Until at length the vernal sun looks down Bedimmed with showers: then to the pastures green He brings them, where the quiet waters glideThe streams of life, the Siloah of the Soul.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS.

HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,

TH

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and

sear.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbits' tread.

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;
But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on

men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and

glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will

come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,

The South Wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.