LESSON XLII.
Sabbath Morning.—PINNEY.
How calm comes on this holy day!
Morning unfolds the eastern sky,
And upward takes her lofty way
Triumphant to her throne on high.
Earth glorious wakes, as o'er her breast
The morning flings her rosy ray,
And blushing from her dreamless rest,
Unveils her to the gaze of day;
So still the scene, each wakeful sound
Seems hallowed music breathing round.
The night-winds to their mountain caves,
The morning mists to heaven's blue steep,
And to their ocean depths, the waves
Are
'Tis tranquil all-around-above—
gone, their holy rest to keep.
The forests far, which bound the scene,
Are peaceful as their Maker's love,
Like hills of everlasting green;
And clouds like earthly barriers stand,
Or bulwarks of some viewless land.
Each tree that lifts its arm in air,
Or hangs its pensive head on high,
Seems bending at its morning prayer,
Or whispering with the hours gone by.
This holy morning, Lord, is thine-
Let silence sanctify thy praise,
Let heaven and earth in love combine,
And morning stars their music raise ;-
For 'tis the day-joy-joy, ye dead,
When death and hell were captive led.
LESSON XLIII.
The Knell of Time.-ANONYMOUS.
HEARD you that knell? It was the knell of Time! And is Time dead? I thought Time never died.
I knew him old, 't is true, and full of years,
And bald, except in front;-but he was strong
As Hercules: I saw him grasp the oak.
It fell the tower, it crumbled;-and the stone,
The sculptured monument, that marked the grave
Of fallen greatness, ceased its pompous strain,
As Time came by. Yes, Time was very strong,
And I had thought, too strong for Death to grapple.
But I remember now, his step was light;
And though he moved at rapid rate, and trod
On adamant, his tread was never heard!
And there was something ghastly in the thought,
That in the silence of the midnight hour,
When all was hushed as death, and not a sound
Crept o'er my chamber's sill, or woke
The echo slumbering there-In such an hour
He trod my chamber, and I heard him not;
And I have held my breath and listened close,
To catch one foot-fall as he glided by;
But not a slumbering sound awoke, or sighed,
And the thought struck me, then, that one, whose steps
Was so much like a spirit's tread, whose acts
Were all so noiseless, like the world unseen,
Would soon be fit for other worlds than this--
Fit for high converse with immortal minds,
Unfettered by the flesh--unchained to earth.
Time's movements! oh how fleet! and yet, how still!
Still as the morning sunbeam, as it kissed
The blushing flower, but shook not e'en the tears
Of Night, the lingering dew drops, from its leaves,
Nor woke the wild bee slumbering in its folds.
On Laying the Corner-Stone of the Monument of Mrs.
Washington.-MRS. SIGOURNEY.
LONG hast thou slept unnoted! Nature stole
In her soft ministry around thy bed,
And spread her vernal coverings, violet-gemmed,
And pearled with dews. She bade bright Summer bring
Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his yellow coronet
Down at thy feet, and stormy Winter speak
Hoarsely of Man's neglect.
But now we come
To do thee homage,-Mother of our Chief!
Fit homage-Such as honoreth him who pays.
Methinks we see thee, as in olden time,—
Simple in garb-majestic and serene—
Unawed by 'pomp and circumstance '—in truth
Inflexible, and with a Spartan zeal
Repressing Vice, and making Folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it Woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth, to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the Summer wave,
Then fleet like the Ephemeron away,-
Building no temple in her children's hearts,
Save to the vanity and pride of life,
Which she had worshipped.
Of the might that clothed
The Pater Patriæ,'—of the deeds that won
A nation's liberty, and earth's applause,
Making Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca haunt
For patriot and for sage, while time shall last,
What part was thine, what thanks to thee are due,
Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought
With no uncertain aim-nursing the germs
Of godlike Virtue in his infant mind,
We know not-Heaven can tell.
Rise, noble pile!
And show a race unborn who rests below,
And say to Mothers, what a holy charge
Is theirs, with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind-
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow
Good seed before the world doth sow its tares,
Nor in their toil decline,—that angel-hands
May put the sickle in, and reap for GoD,
And gather to His garner.
'Ye, who stand, With thrilling breast, and kindling cheek, this morn,
Viewing the tribute that Virginia pays
To the blest Mother of her glorious Chief,
Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son---
What though no dazzling hope aspires to rear
A second WASHINGTON-Or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with your country's tears
Of deathless gratitude,—yet may ye raise
A monument above the Stars-a soul.
Led by your teachings and your prayers to God.
The Sunbeam.-MRS. HEMANS.
THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall;
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope upon land and sea-
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?
Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles—
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles-
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladdened the sailor like words from home.
To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades;
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow,
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.
I looked on the mountains
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brokest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.
I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapped the spot;
But the gleam of THEE on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.
To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed
A tender light on the ruin's head.
Thou tak'st through the dim church aisles thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day;
And its high pale tombs with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.
And thou turn'st not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.
Sunbeam of summer! Oh, what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!
One thing is like thee, to mortals given-
The FAITH, touching all things with hues of heaven.
Christmas in England.-IRVING.
THERE is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holyday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at pres
I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days.
Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holyday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes-as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.
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