The Church of England Pastor in the
Country.

But there are spots in which what little cost
The Pastor's hand can proffer is not lost;
Spots where not all the seed his care has thrown
Is trodden, choked, or withered as 'tis sown.
Where Sabbath bells, with sweet and mellow fall,
The willing dwellers of the hamlet call;
And Youth, and Age, and all who sojourn there,
Bend as one family their hearts in prayer;
And in the appointed shepherd of their fold
Each seems a common parent to behold.
There's not a heart within his little reign,
But bears to him its pleasure or its pain:
His lips sweet counsel minister, and give
Life to the Word by which alone we live;
Touch every secret spring that moves the soul,
Confirm, dissuade, soothe, animate, controul;
Turn from its bed the torrent rush of woes,
And gently stem the joy which overflows.
On some bright morning, when the golden Sun
A three hours' course above the hills has run;
And ope'd those eyes which dare not wish for

morn,

And yet, not wishing, fain would have it dawn;
The village Bride,her cheek with blushes spread,
Forth in reluctant willingness is led.
Before her path her virgin fellows strew
Fresh-gathered buds of many-meaning hue;
For Love the Rose; the Lily's spotless white
For Innocence; the Goldeup for Delight;
For Truth, the flower that bids us 'not forget;"
For maiden Modesty, the Violet.
Anon a jocund troop, in gallant trim,
Merry at heart, and light, and lithe of limb,
Comes dancing forward, to the measured sound
Of pipe and tabor, footing its gay round;
And one most joyous mid the brother band,
With ribbons on his hat, and garlands in his hand.
Then to the solemn rite the Priest proceeds,
And feels a Father's pleasure while he reads;
Joins hand in hand, as heart is join'd in heart,
And takes their mutual pledge, 'till Death doth
part.'

And as his lips the enamoured couple bless,
Fain would his eyes the starting tears suppress;
Tears not of sorrow, for the good man smiled,
And his heart whispered, 'Each is as my child.'
Or when the lessening year declines away,
Slow dawns the Sun, and early sinks the day;
When the dank gales of Autumn, subtle thief,
Pilfer the widowed branches, leaf by leaf;
Which point the Poet's moral as they fly,
Man in his generations so must die;
Another rite, perhaps, demands his care,
The last sad offices a friend can share ;
Some grey-hair'd friend, whom, ripen'd for his

Of Life and Immortality, and how
Their Brother, as they hope, reposes now;
Sorrow and mourning flee away, and pain,
And of their loss they think not, but his gain.
By steps like these the saintly Herbert trod,
And to his 'Temple' led the Priest of God.
He from St. Paul the gifts of Grace display'd,
Their power affirm'd, their differing parts ar
ray'd:

How those who ruled, with diligence should sway,
And those who served, with willingness obey;
Give with simplicity, with mercy chide,
Love all, and honest things for all provide.
By steps like these in many a green abode
Still treads the village Priest his holy road;
Labours for bliss above, and tastes below
Such sweets as Life's mixed goblet can bestow

On the Epiphany.

Guided by the wond'rous Star,
Wherefore come the Seers from far?
Wherefore from their spicy store
Present their offerings and adore!
Haste, ye Gentiles, haste and bring
Oblations to your new-born King;
With the sage, in reverend awe,
Round the lowly Manger draw.
Though among the sons of earth,
Mean his parents, rude his birth,
To his rising kings shall come,
Letter'd Greece and mighty Rome.
In Him shall the nations rest;
In Him shall a world be blest;
In Him mercy unconfined
Embrace the whole of human kind.

Hezekiah after Sickness. From Isaiah xxxviil17, &c.

Raise, my harp, the grateful lay;
Pale Disease hath pass'd away;
God, omnipotent to save,
Calls me from the dreary grave.

Not among the silent dead
Are his lofty praises spread;
'Tis the living, who inspire,
Warm with gratitude, the lyre.
From the confines of the tomb
Up to light and life I come:
Children yet unborn shall sing
Of thy mercies, heavenly King.
I, thy hallow'd courts among,
Oft will pour my morning song
Oft my grateful heart shall rise
At the evening sacrifice.

For the Christian Journal. To the Memory of MARY MARTHA, infant Daughter of the Rev. George Upfold. Short was thy pilgrimage on earth, And transient was thy infant bloom; For pain and sickness from thy birth Had mark'd thee for an early tomb. Could one sigh, dear babe, restore thee, E'en that sigh should be repress'd; For sure thou art received in glory, To our kind Redeemer's breast. September 18.