AT A SOLEMN MUSIC.

By MILTON.

BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of heaven's joy,
Sphere-born harmonious sisters, Voice and Verse,
Wed your divine sounds, and mix'd power employ,
Dead things with imbreathed sense able to pierce;
And to our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure concent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colour'd throne
To him that sits thereon,

With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ;
Where the bright seraphim, in burning row,
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand quires,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout and holy psalms

Singing everlastingly;

That we on earth, with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin

Jarr'd against nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made

To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'd
In perfect diapason, whilst they stood

In first obedience, and their state of good.

Oh! may we soon again renew that song,

And keep in tune with Heaven, till God ere long
To his celestial concert us unite,

To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light!

THE DAY OF REST.

This appeared in a recent number of Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. is well entitled to a place here.

REST, rest! it is the Day of Rest-there needs no book to

tell

The truth that every thoughtful eye, each heart can read so

well;

Rest, rest! it is the Sabbath morn, a quiet fills the air, Whose whisper'd voice of peace repeats that rest is every

where.

F

O weary heart! O heart of wo! raise up thy toil-worn

brow;

The fields, the trees, the very breeze-they all are resting

now:

The air is still, there is no sound, save that unceasing hum, That insect song of summer-time that from the woods doth

come.

And even that seems fainter now,
like voices far away,
As though they only sang of rest, and labour'd not to-day;
The hum of bees seems softer, too, from out the clear blue

heaven,

As if the lowliest creatures knew this day for rest was

given.

The spacious tracts of meadow-land, of bean-fields, and of

wheat,

And all the glebe, are undisturb'd by sound of Labour's

feet;

The cotter in his Sunday garb, with peace within his breast, Roams idly by the garden-side, and feels himself at rest.

The streams, the trees, the woods, the breeze, the bird, and roving bee,

Seem all to breathe a softer sound, a holier melody;

Yon little church, too, tells of rest, to all the summer air, For the bell long since has ceased to peal that call'd to praise and prayer.

But while I stand mid these tall elms, a sound comes creeping near,

That falls like music heard in dreams upon my charmed ear; Like music heard in dreams of heaven, that sacred sound

doth steal

From where the old church aisles repeat the organ's solemn

peal.

Now Heaven be praised! a gracious boon is this sweet rest

to me

How many shall this truth repeat to-day on bended knee ! How many a weary heart it cheers, how many an aching

breast:

Now Heaven be praised, a gracious boon is this sweet Day of Rest!

RELIGION OF FLOWERS.

By HERBERT.

How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! ev'n as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late past frosts tribute of pleasure bring.
Grief melts away like snow in May;

As if there were no such cold thing.

Who would have thought my shrivell❜d heart Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone Quite under ground, as flowers depart

To see their mother-root, when they have blown!
Where they, together, all the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

These are Thy wonders, Lord of power!
Killing, and quick'ning, bringing down to hell,
And up to heaven, in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing-bell.
We say amiss, "This, or that, is;"
Thy word is all; if we could spell.

Oh, that I once past changing were;

Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower can wither!
Many a spring I shoot up fair,

Offering at heaven, growing and groaning thither :
Nor doth my flower want a spring shower;
My sins and I joining together.

But, while I grow in a straight line

Still upwards bent, as if heaven were mine own, Thy anger comes, and I decline.

What frost to that? What pole is not the zone
Where all things burn, when thou dost turn,
And the least frown of thine is shown?

And now in age I bud again:
After so many deaths I live and write:
I once more smell the dew and rain;
And relish versing. O my only light,
It cannot be that I am he,

On whom thy tempest fell all night!

These are thy wonders, Lord of love!
To make us see we are but flowers that glide.
Which when we once can find and prove,
Thou hast a garden for us where to bide;
Who would be more, swelling through store,
Forfeit their Paradise by their pride.

ST. JAMES'S DAY.

From KEBLE's Christian Year.

"Ye shall drink indeed of My cup, and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with: but to sit on My right hand, and on My left, is not Mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of My Father."-St. Matthew xx. 23.

SIT down and take thy fill of joy

At God's right hand, a bidden guest,
Drink of the cup that cannot cloy,
Eat of the bread that cannot waste.
O great Apostle! rightly now

Thou readest all thy Saviour meant,
What time His grave yet gentle brow
In sweet reproof on thee was bent.

"Seek ye to sit enthroned by Me?
Alas! ye know not what ye ask,
The first in shame and agony,

The lowest in the meanest task

This can ye be? and can ye drink

The cup that I in tears must steep,
Nor from the whelming waters shrink
That o'er Me roll so dark and deep?"

"We can-Thine are we, dearest Lord,
In glory and in agony,

To do and suffer all Thy word;
Only be Thou for ever nigh.'
"Then be it so-My cup receive,
And of my woes baptismal taste:
But for the crown, that angels weave
For those next me in glory placed,

"I give it not by partial love;

But in my Father's book are writ
What names on earth shall lowliest prove,
That they in Heaven may highest sit."
Take up the lesson, O my heart ;

Thou Lord of meekness, write it there,
Thine own meek self to me impart,
Thy lofty hope, Thy lowly prayer.

If ever on the mount with Thee

I seem to soar in vision bright, With thoughts of coming agony

Stay Thou the too presumptuous flight: Gently along the vale of tears

Lead me from Tabor's sunbright steep, Let me not grudge a few short years

With Thee toward Heaven to walk and weep:

Too happy, on my silent path,

If now and then allow'd, with Thee
Watching some placid holy death,
Thy secret work of love to see;
But oh, most happy, should Thy call,
Thy welcome call, at last be given—
"Come where thou long hast stored thy all,
Come see thy place prepared in Heaven."

ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY.
By Mrs. SIGOURNEY.

Lost ! lost ! lost !

A gem of countless price,
Cut from the living rock,
And graved in Paradise;
Set round with three times eight
Large diamonds, clear and bright,
And each with sixty smaller ones,
All changeful as the light.

Lost-where the thoughtless throng
In Fashion's mazes wind,
Where trilleth Folly's song,
Leaving a sting behind;