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Little river,

Young for ever!

Cloud, gold-bright with thankful glee!
Happy woodbine, gladly weeping!
Gnat, within the wild rose keeping!
Oh, that they were bless'd as ye!

Sabbath holy!
For the lowly

Paint with flowers thy glittering sod;
For affliction's sons and daughters,
Bid thy mountains, woods and waters,
Pray to God, the poor man's God!


young mother! Gasping brother!

Sister, toiling in despair!
Grief-bow'd sire, that life-long diest!
White-lipp'd child, that sleeping sighest!
Come, and drink the light and air.

Still God liveth;
Still he giveth

What no law can take away;

And, oh, Sabbath! bringing gladness
Unto hearts of weary sadness,

Still art thou "The Poor Man's Day!"


From a volume of Poems by JAMES HEDDERWICK, published at Glasgow in 1844.

"Hinder him not; he preacheth too."-Jean Paul Richter.

No, no, to hinder him would be a sin,
Let him come freely in!

He bears with him a silent eloquence
To charm each finer sense;

A little living miracle he seems,

Come down on the sun's beams,

To preach of nature's gladness all day long!

Chief of the insect throng

Tiny patrician, on whose bannery wings
Are bright emblazonings!-

My mind doth image thee a radiant flower
Upflown in gladdest hour;

Or a small twinkling star from distant sphere
Let loose and fluttering here!

Whate'er thou art thou need'st not fear annoy-
Welcome, thou little joy!

Yet why beneath this roof disport thyself,
Mysterious, wayward elf?

Proclaim thy mission! Dost thou come to tell
Of spangled mead and dell—

Of the rich clover-beds, of humming bees,
And high o'erarching trees?

Thou seem'st the very colours to have sipp'd

From wild flowers rosy-lipp'd;

Hast thou, then, left them pale ? and com'st thou here,

In penitence and fear?

Or art thou-sacred thought! a spirit come

To worship 'neath this dome

A soul still laden with an earthly love,

Finding no rest above?

Or art thou but a wild inconstant thing
Heedless where wends thy wing?

Ah, garish creature! thou art now astray,

And fain would'st be away!

Had'st thou a tongue, I know thou'dst ask where dwell

The flowers thou lov'st so well,

Whose little fragrant chalices are fill'd

With dew-drops fresh distill'd?

I know thou'dst ask where shines the blessed sun,

And where the small brooks run?

This is no place, no temple meet for thee—

Away, thou should'st be free!

Go, like a child's thought, to the sunny air!
Be thou a preacher there!

Preach mid the congregation of the flowers,
Through summer's fleeting hours-
Thyself a living witness of His might
gave thee to the light!


From the Amulet for 1830, one of the extinct Annuals, there stated to be by EDWARD W. Cox, Author of the Opening of the Sixth Seal, &c

THERE was a cry in Egypt, and the voice
Of wailing, and the audible throb of fear
Came floating on the sluggish wings of night,
Rending the pall of darkness, and afar
Waking the drowsy echoes from their sleep
In the dim distant mountains, and the caves
Sent back the sound. The lonely traveller,
With eye imploring, on the heaven, in vain,
Gazed in mute awe, seeking some welcome star,-
In vain ; the sentinels of the night had veild
Their silent watch-fires, and the crescent moon
Had flung a misty mantle o'er her charms;
No solitary light-ray through the sky,
Hope beaming, stream'd benignantly, the gloom
Gilding with golden light,-save when at times
A meteor fled athwart the firmament,
And, having brightly beam'd a moment there,
Perish'd in deeper darkness.

Some there were
Who whisper'd of an angel form that waved
A fiery sword, and the blue lightning flash
Came as he waved, and thunders from afar
Peal’d sullenly ;-and scatter'd rain-drops, huge,
Heavy and chill, commingled oft with hail,
Fell from the embattled clouds, that snatch'd the hues
Of the angelic messenger, to paint
Their rugged brows, and all the heaven glared out
With an unnatural splendour, and a glow
That was most fearful;—then a cry went up
From every city, palace, hamlet, cot,
Wherever was man's habitation, came
A direful


that went to heaven, and rocked
The mountainous clouds, and in their fiery vault
Unnumber'd echoes caught the cry, and back,
With mingled thunders hurl'd it to the earth.
The vulture from his rock-built

then Screaming uprose, and through the gloom soar'd he,


Hailing his prey from far; the hyena heard,
Where in the desert sands he roving kept
His wonted vigils, and more nigh dared then
To seek the city, and await his feast.
The sleeper woke astonish'd, and in fear
Upstarting, smote his breast-and seem'd to doubt
If it were not a hideous dream-and dread
Of ills impending came upon them all.

Yet there were some who still unconscious slept,
And whom the cry woke not Why slumber'd they
So heavily?-And some there were who stirr'd
As they would burst the bonds of sleep, and then
Were still again. Why did not they arise
To look upon the horror of the night?
Weak age and helpless infancy arose,

Yet were there some-the young-the beautiful-
Yet were there some-the good-the pure—the bright-
Youth promise into manhood blooming-fair
And gentle virgins in their innocence-

Babes on the mother's bosom-who lay then
Unconscious of the cry that rose around.
There in their several homes they sweetly slept,
Fearless and motionless, nor wept nor wail'd,—
In the tranquillity of rest slept they.

In sooth, 'twas passing strange, that they alone
Slumber'd when others waked; and, yet more strange,
It was the first-born-the fond father's hope-
The mother's dearest one, in every house,
That open'd not its eyes upon the night;
In sooth, 'twas passing strange.

But morn at length,

O'er the black turrets of the mountainous clouds
Sullenly climbing look'd upon the earth,
Cheerless and sunless; yet with pleasure hail'd,
And hope, by the sad watchers of the night,
Who long with straining eyes in the eastern heaven
Had watch'd her coming, though protracted long,-
So sluggish Time flies over misery.

At length she came, and pallid cheeks look'd up
And wore a hollow smile-and sunken eyes
Gazed round in vain for those they loved, and saw
That they were not with them.

" It must be so ; They slumber still.”

Then sought they the lone couch,
And look'd upon the sleepers ; they were pale
But they that look'd on them were paler still,
There was no other change, for tranquilly
Reclined they on the pillow, motionless.
“How sweetly sleep they!”

Then did love incline
To kiss the cheek it loved ; but as it met
The unconscious lip, back started it, and cried-
And straightway one great cry again went up
From all the land of Egypt, for that sleep
Was the cold sleep of death.

By LONGFELLOW, an American Poet.
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past

The forms that once have been.

The Past and Present here unite

Beneath Time's flowing tide, Like footprints hidden by a brook,

But seen on either side.

Here runs the highway to the town;
There the


lane descends, Through which I walk to church with thee O gentlest of my


The shadow of the linden trees
Lay moving on the

grass ;
Between them and the moving boughs,
A shad

thou didst pass.

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