Another day, another dreary day,-
Changeless-for, in these regions of the sun,
The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil,
Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annull'd; for there the trees,
Adorn'd at once with bud, and flower, and fruit,
Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread
And blossoms on the ground. But yet by him,
The hermit of the deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes. 'Tis his great delight.
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think,-that setting sun
Is now impurpling Scotland's mountain tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering th.oat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church;
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full,-where, not without a tear
They are remember'd who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand,
The widow'd hand, that veils the eye suffused;
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive
The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil
Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On winds of cloudless wing ;† though lightnings

burst

So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
In awful alternation: Calm he views
The far exploding firmament, and dares
To hope-one bolt in mercy is reserved
For his release: and yet he is resign'd
To live; because full well he is assured,
Thy hand does lead him, thy right hand upholds.‡
And thy right hand does lead him. Lo! at last,
One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep,
Music remote, swelling at intervals,
As if th' imbodied spirit of such sounds
Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave:
The cadence well he knows,-a hymn of old,
Where sweetly is rehearsed the lowly state
Of Jesus, when his birth was first announced,
In midnight music, by an angel choir,

To Bethlehem's shepherds,§ as they watch'd their flocks.

Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks
It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell.
He looks, and starts to see, moving along,
A fiery wave," (so seems it,) crescent form'd,
Approaching to the land: straightway he sees
A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fill'd sails
That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced
Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world,
Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles
Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again.
Forward the gleam-girt castle coastwise glides;
It seems as it would pass away. To cry
The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain,
Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream:
Not so his hand: he strikes the flint,-a blaze
Mounts from the ready heap of wither'd leaves:
The music ceases, accents harsh succeed,
Harsh, but most grateful: downward drop the
sails;

Ingulf'd the anchor sinks; the boat is launch'd;
But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn:

O then the transport of the man unused
To other human voice besides his own,-
His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home,
Though earth's diameter is interposed.

Of perils of the sea he has no dread,
Full well assured the mission'd bark is safe,
Held in the hollow of th' Almighty's hand.
(And signal thy deliverances have been
Of these thy messengers of peace and joy.)
From storms that loudly threaten to unfix
Islands rock-rooted in the ocean's bed,
Thou dost deliver them,-and from the calm,
More dreadful than the storm, when motionless
Upon the purple deep the vessel lies

For days, for nights, illumed by phosphor lamps;
When sea-birds seem in nests of flame to float
When backward starts the boldest mariner
To see, while o'er the side he leans, his face
As if deep tinged with blood.-

Let worldly men
The cause and combatants contemptuous scorn,
And call fanatics them who hazard health
And life in testifying of the truth,
Who joy and glory in the cross of Christ!
What were the Galilean fishermen
But messengers, commission'd to announce
The resurrection, and the life to come!
They too, though clothed with power of mighty
works

In the tropical regions, the sky during storms is often

without a cloud.

"If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me." Psal. cxxxix.

§ "And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And lo! the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not, for, behold! I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour, who is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you, Ye shall find

But, when their efforts fail'd, unweariedly They onward went, rejoicing in their course.

the babe wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." Luke ii. 8-14.

"In some seas, as particularly about the coast of Malabar, as a ship floats along, it seems during the night to be surrounded with fire, and to leave a long track of light behind it. Whenever the sea is gently agitated, it seems converted into little stars: every drop as it breaks emits light, like bodies electrified in the dark.”—Darwin.

Like helianthus, borne on downy wings

To distant realms, they frequent fell on soils
Barren and thankless; yet oft-times they saw
Their labours crown'd with fruit a hundred fold,
Saw the new converts testify their faith
By works of love, the slave set free, the sick
Attended, prisoners visited, the poor
Received as brothers at the rich man's board.
Alas! how different now the deeds of men
Nursed in the faith of Christ!-The free made slaves!
Torn from their country, borne across the deep,
Enchain'd, endungeon'd, forced by stripes to live,
Doom'd to behold their wives, their little ones,
Tremble beneath the white man's fiend-like frown!
Yet e'en to scenes like these the Sabbath brings
Alleviation of th' enormous wo:-
The oft reiterated stroke is still;

The clotted scourge hangs hardening in the shrouds.
But see, the demon man, whose trade is blood,
With dauntless front convene his ruffian crew
To hear the sacred service read. Accursed,
The wretch's bile-tinged lips profane the word
Of God: Accursed, he ventures to pronounce
The decalogue, nor falters at that law
Wherein 'tis written, Thou shalt do no murder:
Perhaps, while yet the words are on his lips,
He hears a dying mother's parting groan;
He hears her orphan'd child, with lisping plaint,
Attempt to rouse her from the sleep of death.
O England! England! wash thy purpled hands
Of this foul sin, and never dip them more
In guilt so damnable! then lift them up
In supplication to that God, whose name
Is Mercy; then thou mayest, without the risk
Of drawing vengeance from the surcharged clouds,
Implore protection to thy menaced shores ;
Then God will blast the tyrant's arm that grasps
The thunderbolt of ruin o'er thy head:
Then will he turn the wolvish race to prey
Upon each other; then will he arrest
The lava torrent, causing it regorge
Back to its source with fiery desolation.

Of all the murderous trades by mortals plied,
"Tis war alone that never violates
The hallow'd day by simulate respect,―
By hypocritic rest: No, no, the work proceeds.
From sacred pinnacles are hung the flags,†
That give the sign to slip the leash from slaughter.
The bells, whose knoll a holy calmness pour'd
Into the good man's breast,-whose sound solaced
The sick, the poor, the old-perversion dire
Pealing with sulphurous tongues, speak death-
fraught words:

From morn to eve destruction revels frenzied,
Till at the hour when peaceful vesper-chimes
Were wont to soothe the ear, the trumpet sounds
Pursuit and flight altern; and for the song
Of larks, descending to their grass-bower'd homes,
The croak of flesh-gorged ravens, as they slake
Their thirst in hoof-prints fill'd with gore, disturbs
The stupor of the dying man; while death

Sunflower. "The seeds of many plants of this kind are furnished with a plume, by which admirable mechanism they are disseminated far from their parent stem." -Daricin.

Triumphantly sails down th' ensanguined stream, On corses throned, and crown'd with shiver'd boughs, That erst hung imaged in the crystal tide.*

And what the harvest of these bloody fields?
A double weight of fetters to the slave,
And chains on arms that wielded freedom's sword.
Spirit of Tell' and art thou doom'd to see
Thy mountains, that confess'd no other chains
Than what the wintry elements had forged,-
Thy vales, where freedom, and her stern compeer,
Proud, virtuous poverty, their noble state
Maintain'd, amid surrounding threats of wealth,
Of superstition, and tyrannic sway-
Spirit of Tell! and art thou doom'd to see
That land subdued by slavery's basest slaves;
By men, whose lips pronounce the sacred name
Of liberty, then kiss the despot's foot?
Helvetia! hadst thou to thyself been true,
Thy dying sons had triumph'd as they fell:
But 'twas a glorious effort, though in vain.
Aloft thy genius, 'mid the sweeping clouds,
The flag of freedom spread; bright in the storm
The streaming meteor waved, and far it gleam'd:
But, ah! 'twas transient, as the Iris' arch,
Glanced from leviathan's ascending shower,
When 'mid the mountain waves heaving his head.
Already had the friendly-seeming foe
Possess'd the snow piled ramparts of the land:
Down like an avalanche they roll'd, they crush'd
The temple, palace, cottage, every work
Of art and nature, in one common ruin.
The dreadful crash is o'er, and peace ensues,→
The peace of desolation, gloomy, still:
Each day is hush'd as Sabbath; but, alas!
No Sabbath service glads the seventh day!
No more the happy villagers are seen
Winding adown the rock-hewn paths, that wont
To lead their footsteps to the house of prayer;
But, far apart, assembled in the depth
Of solitudes, perhaps a little group
Of aged men, and orphan boys, and maids,
Bereft, list to the breathings of the holy man,
Who spurns an oath of fealty to the power
Of rulers chosen by a tyrant's nod.

No more, as dies the rustling of the breeze,
Is heard the distant vesper hymn; no more
At gloamin hour, the plaintive strain, that links
His country to the Switzer's heart, delights
The loosening team; or if some shepherd boy
Attempt the strain, his voice soon faltering stops;
He feels his country now a foreign land.

O Scotland! canst thou for a moment brook
The mere imagination, that a fate

Like this should e'er be thine! that o'er these hills
And dear-bought vales, whence Wallace, Douglas,
Bruce,

Repell'd proud Edward's multitudinous hordes,
A Gallic foe, that abject race, should rule!
No, no! let never hostile standard touch
Thy shore: rush, rush into the dashing brine,
And crest each wave with steel; and should the
stamp

After a heavy cannonade, the shivered branches of trees, and the corpses of the killed, are seen floating

Of slavery's footstep violate the strand,
Let not the tardy tide efface the mark;
Sweep off the stigma with a sea of blood!
Thrice happy he, who, far in Scottish glen
Retired, (yet ready at his country's call,)
Has left the restless emmet-hill of man:
He never longs to read the saddening tale
Of endless wars; and seldom does he hear
The tale of wo; and ere it reaches him,
Rumour, so loud when new, has died away
Into a whisper, on the memory borne
Of casual traveller:-as on the deep,
Far from the sight of land, when all around
Is waveless calm, the sudden tremulous swell,
That gently heaves the ship, tells, as it rolls,
Of earthquakes dread, and cities overthrown.

O Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales:
But most on Sabbath eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or, when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the gray-hair'd man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field,

To commune with his God in secret prayer,-
To bless the Lord, that in his downward years
His children are about him: Sweet, meantime,
The thrush, that sings upon the aged thorn,
Brings to his view the days of youthful years,
When that same aged thorn was but a bush.
Nor is the contrast between youth and age
To him a painful thought; he joys to think
His journey near a close,-heaven is his home.
More happy far that man, though bowed down,
Though feeble be his gait, and dim his eye,
Than they, the favourites of youth and health,
Of riches, and of fame, who have renounced
The glorious promise of the life to come,
Clinging to death.-

Or mark that female face,
The faded picture of its former self,-
The garments coarse, but clean ;-frequent at church
I've noted such a one, feeble and pale,
Yet standing, with a look of mild content,
Till beckon'd by some kindly hand to sit.
She had seen better days; there was a time
Her hands could earn her bread, and freely give
To those who were in want; but now old age,
And lingering disease, have made her helpless.
Yet she is happy, ay, and she is wise,
(Philosophers may sneer, and pedants frown,)
Although her Bible is her only book;
And she is rich, although her only wealth
Is recollection of a well-spent life-

Is expectation of the life to come.
Examine here, explore the narrow path

In which she walks; look not for virtuous deeds
In history's arena, where the prize
Of fame, or power, prompts to heroic acts.
Peruse the lives themselves of men obscure:-
There charity, that robs itself to give;
There fortitude in sickness, nursed by want;
There courage, that expects no tongue to praise;
There virtue lurks, like purest gold deep hid,
With no alloy of selfish motive mix'd.

The poor man's boon, that stints him of his bread,
Is prized more highly in the sight of Him
Who sees the heart, than golden gifts from hands
That scarce can know their countless treasures
less:*

Yea, the deep sigh that heaves the poor man's breast
To see distress, and feel his willing arm
Palsied by penury, ascends to heaven;
While ponderous bequests of lands and goods
Ne'er rise above their earthly origin.

And should all bounty that is clothed with

power

Be deem'd unworthy ?-Far be such a thought!
E'en when the rich bestow, there are sure tests
Of genuine charity;-Yes, yes, let wealth
Give other alms than silver or than gold,-
Time, trouble, toil, attendance, watchfulness,
Exposure to disease;-yes, let the rich
Be often seen beneath the sick man's roof;
Or cheering, with inquiries from the heart,
And hopes of health, the melancholy range
Of couches in the public wards of wo:
There let them often bless the sick man's bed,
With kind assurances that all is well

At home, that plenty smiles upon the board,-
The while the hand that earn'd the frugal meal
Can hardly raise itself in sign of thanks.
Above all duties, let the rich man search
Into the cause he knoweth not, nor spurn
The suppliant wretch as guilty of a crime.
Ye, bless'd with wealth! (another name for
power

Of doing good,) O would ye but devote
A little portion of each seventh day
To acts of justice to your fellow men!
The house of mourning silently invites:
Shun not the crowded alley; prompt descend
Into the half-sunk cell, darksome and damp;
Nor seem impatient to be gone: Inquire,
Console, instruct, encourage, soothe, assist;
Read, pray, and sing a new song to the Lord;
Make tears of joy down grief-worn furrows flow.

O health! thou sun of life, without whose beam
The fairest scenes of nature seem involved
In darkness, shine upon my dreary path
Once more; or, with thy faintest dawn, give hope,
That I may yet enjoy thy vital ray !
Though transient be the hope, 'twill be most
sweet,

Like midnight music, stealing on the ear,
Then gliding past, and dying slow away.
Music! thou soothing power, thy charm is proved
Most vividly when clouds o'ercast the soul;
So light its loveliest effeet displays

In lowering skies, when through the murky rack
A slanting sunbeam shoots, and instant limns

"And Jesus sat over against the treasury, and beheld how the people cast money into the treasury: and many that were rich cast in much. And there came a certain poor widow, and she threw in two mites, which make a farthing. And he called unto him his disciples, and saith unto them, Verily, I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast more in than all they which have cast into the treasury: For all they did cast in of their abundance, but she of her want did cast in all that she had, even all her living." Mark xii. 41-44.