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While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.

With dove-like wings peace o'er yon village broods;
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased: all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly man the day of rest enjoys.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day!
On other days the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread lonely; the ground

Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat by neighbouring hedge or tree.
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves:
With those he loves he shares his heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd face and upward earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke,
While, wandering slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its root: and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,

He hopes,-yet fears presumption in the hope,-
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.


A translation from a German poet, named RUNGE, taken from an old number of the Dublin University Magazine.

THERE blooms a beautiful flower; it blooms in a far-off


Its life has a mystic meaning, for few to understand.

Its leaves illumine the valley, its odour scents the wood; And if evil men come near it they grow for the moment


When the winds are tranced in slumber the rays of this luminous flower

Shed glory more than earthly o'er lake and hill and bower; The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, Earth's forsakenest sod, Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills the Heaven of God.

Three kings came once to a hostel, wherein lay the flower

so rare:

A star shone over its roof, and they knelt adoring there. Whenever thou seest a damsel whose young eyes dazzle and win,

O, pray that her heart may cherish this Flower of Flowers within!



WHERE, oh where is hallow'd ground?
Listen where the night-winds sound,
Murmuring through the lonely pile
Of some old cathedral aisle ;
Where, with rainbow colours stain'd,
Moonlight, through the windows rain'd,
Falls upon the marble tomb,

Glimmering starlike through the gloom;
While the silent banner droops,
O'er the sculptured warrior groups;
Here the song of praise hath stirr'd,-
Here the organ peal been heard,—
Here hath waked the voice of prayer,—
Surely hallow'd ground is there.

Yes! and yet not only here ;-
Come unto this churchyard near;
Where the gentle whispering breeze
Softly rustleth through the trees;
Where the moonbeam, pure and white,
Falls in floods of cloudless light,
Bathing many a turfy heap,

Where the lowlier slumberers sleep;
And the graceful willow waves,
Banner-like, o'er nameless graves:
Here hath prayer arisen like dew,—
Here the earth is holy too.
Lightly press each grassy mound;
Surely this is hallow'd ground!
Holy these; yet not alone.

Oft, where neither name or stone
Of the parted keep a trace,
Is a consecrated place;

Oft "the huts where poor men lie"
Have an unseen dignity;-
Oft the halls of stately pride,
Are to holy ground allied.
Many a mountain, many a vale,
Scene of some inspiring tale
Of the olden chivalry,

Seems a sacred spot to be-
Seems to say that hallow'd ground
May in every land be found.

Yes! where mighty names have been,
Link'd unto an earthly scene;-
Where the poet and the sage
Pour'd their hearts upon the page ;-
Where the patriot loved to tread,
Where he found his warrior bed ;-
Where the messengers of God
In a stranger country trod,
Bearing first the tidings high
Of man's glorious destiny;-
Where the martyr's blood sublime
Sow'd heaven's seed for future time ;-
To these spots our hearts are bound,-
Here, indeed, is hallow'd ground!


By Miss MARY ANNE BROWNE, afterwards Mrs. JAMES GRAY.

SEEST thou the rose ?

It springeth from the lowly earth,

It hath a bright and lovely birth,

Where the warm east wind blows

So when God's Spirit breathes may sweet flowers start, Gladdening the low and earthly place, thy heart.

Seest thou the stars?

They shine with pure and heavenly light,
Shedding their radiance on the night,
No mist their glory mars-

So bursting through the clouds that darkly roll,
May the pure day-star rise within thy soul!

May thy young years
Be given to Him who gives thee all;
No doubt disturb, no fear appal;
But all thy spring-time tears
Flow out in gratitude to Him above,

Who draws thy youthful heart with cords of love.

Still be a child,

Even when age its snows shall shed,
And years go dimly o'er thy head-
A daughter reconciled,

As humbly to thy Father's footstool drawn,
As when thou satest there in life's clear dawn.


By WILLIAM ALLINGHAM, a young poet, whose productions are full of promise.

Is he shrunk to name and date
Painted on a coffin plate?

With golden talisman bedecked,
Deep this single man was sheathed
In atmosphere of soft respect
Which all around him breathed.

Well he was served, well attended,
Well becourted, well befriended.
Many labours stopp'd or sped
By the turning of his head;
Many lives toil'd like bees,
To make the honey of his ease.
Round him, centre of the spring,
A coil of constant force was curl'd,
Turning in laborious ring

A little world within the world.
A little mill-world whence, by sleight
Of dragging wheel and nipping notch,
Groaning faintly out of sight

Like the ticking of his watch,
Flow'd his flour, so fine and white.

And leave you him all alone

Beneath a stone,

Now, when comes the twilight cold

Down the bare wold,

And winds are crying to the darken'd foam

When thoughts of glowing rooms and faces,
And the dear domestic graces,

Draw all men home?

On this stone the ragged rooks will meet,
And the gusty rain-storm beat,

And the little grass-mouse will scamper o'er it

To and from her nest in the bield,

And the wide-falling snow will cover it,

With the other stones of the field.

Black rook, white snow, how can they know

This stone has a costly vault below?

Brown mouse, wild rain, 'tis too, too plain,

Won't spare this grave from the common disdain.

Oh, you say, it is not he

You are laying by the sea

Leaving by the sea-side lonely;
'Tis not he his body only.
Darkness is its dwelling fit,

And a stone to cover it.
He, himself, his soul,-you say,
God hath call'd him far away.

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