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Bright Its his manly sire, the son shall be

In form and soul; but, ah! more blessed than he I

Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last,

Shall soothe his aching heart for all the past—

With many a smile my solitude repay,

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.

'And say, when summoned from the World and thee,
I lay my head beneath the willow tree,
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?
Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour to shed
The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined,
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind;
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love, and all my woe?'

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to chum
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,

Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
Tie mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless tear and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!



How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, bushed
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers
That yester-mom bloomed waving in the breeze;
Sounds the most feast attract the ear ;—the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill,
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him, who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale,

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
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 unwieldly bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed 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 doomed To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground Both seat and board; screened from the winter's cold, And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree; But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy

Of giving thanks to God,—not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered 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.



Man hath a weary pilgrimage,
As through the world he wends;

On every stage from youth to age
Still discontent attends.

With heaviness he casts his eye

Upon the road before,
And still remembers with a sigh

The days that are no more.
To school the little exile goes,

Torn from his mother's arms; What then shall soothe his earliest woes,

When novelty bath lost its charms?

Condemned to suffer through the day
Restraints which no rewards repay,

And cares where love has no concern, Hope lightens as she counts the hours

That hasten his return.
From hard control and tyrant rules,
The unfeeling discipline of schools,'

The child's sad thoughts will roam;
And tears will struggle in his eye,
While he remembers with a sigh

The comforts of his home.

Youth comes: the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind;

Where shall the tired and harassed heart Its consolation find?

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