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Shall change the night of ages into day.

God speed ye on your way!

In closet and in hall

Too long alone your message hath been spoken:
The spell of gold that bound ye there is broken;
Go forth, and shine on all!

The world's inheritance, the legacy
Bequeath'd by Genius to the race are ye:
Be like the sunlight-free!

A mighty power ye wield!

Ye wake dim centuries from their deep repose,
The spoils of time to yield.

Ye hold the gift of immortality:

Bard, sage, and seer, whose fame shall never die

Live through your ministry.

Noiseless upon your path,

Freighted with love, romance, and song, ye speed, Moving the world in custom and in creed,

Waking its love or wrath.

Tyrants that blanch not on the battle plain
Quail at your silent coming, and in vain

Would bind the riven chain.

Shrines that embalm great souls,
Where yet the illustrious dead high converse hold,
As God's spake through their oracles of old!
Upon your mystic scrolls

There lives a spell to guide our destiny—
The fire by night, the pillar'd cloud by day,
Upon our upward way.

THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.

BY BAPTIST NOEL.

There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot;
To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot;
The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs,
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings:
"Rattle his bones over the stones;
He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!"

Oh, where are the mourners? alas! there are none;
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone;
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man.
To the grave with his carcase as fast as you can :
"Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !" What a jolting and creaking, and splashing and din The whip how it cracks! and the wheels how they spin!

How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! "Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!" Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! He is taking a drive in his carriage at last; But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast : "" Rattle his bones over the stones;

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns !" You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid,

And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go. "Rattle his bones over the stones :

He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns!" But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad To think that a heart in humanity clad, Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend! Bear soft his bones over the stones;

Tho' a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet

owns!

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER.

PY WILLIAM BLAKE.

When my mother died, I was very young,
And my father sold me, while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, " weep! weep! weep! weep!"
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved; so I
said

Hush Tom! never mind it; for when your head's bare,

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.

And so he was quiet; and that very night
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight,
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and
Jack,

Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,
And wash in a river and shine in the sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and

warm;

So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

THE POOR MAN'S DAY.

BY EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

"Hail Sabbath! thee I hail, the Poor Man's Day!"-GRAHAM.

Sabbath holy! To the lowly

Still thou art a welcome day:

When thou comest, earth and ocean, Shade and brightness, rest and motion, Help the poor man's heart to pray.

Sun-waked forest,

Bird that soarest

O'er the mute empurpled moor,

Throstle's song that stream-like flowest, Wind that over dew-drop goest, Welcome now the wo-worn poor.

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 blest 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.

From the fever

Idle never,

Where, on Hope, Want bars the door;From the gloom of airless alleys, Lead thou to green hills and valleys Plundered England's trampled poor.

Pale young mother,-
Gasping brother,-

Sisters toiling in despair,

Grief-bowed sire, that life-long diest,White-lipped child that sleeping sighest,— Come and drink the light and air!

Fyrants curse ye,

While they nurse ye,

Life for deadliest wrongs to pay;
Yet, O Sabbath! bringing gladness
Unto hearts of weary sadness,
Still thou art the Poor Man's Day,

Sabbath's Father! Would'st thou rather Some would curse than all be blessed? If thou hate not fruit and blossom, To the oppressor's godless bosom Bring the Poor Man's Day of Rest,—

With its healing,

With his feeling,

With his humble trustful bliss.

With the poor man's honest kindness Bless the rich man's heart of blindness, Teach him what Religion is!

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

BY DR. CHATFIELD.

Man can build nothing worthy of his Maker:
From royal Solomon's stupendous fane
Down to the humble chapel of the Quaker,
All, all are vain.

The wond'rous world, which He himself created,
Is the fit temple of Creation's lord;
There may his worship best be celebrated,
And praises poured.

Its altar, earth; its roof, the sky untainted;

Sun, moon, and stars, the lamps that give it light; And clouds, by the celestial artist painted,

Its pictures bright;

Its choir, all vocal things, whose glad devotion
In one united hymn is heaven-ward sped;
The thunder-peal, the winds, the deep-mouthed ocean,
Its organ dread;

The face of Nature its God-written Bible,
Which all mankind may study and explore,
While none can wrest, interpolate, or libel
Its living lore.

Hence learn we that our Maker-whose affection
Knows no distinction, suffers no recall-
Sheds His impartial favour and protection
Alike on all.

Thus by Divine example do we gather

That every race should love alike all others;
Christian, Jew, Pagan, children of one father-
All, all are brothers.

O, thou most visible, but unseen teacher,
Whose finger writes its lessons on our sphere!
O, thou most audible, but unheard preacher,
Whose sermons clear

Are seen and read in all that thou performest,
Wilt thou look down and bless, if when I kneel
Apart from man-built fanes, I feel the warmest
And purest zeal?

If in the temple Thine own hand hath fashioned,
'Neath the bright sky, by lonely stream or wood,
I pour to Thee, with willing heart impassion'd,
My gratitude-

If, fearing Thee, I love thy whole creation,
Keeping my bosom undefiled by guilt,
Wilt thou receive and bless mine adoration?
Thou wilt! Thou wilt!

THE SNOW-STORM.

BY PROFESSOR WILSON.

found work among the distant farms, and at night returned to dwellings which were rent-free, with their little garden won from the waste. But one family after another had dwindled away, and the turf-built huts had all fallen into ruins, except one that had always stood in the centre of this little solitary village, with its summer walls covered with the richest honey-suckles, and in the midst of the brightest of all the gardens. It alone now sent up

In summer there is beauty in the wildest moors of Scotland, and the wayfaring man who sits down for an hour's rest beside some little spring that flows unheard through the brightened moss and water-cresses, feels his weary heart revived by the silent, serene, and solitary prospect. On every side sweet sunny spots of verdure smile towards him from among the melancholy heather-unexpectedly its smoke into the clear winter sky-and its little in the solitude a stray sheep, it may be with its lamb, starts half alarmed at his motionless figure-insects large, bright, and beautiful, come careering by him through the desert air-nor does the Wild want its own songsters, the gray linnet, fond of the blooming furze, and now and then the lark mounting up to Heaven above the summits of the green pastoral hills. During such a sunshiny hour, the lonely cottage on the waste seems to stand in a paradise; and as he rises to pursue his journey, the traveller looks back and blesses it with a mingled emotion of delight and envy. There, thinks he, abide the children of Innocence and Contentment, the two most benign spirits that watch over human life.

But other thoughts arise in the mind of him who may chance to journey through the same scene in the desolation of winter. The cold bleak sky girdles the moor as with a belt of ice-life is frozen in air and on earth. The silence is not of repose but extinction and should a solitary human dwelling catch his eye half-buried in the snow, he is sad for the sake of them whose destiny it is to abide far from the cheerful haunts of men, shrouded up in melancholy, by poverty held in thrall, or pining away in unvisited and untended disease.

But, in good truth, the heart of human life is but imperfectly discovered from its countenance; and before we can know what the summer, or what the winter yields for enjoyment or trial to our country's peasantry, we must have conversed with them in their fields and by their firesides; and made ourselves acquainted with the powerful ministry of the seasons, not over those objects alone that feed the eye and the imagination, but over all the incidents, occupations, and events, that modify or constitute the existence of the poor.

I have a short and simple story to tell of the winter life of the moorland cottager-a story but of one evening-with few events and no signal catastrophe-but which may haply please those hearts whose delight it is to think on the humble under-plots that are carrying on in the great Drama of Life.

Two cottagers, husband and wife, were sitting by their cheerful peat-fire one winter evening, in a small lonely hut on the edge of a wide moor, at some miles distance from any other habitation. There had been, at one time, several huts of the same kind erected close together, and inhabited by families of the poorest class of day-laboures, who

end window, now lighted up, was the only ground star that shone towards the belated traveller, if any such ventured to cross, on a winter night, a scene so dreary and desolate. The affairs of the small household were all arranged for the night. The little rough poney that had drawn in a sledge, from the heart of the Black-Moss, the fuel by whose blaze the cotters were now sitting cheerily, and the little Highland cow, whose milk enabled them to live, were standing amicably together, under cover of a rude shed, of which one side was formed by the peat-stack, and which was at once byre, and stable, and hen-roast. Within, the clock ticked cheerfully as the fire-light reached its old oak-wood case across the yellow-sanded floor-and a small round table stood between, covered with a snow-white cloth, on which were milk and oat-cakes, the morning, midday, and evening meal of these frugal and contented cotters. The spades and the mattocks of the labourer were collected into one corner, and showed that the succeeding day was the blessed Sabbath-while on the wooden chimney piece was seen lying an open Bible ready for family worship.

The father and the mother were sitting together without opening their lips, but with their hearts overflowing with happiness, for on this Saturdaynight they were, every minute, expecting to hear at the latch the hand of their only daughter, a maiden of about fifteen years, who was at service with a farmer over the hills. This dutiful child was, as they knew, to bring home to them "her sair-worn penny fee," a pittance which, in the beauty of her girlhood, she earned singing at her work, and which in the benignity of that sinless time, she would pour with tears into the bosoms she so dearly loved. Forty shillings a year were all the wages of sweet Hannah Lee-but though she wore at her labour a tortoise shell comb in her auburn hair, and though in the kirk none were more becomingly arrayed than she, one half, at least, of her earnings were to be reserved for the holiest of all purposes, and her kind innocent heart was gladdened when she looked on the little purse that was, on the long-expected Saturday-night, to be taken from her bosom, and put, with a blessing, into the hand of her father, now growing old at his daily toils.

Of such a child the happy cotters were thinking in their silence. And well indeed might they be called happy. It is at that sweet season that filial piety

is most beautiful. Their own Hannah had just out- | But have you not seen, husband, that God always grown the mere unthinking gladness of childhood, makes the orphan happy? None so little lonesome but had not yet reached that time, when inevitable selfishness mixes with the pure current of love. She had begun to think on what her affectionate heart had left so long; and when she looked on the pale face and bending frame of her mother, on the deepening wrinkles and whitening hairs of her father, often would she lie weeping for their sakes on her midnight bed-and wish that she were beside them as they slept, that she might kneel down and kiss them, and mention their names over and over again in her prayer. The parents whom before she had only loved, her expanding heart now also venerated. With gushing tenderness was now mingled a holy fear and an awful reverence. She had discerned the relation in which she, an only child, stood to her poor parents, now that they were getting old, and there was not a passage in Scripture that spake of parents or of children, from Joseph sold into slavery, to Mary weeping below the Cross, that was not written, never to be obliterated, on her uncorrupted heart.

The father rose from his seat, and went to the door, to look out into the night. The stars were in thousands-and the full moon was risen. It was almost light as day, and the snow, that seemed encrusted with diamonds, was so hardened by the frost, that his daughter's homeward feet would leave no mark on its surface. He had been toiling all day among the distant Castle-woods, and, stiff and wearied as he now was, he was almost tempted to go to meet his child—but his wife's kind voice dissuaded him, and returning to the fireside, they began to talk of her, whose image had been so long passing before them in their silence.

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as they! They come to make friends o' all the bonny and sweet things in the world, around them, and all the kind hearts in the world make o' them. They come to know that God is more especially the Father o' them on earth whose parents he has taken up to heaven- and therefore it is that they, for whom so many have fears, fear not at all for themselves, but go dancing and singing along like children whose parents are both alive! Would it not be so with our dear Hannah? So douce and thoughtful a child-but never sad nor miserableready, it is true, to shed tears for little, but as ready to dry them up and break out into smiles!-I know not why it is, husband, but this night my heart warms towards her beyond usual. The moon and stars are at this moment looking down upon her, and she looking up to them, as she is glinting homewards over the snow. I wish she were but here, and taking the combout o' her bonny hair and letting it fall down in clusters before the fire, to melt away the cranreuch."

While the parents were thus speaking of their daughter, a loud sugh of wind came suddenly over the cottage, and the leafless ash tree, under whose shelter it stood, creaked and groaned dismally as it passed by. The father started up, and going again to the door, saw that a sudden change had come over the face of the night. The moon had nearly disappeared, and was just visible in a dim, yellow, glimmering den in the sky. All the remote stars were obscured, and only one or two faintly seemed in a sky that half an hour before was perfectly cloudless, but that was now driving with rack, and mist, and sleet, the whole atmosphere being in commotion. He stood for a single moment to observe the direction of this unforeseen storm, and then hastily asked for his staff. "I thought I had been more weather-wise.-A storm is coming down from the Cairnbraehawse, and we shall have nothing but a wild night." He then whistled on his dog-an old sheep-dog, too old for his former labors-and set off to meet his daughter-who might then, for ought he knew, be crossing the Black-moss. The mother accompanied her husband to the door, and took a long frightened look at the angry sky. As she kept gaz

She is growing up to be a bonny lassie," said the mother; her long and weary attendance on me during my fever last spring, kept her down awhile-but now she is sprouting fast and fair as a lily, and may the blessing of God be as dew and as sunshine to our sweet flower all the days she bloometh upon this earth." Ay, Agnes," replied the father, we are not very old yet-though we are getting older-and a few years will bring her to woman's estate, and what thing on this earth, think ye, human or brute, would ever think of injuring|ing, it became still more terrible. The last shred her? Why, I was speaking about her yesterday to the minister as he was riding by, and he told me that none answered at the examination in the Kirk so well as Hannah. Poor thing-I well think she has all the Bible by heart-indeed, she has read but little else only some stories,-too true ones, of the blessed martyrs, and some o' the auld songs o' Scotland, in which there is nothing but what is good, and which, to be sure, she sings, God bless her, sweeter than any laverock." Ay-were we both to die this very night she would be happy. Not that she would forget us all the days of her life.

of blue was extinguished-the wind went whirling in roaring eddies, and great flakes of snow circled about in the middle air, whether drifted up from the ground, or driven down from the clouds, the fearstricken mother knew fot, but she at last knew, that it seemed a night of danger, despair, and death. "Lord have mercy on us, James, what will become of our poor bairn!" But her husband heard not her words, for he was already out of sight in the snowstorm, and she was left to the terror of her own soul in that lonesome cottage.

Little Hannah Lee had left her master's house,

1

soon as the rim of the great moon was seen by her
eyes, that had been long anxiously watching it from
the window, rising, like a joyful dream, over the
gloomy mountain tops; and all by herself she trip-
ped along beneath the beauty of the silent heaven.
Still as she kept ascending and descending the knolls
that lay in the bosom of the glen, she sung to her-
self a song, a hymn, or a psalm, without the accom-
paniment of the streams, now all silent in the frost;
and ever and anon she stopped to try to count the
stars that lay in some more beautiful part of the sky,
or gazed on the constellations that she knew, and
called them in her joy, by the names they bore
among the shepherds. There were none to hear her
voice, or see her smiles, but the ear and eye of Pro-
vidence. As on she glided, and took her looks from
heaven, she saw her own little fireside-her parents
waiting for her arrival-the Bible opened for wor-
ship-her own little room kept so neatly for her,
with its mirror hanging by the window, in which to
braid her hair by the morning light-her bed pre-
pared for her by her mother's hand-the primroses
in the garden peeping through the snow-old Tray,
who ever welcomed her home with his dim white
eyes-the poney and the cow; friends all, and in-away to be buried in the kirk-yard.
mates of that happy household. So stepped she
along, while the snow diamonds glittered around
her feet, and the frost wove a wreath of lucid pearls
round her forehead.

others' sorrow. At last she could no longer dis-
cern a single mark on the snow, either of human
steps, or of sheep-track, or the foot-print of a wild
fowl. Suddenly, too, she felt out of breath and ex-
hausted,—and shedding tears for herself at last, sank
down in the snow.

It was now that her heart began to quake with fear.
She remembered stories of shepherds lost in the
snow,-of a mother and child frozen to death on
that very moor,-and, in a moment, she knew that
she was to die. Bitterly did the poor child weep,
for death was terrible to her, who, though poor, en-
joyed the bright little world of youth and innocence.
The skies of heaven were dearer than she knew to
her, so were the flowers of earth. She had been
happy at her work,-happy in her sleep,—happy in
the kirk on Sabbath. A thousand thoughts had the
solitary child,-and in her own heart was a spring
of happiness, pure and undisturbed as any fount that
sparkles unseen all the year through in some quiet
nook among the pastoral hills. But now there was
to be an end of all this,-she was to be frozen to
death-and lie there till the thaw might come; and
then her father would find her body, and carry it

The tears were frozen on her cheeks as soon as shed,- and scarcely had her little hands strength to clasp themselves together, as the thought of an overruling and merciful Lord came across her heart. Then, indeed, the fears of this religious child were calmed, and she heard without terror the plover's wailing cry, and the deep boom of the bittern sound

And drawing her plaid more closely around her, she
"Our
whispered, beneath its ineffectual cover:
Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,-
thy kingdom come,-thy will be done on earth as it
is in Heaven." Had human aid been within fifty
yards, it could have been of no avail-eye could not
see her-ear could not hear her in that howling dark-

But that low prayer was heard in the centre
of eternity,-and that little sinless child was lying
in the snow, beneath the all-seeing eye of God.

She had now reached the edge of the Black-moss, which lay half way between ler master's and her father's dwelling, when she heard a loud noise coming down Glen-Scrae, and in a few seconds she felting in the moss. "I will repeat the Lord's Prayer." on her face some flakes of snow. She looked up the glen, and saw the snow-storm coming down, fast as a flood. She felt no fears; but she ceased her song; and had there been a human eye to look upon her there, it might have seen a shadow on her face. She continued her course, and felt bolder and bolder every step that brought her nearer to her parent's house. But the snow storm had now reached the Black-ness. moss, and the broad line of light that had lain in the direction of her home, was soon swallowed up, and the child was in utter darkness. She saw nothing The maiden having prayed to her Father in Heabut the flakes of snow, interminably intermingled, ven-then thought of her father on earth. Alas! and furiously wafted in the air, close to her head; they were not far separated! The father was lying she heard nothing but one wild, fierce, fitful howl. but a short distance from his child; he too had sunk The cold became intense, and her little feet and down in the drifting snow, after having, in less than hands were fast being benumbed into insensibility. an hour, exhausted all the strength of fear, pity, hope, "It is a fearful change," muttered the child to her- despair, and resignation, that could rise in a father's self; but still she did not fear, for she had been born heart blindly seeking to rescue his only child from in a moorland cottage, and lived all her days among death, thinking that one desperate exertion might What will become of enable them to perish in each other's arms. There the hardships of the hills. the poor sheep!" thought she,-but still she scarce- they lay, within a stone's throw of each other, while ly thought of her own danger, for innocence, and a huge snow drift was every moment piling itself youth, and joy, are slow to think of aught evil be. up into a more insurmountable barrier between the falling themselves, and thinking benignly of all liv-dying parent and his dying child.

ing things, forget their own fear in their pity for

There was all this while a blazing fire in the cot

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