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SUNDAY MORNING.

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers
That yestermorn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear; the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
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.

GRAHAME.

THE PALMETTO.

LIKE the tall palm it shoots its stately head;
From the broad top depending branches spread;
No knotty limbs the taper body bears:
High on each bough a single leaf appears,
Which, shrivelled in its infancy, remains
Like a closed fan, nor stretches wide its veins;

But as the seasons in their circle run,
Opes its ribbed surface to the nearer sun.
Beneath the shade the weary peasant lies,

Plucks the broad leaf, and bids the breezes rise:
Thus artificial zephyrs round him fly,

And mitigate the fever of the sky.

SUMMER EVENING.

How fine has the day been, how bright was the sun,
How lovely and joyful the course he has run,
Though he rose in a mist when his race he begun,
And there followed some droppings of rain!
But now the fair traveller has come to the west,
His rays are all gold, and his beauties are best;
He paints the sky gay as he sinks to his rest,
And foretells a bright rising again.

Just such is the Christian; his course he begins,
Like the sun in a mist, when he mourns for his sins,
And melts into tears; then he breaks out and shines,
And travels his heavenly way :

But when he comes nearer to finish his race,

Like a fine setting sun, he looks richer in grace,
And gives a sure hope, at the end of his days,

Of rising in brighter array.

WATTS.

THE FAITHFULNESS OF GOD IN THE

PROMISES.

BEGIN, my tongue, some heavenly theme,
And speak some boundless thing;
The mighty works, or mightier name,
Of our eternal King.

Tell of His wondrous faithfulness,
And sound His power abroad;
Sing the sweet praises of His grace,
And the performing God.

Proclaim salvation from the Lord,
For wretched, dying men ;
His hand has writ the sacred Word
With an immortal pen.

Engraved as in eternal brass

The mighty promise shines;

Nor can the powers of darkness rase
Those everlasting lines.

He that can dash whole worlds to death,
And make them when He please ;
He speaks, and that almighty breath
Fulfils His great decrees.

His very word of grace is strong

As that which built the skies; The voice that rolls the stars along Speaks all the promises.

He said, "Let the wide heaven be spread,"

And heaven was stretched abroad; "Abram, I'll be thy God," He said, And He was Abram's God.

Oh! might I hear thy heavenly tongue
But whisper, "Thou art mine!"
Those gentle words should raise my song
To notes almost divine.

How would my leaping heart rejoice,

And think my heaven secure!

I trust the all-creating voice,
And faith desires no more.

WATTS.

THE AURORA BOREALIS.

HIGH quivering in the air, as shadows fly,
The Northern Lights adorn the azure sky;
Dimmed by superior blaze the stars retire,
And heaven's vast concave gleams with sportive fire.
Soft blazing in the east, the orange hue,
The crimson, purple, and ethereal blue,
Form a rich arch, by floating clouds upheld,
High poised in air, with awful mystery swelled;
From whose dark centres, with unceasing roll,
Rich coruscations gild the glowing pole.
Their varied hues, slow waving o'er the bay,
Eclipse the splendour of the dawning day;

Streamers, in quick succession o'er the sky, From the arc's centre, far diverging, fly, Pencils of rays, pure as the heaven's own light, Dart swiftly upward to the zenith's height.

THE DAISY.

THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field
In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline.

But this small flower, to nature dear,
While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.

It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on his way,
And twines December's arms.

The purple heath and golden broom
On moory mountains catch the gale;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale:

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