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So rose and fell

This Matin Hymn of warbled notes

In minstrel lay,
From throstle, finch and blackbird's throats

At Dawn of Day;
And in the quiet Morning Hour

I felt the thrill
Of Music, with its wondrous power,

My being fill.

So in the East
The Angels sang at dead of Night

To shepherd band,
Surrounded by the mystic light,

So must have sung
The Morning Stars, at the Creation,

Telling out abroad,
In glorious exultation,

The majesty of God.

Am I on Earth,
And mid the Orchard's aged trees,

Whose blossoms sweet,
With fragrance fill the whispering breeze ?

Or have I reached
The Glory Land, the Home of Rest,

Of perfect Love,
The Paradise of all the Blest,

The Home Above ?

Are these the Songs Of Saints, the Anthems of the Free ?

The Carols sweet, Which hover round the Jasper Sea ?

Can this be Dawn ? Or is it where Mortality,

The Child of Earth!Is clad with Immortality,

And Second Birth?

Or am I Home, In Innocence and Youth, once more

A prattling Child, That, sportive, plays about the floor?

Has Youth come back ? Can Morning light that Rapture give,

That Springtide Joy ! Which I again would willing live

As when a Boy ?

Nay, such again
Can never be; not here Below

Shall Innocence,
With Youth, a Second Season grow;

But in that Land,
When Morning breaks we may Regain

The germs of Youth; And Immortality attain,

In very Truth!

Thus did I muse,
Whilst listening to the birds

In early spring ;
Their music came like sacred words,

The angels sing
To weary hearts opprest and low ;

Who travel on
With pilgrim feet, this vale of woe,

To rest beyond.

I felt their balm ;
They spoke to me of hope and God,

They told of palm,
For those who trial firmly trod.

My heart revived
Once more ; I knew again
There was a future to attain,

re glorious than the present worth,
More beautiful than aught on earth;
And thus, from creatures of God's hand,
I caught a glimpse of Fatherland.

Composed at Brawby, July 19-22, 1886. During spring in the village of Brawby, its orchards of plums and apples, its fine forest trees, thorn hedgerows, and berry-bearing garden bushes, each coming forth in tender leaves of emerald hue, or blossoms of milky whiteness, form one of the prettiest of rural charms. Add to these the songs of the numerous birds which abound in and around the village, and you have something which at once delights the eye, charms the ear, and raises in the soul thoughts refreshing and profound. Such have been my sensations when thus awaking as described.


HARK ! didst thou hear that solemn knell

From yonder old church tower ? Yea ! but was it not the village clock

Proclaiming forth the hour ?

Nay! no village clock is in this place;

It must have been a bell.
List, there! I hear it once again!

It says 'Farewell, farewell !

See ! groups of people gather round

Yon thatched house mid the trees, Whose variegated foliage

Flies fluttering on the breeze.

Here comes a rural labourer ;

Let's ask him !—who is dead ? Our parson, Mr. Abbey, sir;' Then falt'ringly he said:



• I well remember when a boy,

His coming to this place, 'Tis forty years or more, ah, me !

How time doth quickly race !

He was a young man then, sirs,

Just like my eldest now;
Yet lapse of years full well, sirs,

Made white locks round his brow.

'Aye! like a faded autumn leaf,

Or ripe fruit from a tree,
He, full of years of useful life,

Cast off mortality.

'I stood beside his dying bed,

As fell the shades of night; And heard him say victoriously,

“If death comes all is right !”

I looked upon him after Death

Had worked his sovereign will; And saw him lying there, so calm,

So peaceful, and so still.

Then turning from that darken'd room,

I muttered, “ All is well" ; That poor frail body lying there

Is but the earthly shell.

' His spirit now is with the Lord

He served so faithful here;
So sorrow not, ye sorrowing ones !
Take courage, and good cheer!

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