So rose and fell This Matin Hymn of warbled notes From throstle, finch and blackbird's throats And in the quiet Morning Hour Of Music, with its wondrous power, So in the East The Angels sang at dead of Night Surrounded by the mystic light, The Morning Stars, at the Creation, 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? The Glory Land, the Home of Rest, The Paradise of all the Blest, The Home Above? Are these the Songs Of Saints, the Anthems of the Free? Which hover round the Jasper Sea? 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 ; When Morning breaks we may Regain And Immortality attain, In very Truth! Thus did I muse, Whilst listening to the birds In early spring; Their music came like sacred words, To weary hearts opprest and low; With pilgrim feet, this vale of woe, I felt their balm ; They spoke to me of hope and God, For those who trial firmly trod. Once more; I knew again There was a future to attain, More 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. IN MEMORIAM. HARK! didst thou hear that solemn knell Nay! no village clock is in this place; It must have been a bell. List, there! I hear it once again! See! groups of people gather round 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, 'Tis forty years or more, ah, me ! How time doth quickly race! He was a young man then, sirs, 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, 'I stood beside his dying bed, 'I looked upon him after Death '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 |