Sweet is the light of sabbath eve, And soft the sunbeam lingering there; Those sacred hours this low earth leave, Wafted on wings of praise and prayer. This time, how lovely and how still! Peace shines, and smiles on all below ; The plain, the stream, the wood, the hill, All fair with evening's setting glow! Season of rest! the tranquil soul Feels thy sweet calm, and melts in love; And while these sacred moments roll, Faith sees a smiling heaven above. How short the time, how soon the sun And soon the hours of rest are done, Then morrow brings the world again. Yet will our journey not be long, Our pilgrimage will soon be trod; And we shall join the ceaseless song, The endless Sabbath of our God. NIGHT. Montgomery. NIGHT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife; Ah! visions, less beguiling far Than waking dreams by day-light are! Night is the time for toil; To plough the classic field, Its wealthy furrows yield; That poets sang, and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of Memory, where sleep Hopes, that were angels at their birth, But died when young like things of earth. Night is the time to watch; To hail the Pleiades, or catch Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of Despair, Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Night is the time to think; When, from the eye, the soul Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink Discerns beyond the abyss of night Night is the time to pray ; Our Saviour oft withdrew So will his followers do Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign THE DAY OF JUDGMENT. Sir W. Scott. THE day of wrath, that dreadful day, When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, And louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead? Oh! on that day, that wrathful day, HYMN OF NATURE. W. O. Peabody. GOD of the earth's extended plains! Where man might commune with the sky : The tall cliff challenges the storm That lours upon the vale below, Where shaded fountains send their streams, God of the dark and heavy deep! The waves lie sleeping on the sands, Till the fierce trumpet of the storm Hath summon'd up their thundering bands; |