"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, But we'll meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine." EDWARD LORD LYTTON. THE SABBATH. FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale, Six days' stern labor shuts the poor This holy respite to the breast, Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, Thy strength thy master's slave must be; The seventh the limbs escape the chain, — A God hath made thee free! The fields that yester-morning knew Thy footsteps as their serf, survey; Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale, So rest, O weary heart!-but, lo, The church-spire, glistening up to heaven, To warn thee where thy thoughts should go Lone through the landscape's solemn rest, Rise, mingling with the sky! When rich and poor, with juster rule, Shall share the altered world. Alas! since time itself began, That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least, One bright republic shall be known; FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play Of flash and shadow stirs like inward life; The ship's white sail glides onward far away, Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. O Thou, the primal fount of life and peace, Who shedd'st thy breathing quiet all around, In me command that pain and conflict cease, And turn to music every jarring sound! How longs each pulse within the weary soul To taste the life of this benignant hour, To be at one with thy untroubled whole, And in itself to know thy hushing Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring-| From the fine acorn the strong forest Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on In finding thee are all things round us Work, thy pillow; thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will! Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping! How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth, in the sea the pearl groweth; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; found; I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale. I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and wellknown tree, And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee. O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, With look of anger, leaps again, And, hastening to each flowery nook, Its distant voice is heard far down the glen. Fair child of art! thy charms decay, Touched by the withered hand of Time; And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime: But on my heart thy cheek of bloom Shall live when Nature's smile has fled; And, rich with memory's sweet perfume, Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense shed. There shalt thou live and wake the glee That echoed on thy native hill; And when, loved flower! I think of thee, My infant feet will seem to seek thee still. THOMAS MILLER. EVENING SONG. How many days with mute adieu Have left no foot-mark there. Come softened by the distant shore; The very flowers are shut and still, And bowed as if in prayer. And in this hushed and breathless close, Now Nature sinks in soft repose, JOHN KEBLE. [1796-1821.] MORNING. O, TIMELY happy, timely wise, New every morning is the love |