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And through the folding doors, The eye of thought explores Seraphic forms, and phantasies elysian.

These pass like thought away!
Yet may their hallow'd sway

Rest on the heart,-as dew-drops round adorning

The drooping, silent flowers

Feed them through night's dark hours, And keep them fresh and living till the morning.

Thus should the sunset hour, With soul-absorbing power, Nurse by its glories the immortal spirit; And plume its wings for flight To realms of cloudless light, Regions its God hath form'd it to inherit.

Fair, bright, and sweet is MORN!
When daylight, newly born,

In all its beauty is to sense appealing;
Yet EVE to me is fraught

With more unearthly thought, And purer touches of immortal feeling!

EVENING.

ANON.

A CRIMSON glow adorns the western sky; The setting sun looks broad at his decline The star of Evening twinkling, smiles on

high,

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,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield;

Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes, that were angels at their birth,
But died when young like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch;
O'er ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the home-sick mind,
All we have loved and left behind.

And sings, "The hand that made me is Night is the time for care;

divine."

The silent moon begins her journey bright; Across the ether blue, serenely glides; And smiling o'er the gloomy face of night, Sublime in placid majesty she rides.

Religion thus, across this world of care,

Calmly majestic throws her peaceful beam, Bids earth's dull scenes a heavenly aspect wear,

And all creation with fresh beauty teem.

Brooding on hours mispent,
To see the spectre of Despair,
Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host,
Summon'd to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Night is the time to think;
When, from the eye, the soul
Takes flight, and, on the utmost brink
Of yonder starry pole

Discerns beyond the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.

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AND now on earth the seventh

Evening arose in Eden, for the sun
Was set, and twilight from the east came on,
Forerunning night; when at the holy mount
Of heav'n's high-seated top, the imperial
throne

Of Godhead, fixed for ever firm and sure,
The Filial Power arrived, and sat him down
With his great Father; for he also went
Invisible, yet staid, (such privilege
Hath Omnipresence) and the work ordained,
Author and End of all things; and, from
work

Now resting, blessed and hallowed the se

venth day,

As resting on that day from all his work,
But not in silence holy kept; the harp
Had work and rested not; the solemn pipe
And dulcimer, all organs of sweet stop,
All sounds on fret by string or golden wire,
Tempered soft tunings, intermixed with
voice

Choral or unison of incense clouds,
Fuming from golden censers, hid the mount.
Creation and the six-days' act they sing:
"Great are thy works, Jehovah ! infinite
Thy power! What thought can measure

thee, or tongue

Relate thee! Greater now in thy return
Than from the giant angels: thee that day
Thy thunders magnified; but to create
Is greater, than created to destroy."

So sung they, and the empyrean rung With hallelujahs: thus was Sabbath kept.

THE SABBATH.

HERBERT.

O DAY most calm, most bright, The fruit of this, the next world's bud, Th' endorsement of supreme delight, Writ by a friend, and with his blood; The couch of time, care's balm and bay! The week were dark, but for thy light: Thy torch doth shew the way.

The other days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at Heaven with thy brow:
The workie days are the back part;
The burthen of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.

Man hath straight forward gone
To endless death; but thou dost pull
And turn us round to look on One,
Whom, if we were not very dull,
We could but choose to look on still;
Since there is no place so lone,

The which he doth not fill.

Sundays the pillars are,

On which Heaven's palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare

And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
Of God's rich garden: that is bare

Which parts their ranks and orders.

The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on Time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife

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