What many a childless one would give, If thou in their still home wouldest live! Though in thy face no family line
Might sweetly say, "This babe is mine !" In time thou wouldest become the same As their own child,-all but the name!
How happy must thy parents be Who daily live in sight of thee! Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, And feel all natural griefs beguiled By thee, their fond, their duteous child. What joy must in their souls have stirred When thy first broken words were heard, Words, that, inspired by Heaven, expressed The transports dancing in thy breast! And for thy smile !-thy lip, cheek, brow, Even while I gaze, are kindling now.
I called thee duteous; am I wrong? No! truth, I feel, is in my song.: Duteous thy heart's still beatings move To God, to Nature, and to Love! To God!-for thou a harmless child Hast kept his temple undefiled: To Nature!--for thy tears and sighs Obey alone her mysteries:
To Love!—for fiends of hate might see Thou dwellest in love, and love in thee ! What wonder then, though in thy dreams Thy face with mystic meaning beams!
Oh! that my spirit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstacy! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years.
Thou smilest as if thy soul were soaring To Heaven, and Heaven's God adoring! And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye? What brighter throne can brightness find To reign on than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy, or error dim, The glory of the Seraphim?
BY JAMES 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
Upon our own delightful bed!
Night is the time for dreams,
The gay romance of life;
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight 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, or 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 in their birth, But perished young like things of earth!
Night is the time to watch,
On ocean's dark expanse, To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.
Night is the time for care; Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul
Takes flight, and, with expanding views, Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night
The dawn of uncreated light.
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away, So will his followers do ;
Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease;
Think of Heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends :-such death be mine!
WHEN night sits on the earth, and tower and town Are sleeping in the sea of silvery light,
That poureth from the moon who gazeth down, Bathing earth's emerald wheels in glory bright;
When e'en the night wind and the restless sea Wander in silence, by the hour spell-bound; When e'en the rustling of the shadowy tree Is hushed—the welkin bringeth forth a sound ;—
It is not in the sea, nor in the air; It is not on the valley, nor the hill ;
There comes no warning from the sepulchre, And yet the wing of silence is not still!
Is it the music of some distant sphere Upon the lonely moonshine clearly borne ? For faintly comes the wild sound on my ear, As when together sung the stars of morn.
I look around-still is each gloomy tree- The waves at rest-the wind's dread flag is furled ; As if, so still the aëry minstrelsy,
It were the day-sounds of another world.
So once the holy bird sang all night long, Till broke the day-star's beam on Bethlehem ; His red uprising stayed the fearful song, Blazing on dewy morning's diadem.
Is it the rushing sound of years to come, Thrown from the bosom of the endless sea, Billows of time, that on the outskirts roam Of the dread ocean of eternity?
THE VOICE OF MIDNIGHT.
Is it the fairy band's unearthly sound? Or spirits whispering in the middle air?
Or swinging chains by which the stars are bound, To guide their golden chariots every where ?
Perchance 'tis Fancy's voice-the sound of dreams, Or the fiend slumbering in the aconite; We may not know-yet to the bard it seems The voice of conscience in the ear of night.
HERE'S TO THEE, MY SCOTTISH LASSIE.
BY THE REV. JOHN MOULTRIE.
HERE'S to thee, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee,
For thine eye so bright, thy form so light, and thy step so firm and free;
For all thine artless elegance, and all thy native grace, For the music of thy mirthful voice, and the sunshine of thy face;
For thy guileless look and speech sincere, yet sweet as speech can be,
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee!
Here's to thee, my Scottish lassie !—though my glow of youth is o'er ;
And I, as once I felt and dreamed, must feel and dream no more;
Though the world, with all its frosts and storms, has chilled my soul at last,
And genius, with the foodful looks of youthful friendship past;
Though my path is dark and lonely, now, o'er this world's dreary sea,—
Here's a health, my Scottish lassie! here's a hearty health to thee !
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