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Thus, like a calm to stormy path,
May come relief and rest;

But where's the help for him who hath
His burden in his breast?

Is there not ONE of power supreme
To lift the load away?

'T is not the rumour of a dream,
But Truth of heavenly day,
That saith-for holy mercy's sake-
"Come-I will give you rest,—
Will freely and for ever take
The burden from the breast."


PLEASANT the light-the light of morn;
Cheering the smile of day new-born!
Pleasant for peasants, as fair for kings;
Lovely and cheerful like all young things!
Gilding the mountain with more than gold;
Sweeping with silver the ocean old!
Lovely the light-the lustre of morn;
Blessed the beauty of day new-born!

Pleasant the light, when suns set soon,-
Cheering the smile of mild full moon;

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Fringing the cloud with silvery wings;
Cheerful as ought to be all fair things!
Lighting up lovers in lonely vales,
Telling in whispers the old, old tales!
Pleasant the light when the sun sets soon,—
Happy the look of the mild full moon!

Pleasant the light as light of morn,—
Cheering as smile of day new-born,—
The light of knowledge that freedom brings;
The truth that maketh of poor men, kings!
Gilding with lustre of life the sod;
Sweeping with glory the way to God!
Pleasanter much than splendour of morn;
Dearer than beauty of day new-born!


UP! Let us in the light of morn
Ascend the steep of sunny story!
Up! While the fields of full ripe corn
Glow in Autumnal glory!
Up! Let the joy-toned trumpet sound,
Bidding hearts beat with blest emotion;
Let the high hymn of praise profound
Break through the Godhead-hiding bound,
Full as the swell of ocean!

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Tell how the spirit of the Spring
Did, hope-like, near the sower hover,
Singing" The seed thou here dost bring,

Thou surely shalt recover!

Into good hands thou giv'st the grain;

In this way proof of faith is given! Faith finds the Fatherland of gain; Who trust the most, the most obtain

From the full hand of Heaven!"

Tell how the Summer spirit came,
Like a bright minister of beauty;
Warming the fields with words of flame-
Delighted with the duty!

Bidding the sunborn bloom unfold,

In quiet vales, or rude hills hoary; Singing "I come with songs of gold!" Till the fair listening fields—behold,

Have changed from grace to glory!

Away with melancholy rhyme !
Away with dirges sad and solemn !
Rather for the departing time
Rear a triumphal column!

Is it a day for doleful strains,
Because the Summer-day is dying?
What! and when toil reward obtains?
Hark! Plenty on the harvest plains,

Is, "No-oh, no!" replying


DIDST ever go and gather berries blue? Not on the common only, just near home, But on the moors afar, where standing water, Left by the rains in hollows of black earth, Look'd as like ink as snowdrops look like snow. The sun rose early in those days, but we Prevented even him. Ere the grey mist In the low vale had seen a streak of glory, Or the vast bulk of cloud along the hill Had seen the smile of morning; or had heard The first note of the skyward warbler sung; Even, ere then, we wander'd forth afar, Over the hills, to gather moorland fruit, Hoping for cheerful weather, and success. But not for us would always smile the day; For while we gather'd berries blue, the clouds Would gather blackness, and toss out the storm! And were we wretched then? I tell thee, friend, There were not merrier children in the world!

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COME! will you not go where the bilberries grow, On their beautiful bushes of green;

Whose ruby bells smiled, in the desolate wild,

On the far away, moorland scene ?

We are up and away, at the dawn of the day,
Young cottagers moving in scores;

Ere the dawn of the day we are up and away—
Away to the bilberry moors.

With basket and tin, with provision therein,
And light of heart, ready for song;

Like the birds of the air, in our freedom from care,
Right merrily move we along.

Nor future, nor past, bringeth shadow or blast;
And what if the bright call us boors?

We need no police to look after the peace,
As we march to the bilberry moors.

The wealthy man's wall bounded not what we call
The common, and bilberry ground;

His broad-acred lot-nay, we covet it not-
Ye wealthy keep all that ye bound!

But the bilberry blue oweth nothing to you;
It grows for the rich and the poor:

Oh! mean were the might that would question our


To roam on the bilberry moor.

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