noon,

Not marked till missed, so soft it fades, and

soon;
Whatever else the fond inventive skill
Of fancy may suggest cannot supply
Fit semblance of the sleeping life of infancy.
Calm art thou as the blessed Sabbath eve, -
The blessed Sabbath eve when thou wast
born,

Yet sprightly as a summer Sabbath morn,
When surely 't were a thing unmeet to grieve;
When ribbons gay the village maids adorn,
And Sabbath music, on the swelling gales,
Floats to the farthest nooks of winding vales,
And summons all the beauty of the dales,
Fit music this a stranger to receive;
And, lovely child, it rung to welcome thee,
Announcing thy approach with gladsome
minstrelsy.

A star reflected in a dimpling rill
That moves so slow it hardly moves at all;
The shadow of a white-robed waterfall,
Seen in the lake beneath when all is still ;
A wandering cloud, that with its fleecy pall
Whitens the lustre of an autumn moon;
A sudden breeze that cools the cheek of The course of their majestical advance,

In the long cycles that the years have run,

So be thy life, a gentle Sabbath, pure From worthless strivings of the work-day earth;

May time make good the omen of thy birth, Nor worldly care thy growing thoughts immure,

Nor hard-eyed thrift usurp the throne of mirth
On thy smooth brow. And though fast-
coming years

Must bring their fated dower of maiden fears,
Of timid blushes, sighs, and fertile tears,
Soft sorrow's sweetest offspring, and her

cure;

May every day of thine be good and holy, And thy worst woe a pensive Sabbath melancholy!

A SUNDAY CHRISTMAS.

WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS DAY, 1853, WHICH FELL UPON

THE SABBATH.

HARTLEY COLERIDGE.

PAUL HAMILTON HAVNE, a Southern poet of distinction, was born at Charleston, SC, Jan. 1, 1831. He has published several volumes of verse, and a new one is about to be issued.

MYSTERY of mysteries! on this holy morn,
The Prince of an eternal realm of love,
The Godhead veiled, in lowliest guise was
born,

While the far heavenly music pealed above.

Triumph of triumphs! this auspicious day,
The stern earth-agony subdued, and fled,
Beheld the dawn of his immortal sway,
The glorious resurrection from the dead.

Hath merged with solemn wedlock into one,
These sacred days' sublime significance.

The birth that oped to man the heavenly gate,
And gave far glimpses of supernal light,
The glory of that distant, fair estate,
Faded so long from his despondent sight;

That birth was marvellous! but strange and grand,

More strange and grand was the great Conqueror's rise

From the dim confines of the shadowy land, Whose gloom had palsied faith, and dimmed the skies.

Thus did the mortal learn immortal trust,
Spurn the base ends for which his soul had
striven,

Shake from his garment earth's degrading
dust,
And hail a home and brotherhood in heaven.
PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

1853.

"BEYOND THE SABBATH."

"The Backwoodsmen of North America, when they throw off the forms of society, and retreat into the forests, say they will fly beyond Sabbath.'"- FLINT'S Valley of the Mississippi.

The record tree" alluded to in the following stanzas is that upon which early settlers in the Western States of America recorded the passage of time by marking the seventh day.

HE flies!

He seeks the moaning forest trees,
The sunny prairie, or the mountain sweep,
The swelling river rushes to the seas,

Weary and weak, thy grace we pray;
Turn not, O Lord, thy guests away!

Long have we roamed in want and pain,
Long have we sought thy rest in vain ;
Wildered in doubt, in darkness lost,
Long have our souls been tempest-tost:
Low at thy feet our sins we lay;
Turn not, O Lord, thy guests away!

REGINALD HEBER.

1827.

CHURCH WORSHIP.

JAMES GRAHAME was born at Glasgow, Scotland, April 22, 1765, and studied law, contrary to his wishes, to gratify his father, who was an attorney. He published the poem by which he is known, "The Sabbath," anonymously, and became very popular. From it the following lines are extracted. The Quarterly Review said that it would always hold its place among those poems that are and deserve to be in the hands of the people. Grahame died Sept. 14, 1811. He had studied for the ministry, and for two years before his death was an ordained minister.

BUT chiefly man the day of rest enjoys. Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man's day.

On other days the man of toil is doomed
To eat his joyless bread, lonely, the ground
Both seat and board, screened from the win-
ter's cold

And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or

As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,
He hopes (yet fears presumption in the hope)
To reach those realms where Sabbath never
ends.

With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleased;

These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls:
Solemn the knell from yonder ancient pile,
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe :
Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-paved
ground;

The aged man, the bowed down, the blind Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes

The house of God, — these, spite of all their ills,

tree;

But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy He smiles on death; but ah! a wish will
Of giving thanks to God, not thanks of form,
rise,-
A word and a grimace, but reverently.
"Would I were now beneath that echoing
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
roof!
Hail, Sabbath! Thee I hail, the poor man s day:
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the
bough.

A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in ; placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,
Opens the book, and reverentially
The stated portion reads. A pause ensues.
The organ breathes its distant thunder-notes,
Then swells into a diapason full:

The people rising sing, "With harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms”; harmoniously attuned
The various voices blend; the long-drawn
aisles,

At every close, the lingering strain prolong.
And now the tubes a softened stop controls;
In softer harmony the people join,

While liquid whispers from yon orphan band
Recall the soul from adoration's trance,
And fill the eye with pity's gentle tears.
Again the organ-peal, loud, rolling, meets
The hallelujahs of the choir. Sublime
A thousand notes symphoniously ascend,
As if the whole were one, suspended high
In air, soaring heavenward: afar they float,
Wafting glad tidings to the sick man's couch:
Raised on his arm, he lists the cadence close,
Yet thinks he hears it still: his heart is
cheered;

No lukewarm accents from my lips should flow:

My heart would sing ; and many a Sabbath day
My steps should thither turn; or, wandering far
In solitary paths, where wild-flowers blow,
There would I bless his name who led me
forth

From death's dark vale, to walk amid those
sweets, -
Who gives the bloom of health once more to

glow Upon this cheek, and lights this languid eye." JAMES GRAHAME.

1804.

THE PLEASURES OF PUBLIC WORSHIP.
PSALM 1xxxiv.

How pleasant, how divinely fair,
O Lord of hosts, thy dwellings are!
With long desire my spirit faints,
To meet the assemblies of thy saints.