The mountains girdle her around ;
Yet is their aid but faithless found,
When burns the fierce sun-beam :
Afar they stand, and grudge their shade; While their bleached sides, all bare displayed, Glare down a blighting stream.
So, when hoarse Winter flaps his wings,
And round his rustling mantle flings,
And caps his head with snow;
On their jagged tops the storm awakes,
There gathers strength-and roughly shakes
Its roaring blasts below.
Fair Florence shrinks-while laugh the hills,
And every stream its vessel fills
To swell the Arno's bound-
She casts upon the troubled sky,
A glance of her reproachful eye,
And trembles at the sound.
Jehovah guards Jerusalem
Not thus-but as a precious gem,
From storm and sunny heat;
Nor mocks her with a feigned display,
Then in the dark and cloudy day,
Rejects her from His feet.
Ah no! all sheltered by His side,
Tho' high the sun of trouble ride,
And burns his scorching beam ;
The Lord surrounds, and shields his flock,
And makes e'en Horeb's flinty rock
Pour a refreshing stream.
When Satan speeds in anger by,
And muttering tempests rise on high,
To shake the eternal hill,
He will not let the winds control
Of His loved charge the feeblest soul,
But bids the storm: "Be still!'
Sweet thus, to mark, when heats abound, The everlasting hills around,
And find a Saviour there-
To know, when roars the sounding storm, That He, who sways its angry form, Himself is swayed by prayer.
Here would I, while on earth, abide,
Close covered by the mountain-side,
My shield and hiding-place;
Till I behold-life's troubles o'er-
My God of glory evermore,
Who was my God of grace!
A SABBATH AMONG THE APPENINES.
THOU THAT DWELLEST IN THE GARDENS, THE COMPANIONS HEARKEN TO THY VOICE-CAUSE ME TO HEAR IT.-CANT. VIII. 13.
IT is His own, His Sabbath-day,
His voice is busy in my heart-
I must from earthly thoughts away,
And go to muse with Him apart!
Tho' in my soul the weight of woe,
And on my brow the lines of care,
He would not now His grace bestow,
Did He design to spurn my prayer.
The hills that hem this little dell,
And rear their wooded forms on high,
Alike the summer-beams repel,
And bid afar the wintry sky
Where Solitude hath framed a bower,
And Shade hath spread her noon-tide night,
He comes, to fill the lonely hour,
He shines-and where he shines, 'tis light.
My roving soul He bids me bound
Within this scene of sky and grove,
Here own the marks of holy ground,
Here meet the objects of his love;
Tho' hushed the chimes of Sabbath-praise,
And not a track of man appear-
The Lord himself a shrine shall raise,
Nor lack a Sabbath-service here.
These clustering trunks of stately trees,
Like columns of some gothic aisle,
Rise, undisturbed by summer-breeze,
A God-framed, God-accepted pile!
Here may I bend th' uncovered head,
Fresh homage to my Master swear,
Since here a chequered couch is spread,
For foot of praise, or knee of prayer.
Nor lonely is my duty paid,
Though to the eye of man alone;
For many a hand is stretched to aid,
And bear my offerings to the throne.
A SABBATH AMONG THE APPENINES.
Around the lowly altar stand,
With ear attent, and heav'n-ward eye,
A thronging, bright, angelic band,
To waft my incense to the sky.
For FAITH is here, though weak and frail,
And tottering with infantine feet,
Her voice is strong her Lord to hail,
And firm she grasps the mercy-seat-
And LOVE, that like a sister clings,
With eye as clear as beam of day,
And ardent HOPE, with fluttering wings,
All restless in her cage of clay.
And who is she, that shrinks behind
With so serene and sweet a smile,
And finger raised, lest some rude wind
Should murmur through the leafy aisle,
Leading yon sylph in silken bond,
Who hides her face beneath her wings?
-'Tis PEACE, with her own olive-wand,
And Joy, who shades the bliss she brings.
And nearer to my station crowd,
In vesture stained with many a tear,
Pale SORROW, 'neath her burden bowed;
PATIENCE, that soothes her sister FEAR—
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