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The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
With dovelike wings, peace o'er yon village broods ; The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping hare Stops and looks back, and stops and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
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 winter's cold And summer's heat by neighboring hedge or tree; But on this day, imbosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves ; With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy Of giving thanks to God; not thanks of form, A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face, and upward, earnest
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day,
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
CONSOLATION OF RELIGION.
There is a mourner, and her heart is broken;
She is a widow; she is old and poor;
Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er;
Than heaven's delightful volume, and the sight
Your blasting vials on her head, and blight Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms, and charms her being's night?
She lives in her affections ; for the grave
Has closed upon her husband, children; all. Her hopes are with the arms she trusts will save
Her treasured jewels; though her views are small,
Though she has never mounted high to fall And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring
Of her meek, tender feelings, cannot pall Upon her unperverted palate, but will bring A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting.
Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave
Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er With silent waters, kissing, as they lave,
The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore
Of matted grass and flowers; so, softly pour
Low-bowed, before her Maker; then, no more
And faith can see a new world, and the eyes
Of saints look pity on her. Death will come:
Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb
Becomes her fondest pillow : all its gloom
To her and all she loved while here! and the bloom
J. G. PERCIVAL.
Time's LAST VISIT.
[There is a Persian legend, representing Time, before commencing his “New Year's Flight,” warning those who are to die during the comis
season, of their inevitable fate."]
The night was a cold and stormy one,
And the year was running low,
As he was about to go :
“ The sands will be out,” he said,
“And these visits must be made :
I almost lose my labors ;
Is always meant for their neighbors.
Last year my duty was faithfully done;
I traversed the city through,
I had come for a final adieu :
The groans of the dying Poles :
Their money, not their souls,
Though I bade them farewell like a lover;
I can easily reckon them over.
And first to a Banker's house I hied,
Though I knew he was often surly,
So I hastened to warn him early.
An Apician sauce was before him,
• 'Tis Death! thus my warning came o'er him. Oh, how his eye glared as he bade me flee!
I was off like a twinkle of light,
And he died of a spasm that night.
I hurried away to a Doctor, then,
Though I knew I might spare my pains, That he thought of disease as the end of men,
And of death as the doctor's gains ; • My patient must die,' he was maundering on;
As he glanced a fee-bill o'er, *And his money will go to his graceless son,
My bill might be somewhat more;
That I've charged five visits a day.'
• REMEMBER MY VISITS TO PAY!'
I told an Old Man it was time he should go,
And he was too deaf to hear:
And he was too gay to fear :
And a dunce was I to stop,
While reckoning his leger up. • THERE IS ONE DEMAND,' I began to say,
He burst with a hurried breath, "Show me your bill, I've the cash to pay;'
I left him to settle with death !
I stopped at a Poor Man's humble shed,
And thought ’t would delight him so,
But he flatly refused to go:
As he begged me one year to give !
Saying 't was too bad for a man to die
Who had struggled so hard to live;
I whispered of charity;
• 'Tis a broken reed,' sighed he.
I had fared so ill with the lords of earth,
Of the earth they had proved indeed,
Hoping more kindly to speed !
A milliner's girl stood by,
I breathed a sepulchral sigh,
• How odd! cried the beauty, in sorrow; • These do not become me at all to-night,
But bring me some brighter to-morrow.'
And then-but why continue the list,
So fraught with chagrin to me:
When recounting his archery?
Fair, ugly, and sober, and gay,
They would not be hurried away.
And called Time an old, villainous cheat, But Heaven was so distant, so bright, and so pure;
They had no inclination to see 't.
Worms of the dust! I murmured in wrath,
As I entered a stately dome,
Repaired to a nursery room ;-
And she, the sweet mother dove,
Was choosing her gifts of love
She knew the deadly thrill,
• My Father, 't is thy will.'