So bright the gospel broke
Upon the souls of men ;

So fresh the dreaming world awoke

In Truth's full radiance then.

Before yon Sun arose

Stars cluster'd through the sky;

But oh, how dim, how pale were those
To His one burning eye!

So Truth lent many a ray

To bless the Pagan's night;

But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they To Thy one glorious light!

The Sabbath of the Year.

MISS CAROLINE MAY.

T is the sabbath of the year;

IT

And if ye 'll walk abroad,

A holy sermon ye shall hear,

Full worthy of record.

Autumn the preacher is; and look

As other preachers do,

He takes his text from the one Great Book,

A text both sad and true.

With a deep, earnest voice he saith

A voice of gentle grief,

Fitting the minister of Death—

"Ye all fade as a leaf;

And your iniquities, like the wind,

Have taken you away;

Ye fading flatterers, weak and blind,

Repent, return, and pray."

The Sabbath of the Year.

And then the wind ariseth slow,
And giveth out a psalm;

And the organ pipes begin to blow
Within the forest calm.

Then all the trees lift up their hands,
And raise their voices higher,
And sing the notes of spirit bands
In full and glorious choir.

Yes, 'tis the Sabbath of the year!
And it doth surely seem,
(But words of reverence and fear
Should speak of such a theme,)
That corn is garner'd for the bread,
And berries for the wine,
And a sacramental feast is spread,
Like the Christian's pardon sign.

And the year, with signs of penitence,
The holy feast bends o'er ;

For she must die, and go out hence-
Die, and be seen no more.

Then are the choir and organ still,

The psalm melts in the air;
The wind bows down beside the hill,
And all are hush'd in prayer.

Then comes the sunset in the west,
Like a patriarch of old,

Or like a saint who hath won his rest,
His robes, and his crown of gold;

And forth his arms he stretcheth wide,
And with solemn tone and clear

He blesseth, in the eventide,

The Sabbath of the year.

209

BR

Burial Anthem.

DEAN H. H. MILMAN.

ROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown,

Where tears are wiped from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.

From the burden of the flesh,

And from care and sin released,

Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

The toilsome way thou'st travell'd o'er, And borne the heavy load;

But Christ hath taught thy languid feet
To reach His blest abode;

Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
Upon his Father's breast,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,

And the weary are at rest.

Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor doubt thy faith assail,

Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ

And the Holy Spirit fail ;

And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, Whom on earth thou lovedst best, Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.

"Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,”
The solemn Priest hath said;
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And we seal thy narrow bed:

Thanks for a Summer's Day.

But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

And when the Lord shall summon us,
Whom thou hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,

As sure a welcome find;

May each, like thee, depart in peace,

To be a glorious guest,

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

Thanks for a Summer's Day.

A. HUME.-Sixteenth Century.

THE

HE time so tranquil is, and dear,
That nowhere shall ye find,

Save on a high and barren hill,

The air of passing wind.

All trees and simples, great and small,

That balmy leaf do bear,

Than they were painted on a wall,
No more they move or stir.

The ample heaven of fabric sure,
In clearness doth surpass
The crystal and the silver, pure
As clearest polish'd glass.
Bedecked is the sapphire arch
With streaks of scarlet hue;
And preciously from end to end
Damasked white and blue.

211

Calm is the deep and purple sea,
Yea, smoother than the sand;
The waves, that weltering wont to be,
Are stable like the land.

The ships becalm'd upon the seas,
Hang up their sails to dry;
The herds, beneath their leafy trees,
Amidst the flowers they lie.

The little busy humming bees,
That never think to drone,
On flowers and flourishes of trees
Collect their liquor brown.

The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,

Her purple pens turn many a hue

Against the sun direct.

Great is the calm, for everywhere

The wind is setting down,
The smoke goes upright in the air,

From every tower and town.

What pleasure then to walk and see,

Along a river clear,

The perfect form of every tree

Within the deep appear.

The bells and circles on the waves,

From leaping of the trout,

The salmon from their holes and caves

Come gliding in and out.

Oh, sure it were a seemly thing,
While all is still and calm,

The praise of God to pray, and sing,
With trumpet and with shawm.