Yet, courage-days and years will glide,
And we shall lay these clods aside;
Shall be baptized in Jordan's flood,
And washed in Jesu's cleansing blood.

Then pure, immortal, sinless, freed,
We through the Lamb shall be decreed;
Shall meet the Father face to face,

And need no more a hidingplace.

SONNET.

WHAT art Thou, mighty One? and where thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And Thou dost bear within thy awful hands
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet;
Stern on thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind

Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dread noon,
Or on the red wing of the fierce monsoon

Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost Thou repose? or in the solitude

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood?
Vain thought! the confines of his throne to trace,
Who glows through all the fields of boundless space.

FAITH.

Lo! on the eastern summit, clad in grey,

Morn, like a horseman girt for travel, comes;

And from his tower of mist

Night's watchman hurries down.

The pious man

In this bad world, where mists and couchant storms

1

Hide heaven's fine circlet, springs aloft in faith
Above the clouds that threat him, to the fields
Of ether, where the day is never veiled
With intervening vapours; and looks down
Serene upon the troublous sea that hides

The earth's fair breast, that sea whose nether face
To grovelling mortals frowns and darkens all;
But on whose billowy back, from man concealed,
The glaring sunbeam plays.

LINES

WRITTEN ON A SURVEY OF THE HEAVENS.

YE many twinkling stars, who yet do tread
Your brilliant places in the sable vault
Of night's dominions! planets and central orbs
Of other systems, big as the burning sun
Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye
Small as the glow-worm's lamp! to you I raise
My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered,
My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts,
Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind,
Warped with low prejudices, to unfold,
And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring,
Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him,
The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze,
The great Creator; Him, who now sublime,
Wrapped in the solitary amplitude

Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres,
Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

Th' angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven,
Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime,
Repeating loud, "The Lord our God is great,"
In varied harmonies: the glorious sounds
Roll o'er the air serene. Th' Eolian spheres,

Harping along their viewless boundaries,

Catch the full note and cry, "The Lord is great!"
Responding to the seraphim. O'er all,

From orb to orb, to the remotest verge
Of the created world, the sound is borne,
Till the whole universe is full of Him.

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now
In fancy strikes upon my listening ear,
And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile
On the vain world and all its bustling cares,
And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss.
Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height,
What e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale
Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God!
Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works,
Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm,
One look of kind benevolence? Thou canst;
For Thou art full of universal love,

And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart
Thy beams as well to me as to the proud,
The pageant insects of a glittering hour!

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime,
How insignificant do all the joys,

The gauds, and honours of the world, appear!

How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful lamp
Outwatched the slow-paced night? Why on the page,
The schoolman's laboured page, have I employed
The hours devoted by the world to rest,
And needful to recruit exhausted nature?
Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay
The loss of health? Or can the hope of glory
Lend a new throb unto my languid heart,
Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow,
Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye,
Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek?
Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame,
For which thou barterest health and happiness,

Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the grave-
Give a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs
Of everlasting punishment condign?

Alas! how vain are mortal man's desires!
How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God,
Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth,
And, oh! assist me so to live on earth,
That I may die in peace, and claim a place
In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly,
The vain illusions of deceitful life.

JAMES GRAHAME.

JAMES GRAHAME, author of The Sabbath, The Birds of Scotland, British Georgics, &c., was born at Glasgow, in 1765. He received a good education, and was by his friends articled to a lawyer; but his own desire was to enter the Church. Accordingly, after a few years spent without profit in his uncongenial profession, he sought and obtained holy orders of the Bishop of Norwich. He did not obtain a living in the Church, but officiated as a curate, first at Shipton, in Gloucestershire; next at St. Margaret's, in Durham; and last at Sedgefield; performing all the duties of his office with Christian fidelity. He died in 1811.

All the productions of Grahame display an amiability of mind rarely equalled, and never surpassed. The great charm of his poetry is manly simplicity, and unaffected piety. His touches of rural scenery and modes of life are graphic in the highest degree.

THE FIRST SABBATH.

Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast
Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compassed wide this orb,
And with the forming mass floated along

VOL. II.

In rapid course, through yet untravelled space,
Beholding God's stupendous power,-a world
Bursting from Chaos at the omnific will,
And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star
On Paradise arose. Blessed that eve!
The Sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete
In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand,
Creation bloomed; when Eden's twilight face
Smiled like a sleeping babe: the voice divine
A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly work :
Mildly the sun upon the loftiest tree
Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reigned,
And love, and gratitude; the human pair
Their orisons poured forth; love, concord reigned.
The falcon perched upon the blooming bough

With Philomela, listened to her lay;
Among the antlered herd the tiger couched
Harmless; the lion's mane no terror spread
Among the careless, ruminating flock.

Silence was o'er the deep; the noiseless surge,
The last subsiding wave-of that dread tumult
Which raged when ocean at the mute command
Rushed furiously into his new-cleft bed,-
Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore ;
While on the swell the sea-bird, with her head
Wing-veiled, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven,
Entranced in new delight, speechless adored;

Nor stopped their fleet career, nor changed their form
Encircular till on that hemisphere,-

In which the blissful garden sweet exhaled

Its incense, odorous clouds,-the Sabbath dawn

Arose; then wide the flying circle sped,

And soared in semblance of a mighty rainbow.
Silent ascend the choirs of seraphim,
No harp resounds, mute each voice is: the burst
Of joy and praise reluctant they repress,-
For love and concord all things so attuned
To harmony, that earth must have received