She takes her way to where the cottage low
Lies buried in a mass of drifted snow,
And there depositing her generous boon,
Glides silently away beneath the moon;
Leaving its inmates in amazement deep,
Too happy to enjoy or wish for sleep;
While she retires, far from their grateful lays,
Well pleased, if good is done, to lose the praise.
I MET a fairy child, whose golden hair
And as she wove her king-cup chain, she sang
Her household melodies-those strains that bear
The hearer back to Eden. Surely ne'er
A brighter vision blest my dreams. "Whose child
Art thou," I said, "sweet girl?" In accents mild
She answer'd, "Mother's." When I questioned, "Where
Her dwelling was,"-again she answered, "Home!"
Mother! and Home? O blessed ignorance!
Or rather blessed knowledge! What advance
Further than this shall all the years to come,
With all their lore, effect? There are but given
Two names of higher note,—"Father," and "Heaven."
As when a felon, whom his country's laws
Have justly doom'd for some atrocious cause,
Expects in darkness and heart-chilling fears,
The shameful close of all his misspent years;
If chance, on heavy pinions slowly borne,
A tempest usher in the dreadful morn,
Upon his dungeon walls the lightnings play,
The thunder seems to summon him away;
The warder at the door his key applies,
Shoots back the bolt, and all his courage dies;
If then, just then, all thought of mercy lost,
When Hope, long lingering, at last yields the ghost,
The sound of pardon pierce his startled ear,
He drops at once his fetters and his fear;
A transport glows in all he looks and speaks,
And the first thankful tears bedew his cheeks.
Joy, far superior joy, that much outweighs
The comfort of a few poor added days,
Invades, possesses, and o'erwhelms the soul
Of him, whom Hope has with a touch made whole.
'Tis heaven, all heaven, descending on the wings.
Of the glad legions of the King of kings;
'Tis more 'tis God diffused through every part,
'Tis God himself triumphant in his heart.
O welcome now the sun's once hated light,
His noon-day beams were never half so bright!
Not kindred minds alone are called to employ
Their hours, their days, in listening to his joy;
Unconscious nature, all that he surveys,
Rocks, groves, and streams, must join him in his praise.
THE cheerful supper done, with serious face,
They round the ingle form the circle wide;
The Sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace,
The big Ha'-Bible, once his father's pride:
His bonnet reverently is laid aside,
His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says with solemn air.
They chaunt their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy of the name;
Or noble Elgin's fans the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame:
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise;
No unison have they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,
How Abraham was the friend of God on high;
Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or, how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or, Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry;
Or, rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme,
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who ruled in heaven with power supreme,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the Sun a mighty angel stand;
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by
Heaven's command.
Then, kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband, prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wings,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days,
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, nor shed the bitter tear,
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear,
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method and of art,
When men display, to congregations wide,
Devotion's every grace except the heart!
The Power, incensed the pageant will desert,
The pompous train, the sacerdotal stole;
But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol.
THE scene around me disappears,
And, borne to ancient regions,
While Time recalls the flight of years,
I see angelic legions
Descending in an orb of light,
Amidst the dark and silent night,
I hear celestial voices.
"Tidings, glad tidings from above,
To every age and nation;
Tidings, glad tidings,-God is love,
To man he sends redemption.
His Son beloved, His only Son,
The work of mercy hath begun;
Give to His Name the glory."
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