JAMES GRAHAME.

JAMES GRAHAME, a Scottish poet, born at Glasgow, April 22, 1765; died there, Sept. 14, 1811. He was educated at Edinburgh, studied law and practiced his profession until 1809, when he went to England and took orders in the Anglican Church with favorable prospects. But in two years ill-health compelled him to give up his curacy and return to Scotland. His poems all have a religious cast, and were mainly written while he was engaged in legal practice. He wrote "Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots," a tragedy (1801); "The Sabbath" and "Sabbath Walks" (1804-1805); “Birds of Scotland" (1806); "British Georgics" (1809); and "Poems on the Abolition of the Slave Trade" (1810).

Few poets have been more highly commended by eminent authorities than this genial, whole-souled Scotchman.

A PRESENT DEITY.

(From "The Sabbath.")

O NATURE! all thy seasons please the eye
Of him who sees a present Deity in all.
It is his presence that diffuses charms
Unspeakable o'er mountain, wood, and stream,
To think that He who hears the heavenly choirs
Hearkens complacent to the woodland song;
To think that He who rolls yon solar sphere
Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky;
To mark His presence in the mighty bow
That spans the clouds as in the tints minute
Of tiniest flower; to hear His awful voice
In thunder speak, and whisper in the gale;
To know and feel His care for all that lives
'Tis this that makes the barren waste appear
A fruitful field, each grove a paradise.
Yes! place me 'mid far-stretching woodless wilds,
Where no sweet song is heard; the heath-bell there
Would please my sight, and tell of Thee!

There would my gratefully uplifted eye
Survey the heavenly vault by day, by night,
When glows the firmament from pole to pole,
There would my overflowing heart exclaim,
"The heavens declare the glory of the Lord,
The firmament shows forth his handiwork!"

THE SABBATH MORNING.

How still the Morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed
The plowboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with faded flowers,
That yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear - the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness seems throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gentle down the deep-sunk glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like 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, embosomed in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares his heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God - not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,

With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day;
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river-side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around the roots; and while he thus surveys
With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes yet fears presumption in the hopeTo reach those realms where Sabbath never ends.

A SUMMER SABBATH WALK.

DELIGHTFUL is this loneliness; it calms

My heart! pleasant the cool beneath these elms
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here Nature in her mid-noon whisper speaks:
How peaceful every sound! -the ringdove's plaint,
Moaned from the forest's gloomiest retreat,
While every other woodland lay is mute,
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest,
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear-
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp the buzz,
Angrily shrill of moss-entangled bee

That soon as loosed booms with full twang away —
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circles gay

The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
Watches his time to spring; or from above,
Some feathered dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize. Sad emblem of man's lot!
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf

(Where safe and happily he might have lurked),
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings,

Forgetful of his origin, and worse,
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream,
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scapes,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while,
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate.

AN AUTUMN Sabbath Walk.

WHEN homeward bands their several ways disperse,

I love to linger in the narrow field

Of rest, to wander round from tomb to tomb,
And think of some who silent-sleep below.

Sad sighs the wind that from these ancient elms
Shakes showers of leaves upon the withered grass;
The sere and yellow wreaths, with eddying sweep,
Fill up the furrows 'tween the hillocked graves.
But list that moan! 'tis the poor blind man's dog,
His guide for many a day, now come to mourn
The master and the friend-conjunction rare!
A man, indeed, he was of gentle soul,

Though bred to brave the deep; the lightning's flash
Had dimmed, not closed, his mild but sightless eyes.
He was a welcome guest through all his range-
It was not wide- no dog would bay at him;
Children would run to meet him on his way,
And lead him to a sunny seat, and climb
His knee, and wonder at his oft-told tales.
Then would he teach the elfins how to plait
The rustic cap and crown, or sedgy ship:
And I have seen him lay his tremulous hand
Upon their heads, while silent moved his lips.
Peace to thy spirit, that now looks on me
Perhaps with greater pity than I felt
To see thee wandering darkling on the way!
But let me quit this melancholy spot,

And roam where Nature gives a parting smile.
As yet the bluebells linger on the sod
That copse the sheepfold ring; and in the woods
A second blow of many flowers appear,
Flowers faintly tinged and breathing no perfume.
But fruits, not blossoms, from the woodland wreath
That circles Autumn's brow. The ruddy haws

Now clothe the half-leaved thorn; the bramble bends
Beneath its jetty load; the hazel hangs

With auburn bunches, dipping in the stream
That sweeps along and threatens to o'erflow
The leaf-strewn banks: oft, statue-like, I gaze,
In vacancy of thought, upon that stream,
And chase, with dreaming eye, the eddying foam,
Or rowan's clustered branch, or harvest sheaf,
Borne rapidly adown the dizzying flood.

A WINTER SABBATH Walk.

How dazzling white the snowy scene! deep, deep
The stillness of the winter Sabbath day –
Not even a foot-fall heard. Smooth are the fields,
Each hollow pathway level with the plain:
Hid are the bushes, save that here and there
Are seen the topmost shoots of brier or broom.
High-ridged the whirled drift has almost reached
The powdered keystone of the churchyard porch,
Mute hangs the hooded bell; the tombs lie buried;
No step approaches to the house of prayer.

The flickering fall is o'er: the clouds disperse,
And show the sun hung o'er the welkin's verge,
Shooting a bright but ineffectual beam.
On all the sparkling waste. Now is the time
To visit nature in her grand attire.
Though perilous the mountainous ascent,
A noble recompense the danger brings.
How beautiful the plain stretched far below,
Unvaried though it be, save by yon stream
With azure windings, or the leafless wood!
But what the beauty of the plain, compared
To that sublimity which reigns enthroned,
Holding joint rule with solitude divine,
Among yon rocky fells that bid defiance
To steps the most adventurously bold?
There silence dwells profound; or if the cry
Of high-poised eagle break at times the hush,
The mantled echoes no response return.

But now let me explore the deep-sunk dell.
No footprint, save the covey's or the flock's,
Is seen along the rill, where marshy springs