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Most earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he blessed his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor;
He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,
Feed, feed my sheep, * are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is
before his eyes. 0, how I love, with melted soul, to leave The house of prayer, and wander in the fields Alone! What tho' the opening spring be chill!
* « So when he had dined, Jesus saith to Simon Peter, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me more than these? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my lambs. He saith to him again the second time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me? He saith unto him, Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee. He saith unto him, Feed my sheep. He saith unto him the third time, Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou ine? Peter was grieved, because he said unto him the third time, Lovest thou me? And he said unto him, Lord, thou knowest all things, thou knowest that I love thee. Jesus saith unto him, Feed my sheep."amJoun, xxi, 15-17.
Altho' the lark, checked in his airy path,
Eke out his song, perched on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! Altho' no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand,
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What tho' the clouds oft lower! Their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couched violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe,- melodious bird !
He, hid behind the milk-white sloe-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.
Sweet is the sunny nook, to which my steps Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roamed, Unheeding where, so lovely all around, The works of God, arrayed in vernal smile!
Oft at this season, musing, I prolong
My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast,
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight,
While, disregardful of yon lonely star,-
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host,-
Sweet Redbreast, Scotia’s Philomela, chaunts,
In desultory strains, his evening hymn.
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 midnoon whisper speaks :
How peaceful every sound !--the ring-dove's plaint,
Moaned from the twilight centre of the grove,
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 grashopper's oft-pausing chirp,—the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee,
That, şoon 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 circlets gay