SUNDAY MORNING.

How still the morning of the hallowed day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hushed
The ploughboy's whistle and the milkmaid's song;
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yesterday 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,
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 gently down the deep-worn 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.

-Grahame.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

THE NAME OF ENGLAND.

THE trumpet of the battle

Hath a high and thrilling tone.

And the first deep gun of an ocean fight
Dread music all its own;

But a mightier power, my England!
Is in that name of thine,

To strike the fire from every heart
Along the bannered line.

Proudly it woke the spirits

Of yore-the brave and true-
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field,
And the yeoman's arrow flew.

And proudly hath it floated

Through the battles of the sea,

When the red cross flag o'er smoke wreaths played Like the lightning in its glee.

On rock, on wave, on bastion,

Its echoes have been known;

By a thousand streams the hearts lie low
That have answered to its tone.

A thousand ancient mountains
Its pealing note hath stirred.
Sound on, and on, for evermore,
O thou victorious word!

-Mrs. Hemans.

93

My way is on the bright blue sea,
My sleep upon its rocky tide,
And many an eye has followed me
Where billows clasp the worn seaside.

My plumage bears the crimson blush
When ocean by the sun is kissed;
When fades the evening's purple flush
My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

Full many a fathom down beneath

The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea-shell breathe O'er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne,
And by the pearly diadem,

Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown
The glorious dwellings made for them.

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.

At night, upon my storm-drenched wing,
I poised above a helmless bark,
And soon I saw the shattered thing
Had passed away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm had done,
A ship, that had rode out the gale,
Sank down without a signal gun,

And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart,

The cloud resign its golden crown,
When to the ocean's beating heart

The sailor's wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made
Beneath the bright and silver sea!
Peace that their relics there were laid
With no vain pride and pageantry!

-Longfellow.

95

EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS.

COME to the sunset tree!

The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,

And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,
And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given

By the cool, soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest,
Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie.

When the burden and the heat
Of labour's task are o'er,

And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.