Thou art a day of mirth :
And where the week-days trail on ground,
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth :
O let me take thee at the bound,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Till that we both, being toss'd from earth,
Fly hand in hand to heav'n!
The Sabbath Morn in Sunlight comes. WELL," Saturday to Sunday said,
"The people now have gone to bed;
All, after toiling through the week,
Right willingly their rest would seek ;-
Myself can hardly stand alone,
So very weary I have grown.'
His speech was echoed by the bell,
As on his midnight couch he fell ;
And Sunday now the watch must keep.
So, rising from his pleasant sleep,
He glides, half-dozing, through the sky,
To tell the world that morn is nigh.
He rubs his eyes,-and, none too late,
Knocks aloud at the sun's bright gate;
She slumbered in her silent hall,
Unprepared for his early call.
Sunday exclaims, "Thy hour is nigh!"
Well, well," says she, "I'll come by and by."
Gently, on tiptoe, Sunday creeps,—
Cheerfully from the stars he peeps,—
Mortals are all asleep below,
None in the village hears him go,
E'en Chanticleer keeps very still,-
For Sunday whispered 't was his will.
Now the world is awake and bright,
After refreshing sleep all night;
The Sabbath morn in sunlight comes,
Smiling gladly on all our homes.
He has a mild and happy air,—
Bright flowers are wreathed among his hair.
He comes, with soft and noiseless tread,
To rouse the sleeper from his bed;
And tenderly he pauses near,
With looks all full of love and cheer,
Well pleased to watch the deep repose
That lingered till the morning rose.
How gaily shines the early dew,
Loading the grass with its silver hue!
And freshly comes the fragrant breeze,
Dancing among the cherry-trees;
The bees are humming all so gay,-
They know not it is Sabbath-day.
The cherry-blossoms now appear,-
Fair heralds of a fruitful year;
There stands upright the tulip proud,----
Bethlehem-stars around her crowd,-
And hyacinths of every hue,—
All sparkling in the morning dew.
How still and lovely all things seem!
Peaceful and pure as an angel's dream!
No rattling carts are in the streets ;-
Kindly each one his neighbour greets ;-
"It promises right fair to-day;"
"Yes, praised be God!"—'t is all they say.
The birds are singing, "Come, behold
Our Sabbath morn all bathed in gold,
Pouring his calm, celestial light
Among the flowers so sweet and bright!"
The pretty goldfinch leads the row,
As if her Sunday-robe to show.
Mary, pluck those auriculas, pray,
And do n't shake the yellow dust away;
Here, little Ann, are some for you,—
I'm sure you want a nosegay too.
The first bell rings,-away! away!
We will go to church to-day.
JOHANN PETER HEBEL, Trans. by F. GRAETER.
AR in some still, sequestered nook,
Removed from worldly strife,
How calmly, like a placid brook,
Would glide the stream of life!
How sweet in temples God has made
To raise the voice of prayer,
While songsters from the leafy glade
With music fill the air!
Does not the spirit seem to spurn
The fettered thoughts of earth,
And with a holier impulse turn
To things of higher birth;
When in the forests' vast arcade,
Where man has seldom trod,
Amid the works that he has made,
We stand alone with God?
When gazing on fair Nature's face,
Untouched by hand of art,
every leaf his love we trace,
What feelings thrill the heart!
The diamond dew-drop on the spray,
Each early-fading flower,
The glittering insects of a day-
All show God's wondrous power:
And teach us by their helplessness
Of his unwearied care,
Who gives the lily's vestal dress,
And bids us not despair.
When in the fading light of day
The forests trees grow dim,
And evening comes in sober gray,
How turn our souls to him!
There is no sound upon
All living things are stillA solemn hush, as if of prayer, Is brooding o'er the hill:
While far above, like spirit-eyes,
The stars their vigils keep,
And smile on the fair stream that lies
Upon earth's breast, asleep.
There is a spell that binds the heart
At this most hallowed hour,
And bids all earth-born thoughts depart,
Beneath its holy power.
And when to all created things
A voice of praise is given,
The spirit seems on angel wings
To soar aloft to heaven.
The Philosopher's Devotion. SING aloud; his praise rehearse
Who hath made the universe.
He the boundless heavens has spread,
All the vital orbs has kned;
He that on Olympus high
Tends his flock with watchful eye;
And this eye has multiplied
Midst each flock for to reside.
Thus, as round about they stray,
Toucheth each with out-stretch'd ray:
Nimbly they hold on their way,
Shaping out their night and day.
Never slack they; none respires,
Dancing round their central fires.
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