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The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring:

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O grave! where is thy victory?

O death! where is thy sting?

Pope

SOLEMNITY OF THE DAY OF REST.

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 glitt'ring in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze;
Sounds the most faint attract the ear ;-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,

The distant bleating, mid-way up the hill.
Calmness sits thron'd 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 tun'd 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. With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods:

The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceas'd; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

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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 doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground
Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's
cold,

And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With cover'd 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 its root; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.
Grahames

ON THE CLERGY AND THE SABBATH.

YE clergy, while your orbit is your place,
Lights of the world, and stars of human race;
But if, eccentric, ye forsake your sphere,
Prodigies ominous, and view'd with fear;
The comet's baneful influence is a dream;
Yours real and pernicious in th' extreme.
'What then!—are appetites and lust laid down
With the same ease that man puts on his gown?
Will av'rice and concupiscence give place,
Charm'd by the sounds-your rev'rence or your
grace?

No. But his own engagement binds him fast;
Or, if he does not, brands him to the last,
What atheists call him-a designing knave,
A mere church juggler, hypocrite, and slave.
Oh, laugh or mourn with me the rueful jest,
A cassock'd huntsman, and a fiddling priest !
He from Italian songsters takes his cue;
Set Paul to music, he shall quote him too.
He takes the field, the master of the pack
Cries- Well done, saint!' and claps him on the
back.

Is this the path of sanctity? Is this

To stand a waymark in the road to bliss ?
Himself a wand'rer from the narrow way,
His silly sheep what wonder if they stray?
Go, cast your orders at your bishop's feet,
Send your dishonour'd gown to Monmouth-street!
The sacred function in your hands is made-
Sad sacrilege! no function, but a trade!
Occiduus is a pastor of renown,

When he has pray'd and preach'd the sabbath down,

With wire and catgut he concludes the day,
Quav'ring and semiquav'ring care away.
The full concerto swells upon your ear ;

All elbows shake. Look in, and you would swear
The Babylonian tyrant with a nod

Had summon'd them to serve a golden god.
So well that thought th' employment seems to suit,
Psalt'ry and sackbut, dulcimer and flute.
'O fie! 'tis evangelical and pure :

Observe each face, how sober and demure!
Ecstasy sets her stamp on ev'ry mien ;
Chins fall'n, and not an eyeball to be seen.'
Still I insist, though music heretofore

Has charm'd me much, (not e'en Occiduus more)
Love, joy, and peace make harmony more meet
For sabbath ev❜nings, and perhaps as sweet.
Will not the sickliest sheep of ev'ry flock
Resort to this example as a rock;
There stand and justify the foul abuse
Of sabbath hours with plausible excuse;
If apostolic gravity be free

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards
As inoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay,
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.
Oh Italy !—Thy sabbaths will be soon

Our sabbaths, clos'd with mumm'ry and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley

scene,

Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been,
God's worship and the mountebank between.
What says the prophet? Let that day be blest
With holiness and consecrated rest.

Pastime and business both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude:
Nobly distinguish'd above all the six

By deeds, in which the world must never mix,
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,
A day of luxury observ❜d aright,

When the glad soul is made Heaven's welcome guest,
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engag'd, and cannot come;
Their answer to the call is-Not at home.

THE PHARISEE.

Cowper.

WHO judg'd the pharisee? What odious cause
Expos'd him to the vengeance of the laws?
Had he seduc'd a virgin, wrong'd a friend,
Or stabb'd a man to serve some private end?
Was blasphemy his sin? Or did he stray
From the strict duties of the sacred day?
No-the man's morals were exact; what then?
"Twas his ambition to be seen of men ;

His virtues were his pride; and that one vice
Made all his virtues gewgaws of no price;
He wore them as fine trappings for a show,
A praying, synagogue-frequenting, beau.
The self-applauding bird, the peacock, see-
Mark what a sumptuous pharisee is he!
Meridian sun-beams tempt him to unfold
His radiant glories, azure green and gold:
He treads as if, some solemn music near,
His measur'd step were govern'd by his ear;
And seems to say- Ye meaner fowl, give place,
I am all splendour, dignity, and grace!'

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