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There, in thy lonely state, thou livest on
The winds !-are they thy music ? (who shall say
And mountains, bird and beast, and air and Heaven. London Magazine.
FOR A VILLAGE SPRING.
CALM is the tenor of my way,
BENEATH the chancel's hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Thy name -thy birth—thy youth declare Thy innocence—thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there. No’scutcheons shine, no banners wave, In mockery o'er my brother's grave !
The place is silent.Rarely sound
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
The living eye hath never known.
the unholy dust away, And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the sabbath-day; And, passing through the central nave, Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-toned sabbath-chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
When rustic crouds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of heaven ;
And if a voice could reach the dead,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed.
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
These stones which now thy dust conceal, The sweet tones of the sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul ; On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's controul. My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet ! How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes, the heart can ne'er forget ! My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstained by sin, unstung by pain ; Peace smiled on each unclouded brow
Mine ne'er will be so calm again. How blithely then we hailed the ray Which ushered in the sabbath day ! How lightly then our footsteps trod Yon pathway to the house of God! For souls, in which no dark offence Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine
I feel not now, as then I felt ;
The sunshine of my heart is o'er; The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me, in the days of yore. But thou wert snatched, my brother, hence In all thy guileless innocence; One sabbath saw thee bend the knee, In reverential piety,– (For childish faults forgiveness crave)The next beamed brightly on thy grave. The crowd, of which thou late wert one, Now throng across thy burial stone; Rude footsteps trample on the spot, Where thou liest mouldering—not forgot ; And some few gentler bosoms weep, In silence, o'er thy last long sleep. I stood not by thy feverish bed,
I looked not on thy glazing eye,
Nor viewed thy dying agony;
The doubt-the terror—the distress ;-
My soul was spared that wretchedness : One sentence told me, in a breath, My brother's illness and his death!
And days of mourning glided by,
No more I wept my brother's lot,
The well known morn, I used to greet
With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, And thoughts of home and raptures sweet
In every eye but mine were gleaming ; But I, amidst that youthful band
Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor felt those wonted extasies!
I drew near to my father's gate ;
No smiling faces met me now. I entered, all was desolate.-
Grief sat upon my mother's brow ;I heard her, as she kissed me, sigh ; A tear stood in my father's eye; My little brothers round me pressed, In gay unthinking childhood blest. Long, long, that hour has passed, but when Shall I forget its gloomy scene !
The sabbath came. _With mournful pace