Then see the world, the world in its best guise,
Inviting thee its bounties to partake;
Dear is the Sign's old time-discolour'd dyes,
To weary trudger by the long black lake.

And pity 'tis that other studded door,
That looks so rusty right across the way,
Stands not always as was the use of yore,
That whoso passes may step in and

pray.

VOL IL

A A

ON THE CONSECRATION OF A SMALL CHAPEL.

I.

THERE was a little spot of level ground,

For many an age unmark'd by casual eyes,
Bleak hills afar and sinuous banks around,

And terraced gardens, graduate mound on mound,
With every season's sweet variety.

And there uprose an house devote to God,
As lowly as befits a house of prayer;
Yet large enough to sanctify the sod,

The heaving earth that may conceal a clod,
Which human love may wish to treasure there.
O Lord! methinks to give this spot to Thee
Did hardly need an act of consecration:
I deem the pile no wilful novelty,

But a good purpose-old as Thy creation.

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.

II.

AND yet I deem we rightly may rejoice
When the chief shepherd of the many flocks,
That wait the high call of his pastoral voice
On sunny lawns or yellow pastures choice,
Or
crop the turf beneath the sheltering rocks,—
Comes to unite this lone and sever'd fold,
That feed so gently on their native flowers,
With the blest sheep that bled in days of old.
Oh! should we not be thankful to behold
Our shepherd chief in such a fold as ours?
Now may the Sabbath utterance of the dell,
With all the churches, make a mighty one,
And with the minster organ's gorgeous swell
The simple psalm combine in unison.

THE DESERTED CHURCH.

AFTER long travail on my pilgrimage,
I sat me down beside an aged heap,

For so it seem'd, with one square shatter'd keep,
Pensively frowning on the wrecks of age.
The river there, as at its latest stage,
Sinks in the verdure of its Sunday sleep,

And sings an under-song for them that weep
O'er the sad blots in life's too open page.

I look'd within, but all within was cold!

The walls were mapp'd with isles of dusky damp,
The long stalls look'd irreverently old,
The rush-strewn aisle was like a wither'd swamp,
And mark'd with loitering foot's unholy tramp;
The chancel floor lay thick with sluggish mould.
Hark! do you hear the dull unfrequent knell,
Survivor sad of many a merry peal,

Whose Sabbath music wont to make us feel
Our spirits mounting with its joyous swell,

That scaled the height, that sunk into the dell ?

Now lonely, lowly swinging to and fro,
It warns a scatter'd flock e'en yet to go,

And take a sip of the deserted well.

And, dost thou hear?-then, hearing, long endure.
The Gospel sounds not now so loud and bold
As once it did. Some lie in sleep secure,
And many faint because their love is cold;
But never doubt that God may still be found,
Long as one bell sends forth a Gospel sound!