I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go;

For the world at best is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

L

THE SABBATH.

It was a pleasant morning, in the time
When the leaves fall-and the bright sun shone out
As when the morning stars first sang together—
So quietly and calmly fell his light

Upon a world at rest. There was no leaf

In motion, and the loud winds slept, and all
Was still. The labouring herd was grazing
Upon the hill-side quietly-uncall'd

By the harsh voice of man; and distant sound,
Save from the murmuring waterfall, came not
As usual on the ear. One hour stole on,
And then another of the morning, calm

And still as Eden ere the birth of man.

And then broke in the Sabbath chime of bells—
And the old man, and his descendants, went
Together to the house of God. I join'd
The well-apparell'd crowd. The holy man
Rose solemnly, and breathed the prayer of faith-
And the gray saint, just on the wing for heaven-
And the fair maid—and the bright-hair'd young man—

And child of curling locks, just taught to close

The lash of its blue eye the while,—all knelt
In attitude of prayer-and then the hymn,

Sincere in its low melody, went up

To worship God.

The white-hair'd pastor rose

And look'd upon his flock-and with an eye
That told his interest, and voice that spoke
In tremulous accents eloquence like Paul's,
He lent Isaiah's fire to the truths

Of revelation, and persuasion came
Like gushing waters from his lips, till hearts
Unused to bend were soften'd, and the eye
Unwont to weep sent forth the willing tear.

I went my way, but as I went I felt How well it was that the world-weary soul Should have its times to set its burthen down.

DEDICATION HYMN.

WRITTEN TO BE SUNG AT THE CONSECRATION OF HANOVER-STREET CHURCH, BOSTON.

THE perfect world by Adam trod
Was the first temple-built by God-
His fiat laid the corner-stone,

And heaved its pillars, one by one.

He hung its starry roof on high

The broad illimitable sky;

He spread its pavement, green and bright,
And curtain'd it with morning light.

The mountains in their places stood-
The sea—the sky-and "all was good ;"
And, when its first pure praises rang,
The morning stars together sang."

Lord! 'tis not ours to make the sea
And earth and sky a house for thee;
But in thy sight our offering stands—
An humbler temple, "made with hands."