XIV. OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK Crowning a flowery slope it stood alone In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound, And warbled, with a never-dying tone, And something yet more deep. The air was fraught They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure, Within such fabrics, worship free and pure, Reigned there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene. XV. A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES. Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane, Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane, And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, There meets the voice of psalms !—yet not alone, For memories lulling to the heart as these, I bless thee, midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer! But for their sakes who unto thee repair From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer, Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear, Within thy lowly walls for evermore ! XVI. LOUISE SCHEPLER. Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger. A fearless journeyer o'er the mountain snow Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning XVII. TO THE SAME. For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find, For this were all thy journeyings, and the close Of that long path, Heaven's own bright sabbath rest, Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour's breast. LINES TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON A SKULL. CREATURE of air and light! Emblem of that which will not fade or die! Wilt thou not speed thy flight, To chase the south wind through the glowing sky? What lures thee thus to stay, With silence and decay, Fixed on the wreck of cold mortality? The thoughts, once chamber'd there, Have gathered up their treasures, and are gone ; Will the dust tell thee where That which hath burst the prison-house is flown? Rise, nursling of the day! If thou would'st trace its way Earth has no voice to make the secret known. |