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XIV.

OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK

Crowning a flowery slope it stood alone

In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
Caressingly, about the holy ground;

And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seemed, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown,

And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,

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
Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light,
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,

Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!

Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice,
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!

XVII.

TO THE SAME.

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind,
Through the pine forests, by the upland rills,
Didst roam to seek the children of the hills,

A wild neglected flock! to seek, and find,
And meekly win! there feeding each young mind
With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine,
Daughter of Christ! but his, whose love divine
Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined,
A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth,
Upon the mountains are the feet of those
Who bear his tidings! From thy morn of youth,

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.

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