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widely to separate themselves. You would have seen, for who that has eyes to see and heart to feel could have been blind to it? that the austerities of the peculiar doctrinal system to which they adhere, have had no power to chill or counteract the ardors of that religious sentiment, which they share with all that belong to the wide spread family of Christians. You would have seen how compatible are all that we usually speak of as their faults, with every thing that we could wish to see numbered among the virtues of a christian people. You would have seen it in the orderly and solemn guise of their behaviour; you would have heard it in the deep and thrilling harmony of their untaught voices, when they lifted them all up together in that old tune which immemorial custom has set apart for the last psalm sung upon this sacred day-a tune, which is endeared to them by the memory of those from whose attachment its designation is derived, still more than by the low and affecting swell of its own sad composing cadences. The plaintive martyrs, worthy of the name'. The faint choral falls of this antique melody, breathed by such a multitude of old and young, diffused a kind of holy charm over the tall whispering groves and darkening fields around, a thousand times more grand and majestic than all the gorgeous stops of an organ ever wakened in the echoing aisles of a cathedral.

There was a breath of sober enduring heroism in its long repeated, melancholy accents, which seemed to fall like a sweet evening dew upon all the hearts that drank in the sacred murmurs. A fresh sunset glow seemed to mantle in the palest cheek around me, and every old and haggard eye beamed once more with a farewell splendor of enthusiasm, while the air into which it looked up, trembled, and was enriched with the clear solemn music of the departed devout. It seemed as if the hereditary strain connected all that sat upon those grassy tombs in bonds of stricter kindred with all that slept beneath them, and the pure flame of their christian love derived, I doubt not, a new and innocent fervor from the deeply stirred embers of their ancestral piety.



Six days the heavenly host, in circle vast,
Like that untouching cincture which enzones
The globe of Saturn, compassed wide this orb,
And with the forming mass floated along,
In rapid course, through yet untravelled space,
Beholding God's stupendous power, a world
Bursting from chaos at the omnific will,
And perfect ere the sixth day's evening star
On Paradise arose. Blessed that eve!
The sabbath's harbinger, when, all complete,
In freshest beauty from Jehovah's hand,
Creation bloomed; when Eden's twilight face
Smiled like a sleeping babe. The voice divine
A holy calm breathed o'er the goodly work;
Mildly the sun, upon the loftiest trees,
Shed mellowly a sloping beam. Peace reigned,
And love, and gratitude; the human pair
Their orisons poured forth; love, concord, reigned.
The falcon, perched upon the blooming bough
With Philomela, listened to her lay;
Among the antlered herd, the tiger crouched
Harmless; the lion's mane no terror spread
Among the careless ruminating flock.

Silence was o'er the deep; the noiseless surge,
The last subsiding wave, of that dread tumult,
Which raged, when ocean, at the mute command,
Rushed furiously into his new cleft bed,

Was gently rippling on the pebbled shore ;

While, on the swell, the sea bird with her head
Wing-veiled, slept tranquilly. The host of heaven,
Entranced in new delight, speechless adored,
Nor stopped their fleet career, nor changed their form
Encircular, till on that hemisphere-

In which the blissful garden sweet exhaled

Its incense, odorous clouds-the sabbath dawn
Arose; then wide the flying circle oped,

And soared, in semblance of a mighty rainbow-
Silent ascend the choirs of seraphim;

No harp resounds, mute is each voice; the burst
Of joy and praise reluctant they repress,
For love and concord all things so attuned
To harmony, that earth must have received

The grand vibration, and to the centre shook;
But soon as to the starry altitudes

They reached, then what a storm of sound tremendous
Swelled through the realms of space! The morning stars
Together sang, and all the sons of God

Shouted for joy! Loud was the peal; so loud

As would have quite o'erwhelmed the human sense; But to the earth it came a gentle strain,

Like softest fall breathed from æolian lute,

When, 'mid the chords, the evening gale expires.

Day of the Lord! creation's hallowed close!
Day of the Lord !—prophetical they sang-
Benignant mitigation of that doom

Which must, ere long, consign the fallen race,
Dwellers in yonder star, to toil and woe!



It has long been a dispute among the learned, whether the poem of Job consists of fable or a true history. This question, if authority alone be applied to, must long since have been decided in favor of those who assert it to be a real history.

With me, I confess, on the other hand, it is no longer matter of opinion, but I feel very little doubt, that the subject of the poem is altogether fabulous, and designed to teach us, that, 'the rewards of virtue being in another state, it is very possible for the good to suffer afflictions in this life; but that, when it so happens, it is permitted by Providence for the wisest reasons, though they may not be obvious to human eyes.' But, before I proceed to examine the grounds of this opinion, it may be necessary to premise a few remarks in reply to those who may think the divine authority of the book affected, by the supposition of its not being founded in fact. For my own part, I cannot conceive that the sanctity, the dignity, or the utility of that book will be in the least affected, though we should suppose no such person as Job ever existed.

If moral precepts conveyed in the garb of fabu

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