132

SACRED HARMONY.

dim

The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb-
And proud knees unto earth are bowed
A change is on the hill of death,
The helmed watchers pant for breath,
And turn with wild and maniac eyes
From the dark scene of sacrifice!
That sacrifice!-the death of Him-
The High and ever Holy One!
Well may the conscious heaven grow
And blacken the beholding sun!
The wonted light hath fled away,
Night settles on the middle day;
And earthquake from his cavern'd bed
Is waking with a thrill of dread.
The dead are moving underneath!
Their prison-door is rent away!
And ghastly with the seal of death,
They wander in the eye of day!
The temple of the cherubim-
The house of God is cold and dim,-
A curse is on its trembling walls-
Its mystic veil asunder falls.

Well may the mighty holds of earth
Be shaken, and her mountains nod!
Well may the sheeted dead come forth
To gaze upon a suffering God!
Well may the temple shrine grow dim,
And shadows veil the cherubim,
When He, the chosen one of Heaven,
A sacrifice for guilt is given!

And shall the sinful heart alone,
Behold unmoved the atoning hour,

WHEN evening listen'd to the dripping oar,
Forgetting the loud city's ceaseless roar

By the green banks, where Thames, with conscious
pride,

Reflects that stately structure on his side,
Within whose walls, as their long labours close,
The wanderers of the ocean find repose,
We wore in social ease the hours away,
The passing visit of a summer's day.

Whilst some to range the breezy hill are gone,
I linger'd on the river's marge alone,
Mingled with groups of ancient sailors gray,
And watch'd the last bright sunshine steal away.
As thus I mused amidst the various train
Of toil-worn wanderers of the perilous main,
Two sailors-well I mark'd them (as the beam
Of parting day yet linger'd on the stream,
And the sun sunk behind the shady reach)
Hasten'd with tottering footsteps to the beach.

buds of spring-those beautiful harbingers
Of sy skies and cloudless times-enjoy
L's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and, with
Aber gladness, the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pop and pageant fill the splendid scene.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Mara, on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Les up her purple wing; and in the vales
The gentle wind-a sweet and passionate wooer-
Kines the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the way-side a-weary. Through the trees
The golden robin moves; the purple finch,
That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds-
A winter bird,-comes with its plaintive whistle,
And pecks by the witch-hazel; whilst aloud,
From cottage roofs, the warbling blue-bird sings;
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail.

The one had lost a limb in Nile's dread fight;
Total eclipse had veil'd the other's sight
For ever! As I drew more anxious near,
I stood intent, if they should speak, to hear;
But neither said a word! He who was blind
Stood as to feel the comfortable wind
That gently lifted his gray hair: his face
Seem'd then of a faint smile to wear the trace.
The other fix'd his gaze upon the light
Parting; and when the sun had vanish'd quite,
Methought a starting tear that Heaven might bless,
Unfelt, or felt with transient tenderness,
Came to his aged eyes, and touch'd his cheek!
And then, as meek and silent as before,
Back hand-in-hand they went, and left the shors

As they departed through the unheeding crowd
A caged bird sung from the casement loud;
And then I heard alone that blind man say,
"The music of the bird is sweet to-day!"
I said, "O Heavenly Father! none may know
The cause these have for silence or for woe!"
Here they appear heart-stricken or resign'd,
Amidst the unheeding tumult of mankind.
There is a world, a pure, unclouded clime,
Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time!
Nor loss of friends! Perhaps, when yonder bell
Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell,
Ere yet the glimmering landscape sunk to nigh
They thought upon that world of distant light!
And when the blind man, lifting light his hair,
Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer praye
Then sigh'd, as the blithe bird sung o'er his bad
1 No morn will shine on me till I am dead!"