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VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED.

No. 11.

THE HYMN OF THE DEW.

I know what the dew sang as down to the folds Of the silken rose it fell;

'Twas not for the ear, but the musing heart,

In the twilight, heard it well.

There came no words-you might listen long
And say that you only heard

The trill of the harp in the waving grass,
And the tune of the evening bird.

But a song it sang, and I caught it well
As it shone in the white moon's rays:
It was sweet as the breast whereon it lay,
And the burden aye was praise.

It was not meant for the perfumed rose,
The belle of the summer bower;
'Twas not for the star that, silver bright,
Looked into the heart of the flower:
The praise was all for the Holiest-

And the garden knew the tone,
When the earth was one full cup of bliss,

And the Lord was God alone.

Not such are the passionate words of song
That men to their idol speak,

Thrilling the nerves and bringing the tears
And leaving the strong one weak.

It stirred not even the pollen-dust

As it gently floated through,

And it lay on my heart like peace all night,
That hymn of the holy dew!

SONGS BY "BARRY CORNWALL.”

HERMIONE.

Thou hast beauty bright and fair,

Manner noble, aspect free,

Eyes that are untouched by care:

What then do we ask from thee?"
Hermione, Hermione ?

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,

And a voice, itself a song!

What then can we still desire?
Hermione, Hermione?

Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears, amid thy laughter seen,

Pity mingling with thy joy.
This is all we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione !

SONG SHOULD BREATHE.
Song should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;
Song should bring back seenes and hours
That we loved-ah, long ago!

Song from baser thoughts should win us;
Song should charm us out of wo;
Song should stir the heart within us,
Like a patriot's friendly blow.

Pains and pleasures, all men doeth,

War and peace, and right and wrongAll things that the soul subdueth

Should be vanquished, too, by Song.

Song should spur the mind to duty;
Nerve the weak, and stir the strong:
Every deed of truth and beauty
Should be crowned by starry Song!

THE SONG OF A FÉLON'S WIFE. The brand is on thy brow,

A dark and guilty spot; 'Tis ne'er to be erased!

'Tis ne'er to be forgot! The brand is on thy brow!

Yet I must shade the spot:
For who will fove thee now,
If I love thee not?

Thy soul is dark-is stained-
From out the bright world thrown;
By God and man disdained,
But not by me-thy own!

Oh! even the tiger slain

Hath one who ne'er doth flee, Who soothes his dying pain! -That one am I to thee!

THE WEAVER'S SONG.
Weave, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty, but no perfume

Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;

The violet, deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.

Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing !
'Tis good both to sing and to weave;
'Tis better to work than live idle;
'Tis better to sing than grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid
The colors of sunset glow!

Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!
Let beauty about ye blow!

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,
And time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all-like a truth-endure.
So-sing, brothers, &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours;
But toil is the lot of men ;

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king,
To the peasant that delves the soil,

That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil!
So-sing, brothers, &c.

SABBATH IN LOWELL.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

To a population like that of Lowell, the weekly respite from monotonous in-door toil, afforded by the first day of the week, is particularly grateful. Sabbath comes to the weary and over-worked operative emphatically as a day of rest.. It opens upon him, somewhat as it did upon George Herbert, as he describes it in his exquisite little poem:

"Sweet day, so pure, so cool and bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!"

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thus put to flight the azure demons of his unfortunate
temperament. There is, somehow, a close affinity
between moral purity and clean linen; and the
sprites of our daily temptation, who seem to find
easy access to us through a broken hat, or a rent in
the elbow, are manifestly baffled by the complete
mail" of a clean and decent dress. I recollect on
one occasion hearing my mother tell our family
physician, that a woman in the neighborhood, not
remarkable for her tidiness, had become a church
member. Humph!" said the Doctor, in his quick,
sarcastic way, “ what of that? Don't you know that
no unclean thing can enter the kingdom of Heaven!"
"If you would see" Lowell aright," as Walter
Scott says of Melrose Abbey, one must be here of a
pleasant First Day, at the close of what is called the
"afternoon service." The streets are then blossom-
ing like a peripatetic flower garden,-as if the tulips,
and lilies, and roses of my friend Warren's nursery,
in the vale of Nonantum, should take it into their
heads to promenade for exercise. Thousands swarm
forth, who during week days are confined to the mills.
Gay colors alternate with snowy whiteness; ex-
tremest fashion elbows the plain demureness of old-
fashioned Methodism. Fair pale faces catch a warm-
er tint from the free sunshine and fresh air.
languid step becomes elastic with that "springy
motion in the gait," which Charles Lamb admired.
Yet the general appearance of the city is that of
quietude; the youthful multitude passses on calmly;
its voices subdued to a lower and softened tone, as if
fearful of breaking the repose of the Day of Rest.
A stranger, fresh from the gaily-spent Sabbaths of
the Continent of Europe, would be undoubtedly
amazed at the decorum and sobriety of these crowd-
ed streets.

The

I am no Puritan, but I nevertheless welcome with joy unfeigned this First Day of the Week-sweetest pause in our hard life-march, greenest resting place in the hot desert we are treading! The errors of those who mistake its benignant rest for the iron rule of the Jewish Sabbath, and who consequently hedge it about with penalties, and bow down before it in slavish terror, should not render us less grate. ful for the real blessing it brings us. As a day wrested in some degree from the god of this world, as an opportunity afforded for thoughtful self-communing, let us receive it as a good gift of our Heavenly Parent, in love rather than fear.

Apart from its soothing religious associations, it brings with it the assurance of physical comfort and freedom. It is something, to be able to doze out the morning from daybreak to breakfast in that luxurious state between sleeping and waking, in which the mind eddies slowly and peacefully round and round, instead of rushing onward, the future a blank, the past annihilated, the present but a dim consciousness of pleasurable existence. Then, too, the satisfaction is by no means inconsiderable of throwing aside the worn and soiled habiliments of labor, and appearing in neat and comfortable attire. The moral influence of dress has not been overrated even by Carlyle's Professor in his Sartor Resartus." William Penn In passing along Central street this morning, my says, that cleanliness is akin to godliness. A well attention was directed, by the friend who accompadressed man, all other things being equal, is not half nied me, to a group of laborers, with coats off and as likely to compromise his character, as one who sleeves rolled up, heaving at levers--smiting with approximates to shabbiness. Lawrence Sterne used sledge-hammers,—in full view of the street, on the to say, that when he felt himself giving way to low spirits, and a sense of depression and worthlessnessa sort of predisposition for all sorts of little meannesses-he forthwith shaved himself, brushed his wig, donned his best dress and his gold rings, and

margin of the canal, just above Central street bridgeI rubbed my eyes, half expecting that I was the subject of mere optical illusion; but a second look only confirmed the first. Around me were solemn, go-tomeeting faces-smileless and awful; and close at hand

What

were the delving, toiling, mud-begrimmed laborers., the horror and clothes-rending astonishment of blind Nobody seemed surprised at it. Nobody noticed Pharisees, He uttered the significant truth, that it as a thing out of the common course of events. the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for And this, too, in a city where the Sabbath proprie- the Sabbath." From the close air of crowded cities, ties are sternly insisted upon; where some twenty from thronged temples and synagogues, - where pulpits deal out anathemas upon all who "desecrate priest and Levite kept up a show of worship, drumthe Lord's day;" where notices of meetings, forming upon hollow ceremonials the more loudly for moral purposes even, can scarcely be read o' Sun- their emptiness of life, as the husk rustles the more days; where many count it wrong to speak on that when the grain is gone-He led His disciples out day for the slave, who knows no Sabbath of rest, or into the country stillness, under clear Eastern heafor the drunkard, who, embruted by his appetites, vens, on the breezy tops of mountains, in the shade cannot enjoy it!-Verily, there are strange contra- of fruit trees, by the side of fountains and through dictions in our conventional morality. Eyes, which, yellow harvest fields, enforcing the lessons of His looking across the Atlantic on the gay Sabbath dances divine morality by comparisons and parables sugof French peasants, are turned upward with horror, gested by the objects around Him, or the cheerful are somehow blind to matters close at home. incidents of social humanity, the vineyard, the field would be sin past repentance, in an individual, belily, the sparrow in the air, the sower in the seedcomes quite proper in a corporation. True, the field, the feast and the marriage. Thus gently, thus Sabbath is holy-but the canals must be repaired. sweetly kind and cheerful, fell from His lips the Every body ought to go to meeting-but the divi- GOSPEL OF HUMANITY: Love the fulfilling of every dends must not be diminished. Church Indulgences law; our love for one another measuring and maniare not, after all, confined to Rome. festing our love of Him. The baptism wherewith To a close observer of human nature, there is He was baptized was that of Divine Fulness in the nothing surprising in the fact, that a class of persons, wants of our humanity; the deep waters of our sorwho wink at this sacrifice of Sabbath sanctities to rows went over him; Ineffable Purity sounding for the demon of Gain, look at the same time with stern our sakes the dark abysm of sin,-yet how like a disapprobation upon every thing partaking of the cha- river of light runs that serene and beautiful life racter of amusement, however innocent and health- through the narratives of the Evangelists! He ful, on this day. But, for myself, looking down broke bread with the poor, despised publican; He through the light of a golden evening upon these quiet- sat down with the fishermen by the sea of Galilee; ly passing groups, I cannot find it in my heart to con- He spoke compassionate words to sin-sick Magdalen; demn them for seeking on this, their sole day of leisure, He sanctified by his presence the social enjoyments the needful influences of social enjoyment, unrestrain-of home and friendship in the family of Bethany; ed exercise, and fresh air. I cannot think any essential service to religion or humanity would result from the conversion of their day of rest into a Jewish Sabbath, and their consequent confinement, like so many pining prisoners, in close and crowded boarding houses. Is not cheerfulness a duty-a better expression of our gratitude for God's blessings than mere words? And even under the old law of rituals, what answer had the Pharisees to the question, "Is it not lawful to do good on the Sabbath-day?"

He laid his hand of blessing on the sunny brows of children; He had regard even to the merely animal wants of the multitude in the wilderness; He frowned upon none of life's simple and natural pleasures.. The burden of His Gospel was Love; and in life and word He taught evermore the divided and scattered children of one great family, that only as they drew near each other could they approach Him who was their common centre; and that while no ostentation of prayer nor rigid observance of ceremonies I am naturally of a sober temperament, and am, could elevate man to Heaven, the simple exercise besides, a member of that sect which Dr. More has of Love, in thought and action, could bring Heaven called, mistakingly indeed, "th emost melancholy of down to man. To weary and restless spirits He all;" but I confess a special dislike of disfigured taught the great truth, that happiness consists in faces-ostentatious displays of piety-pride aping | making others happy. No cloister for idle genuflex. humility. Asceticism, moroseness, self-torture-ions and bead-counting, no hair-cloth for the loins ingratitude in view of down-showering blessings, and painful restraint of the better feelings of our nature, may befit a Hindoo fakir, or a Mandan medicine-man with buffalo skulls strung to his lacerated muscles, but they look to me sadly out of place in a believer of the Glad Evangel of the New Testament. The life of the Divine Teacher affords no countenance to this sullen and gloomy saintliness, shutting up the heart against the sweet influences of human sympa. thy and the blessed ministrations of Nature. To

nor scourge for the limbs, but works of love and usefulness under the cheerful sunshine, making the waste places of humanity glad, and causing the heart's desert to blossom. Why then should we go searching after the cast-off sackcloth of the Pharisee? Are we Jews or Christians? Must even our gratitude for "glad tidings of great joy" be desponding? Must the hymn of our thanksgiving for countless mercies, and the unspeakable gift of His life, have evermore an undertone of funeral dirges? What! shall we

go murmuring and lamenting, looking coldly on one another, seeing no beauty nor light nor gladness in this world, wherein we have the glorious privilege of laboring in God's harvest-field, with angels for our task-companions, blessing and being blessed?

LINES,

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a tour. July 13, 1798.

To him, who, neglecting the revelations of immediate duty, looks regretfully behind and fearfully before him, Life is a solemn mystery, for which-Five years have past; five summers, with the length ever way he turns, a wall of darkness rises before Of five long winters! and again I hear him; but down upon the Present as through a sky- These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs light between the shadows, falls a clear still radi- With a sweet inland murmur.-Once again ance, like beams from an eye of blessing; and with- Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, in the circle of that divine illumination, Beauty and That on a wild secluded scene impress Goodness, Truth and Love, Purity and Cheerfulness, Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect blend like primal colors into the clear harmony of The landscape with the quiet of the sky. light. The author of "Proverbial Philosophy," The day is come when I again repose upon whom, more than upon any living writer, has Here, under this dark sycamore, and view fallen the mantle of the Son of Sirach, has a pas-These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, sage not unworthy of note in this connection, when he speaks of the train which attends the Just in Heaven : "Also in the lengthening troop see I some clad in The wild green landscape. Once again I see robes of triumph, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Whose fair and sunny faces I have known and loved Of sportive wood run wild these pastoral farms, on earth, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Welcome, ye glorified Loves, Graces, Sciences, and Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! Muses, With some uncertain notice, as might seem That, like Sisters of Charity, tended in this world's Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, hospital. Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire Welcome, for verily I knew ye could not but be chil- The Hermit sits alone.

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Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb

These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
light-As is a landscape to a blind man's eye :
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

Thou also, star-robed Urania; and thou with the curious glass,

That rejoicest in tracking beauty where the eye was too dull to note it.

And art thou too among the blessed, mild, muchinjured Poetry?

That quickenest with light and beauty the leaden

face of matter,

That not unheard, though silent, fillest earth's gar

dens with music;

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In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration :-feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
To them I may have owed another gift,
In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on.-
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

If this

And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,-both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Be but a vain belief, yet. oh! how oft-
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart-
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods! Of all my moral being.
How often has my spirit turned to thee!

Nor perchance,

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished If I were not thus taught, should I the more

thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once,

The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

first

I came among these hills; when like a roe
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led more like a man
Flying from something that he dreads, than one
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colors and their forms, were then to me
An apppetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.-That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

Knowing that Nature never did betray,
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance-
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these
gleams

Of past existence-wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love-oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

still

A lover of the meadows and the woods,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

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