The Sabbath.

OW still the morning of the hallowed day!

Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed

The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers
The yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze;
Sounds the most faint attract the ear;-the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating, mid-way up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him, who wanders o'er the upland leas,
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale,
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at inte: vals,
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased, all, all around is quietness.

Less fearful on this day, the limping hare

Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toilsome horse set free,

Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;

And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.

On other days, the man of toil is doomed

To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground

Both seat and board; screened from the Winter's cold,
And Summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree;
But on this day, embosomed in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face and upward earnest eye.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke;
While wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him whose power he marks
In each green tree, that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its root; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy, each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

WILLIAM COWPER.

"

WILLIAM COWPER was born November 26, 1731, in Great Berkhampstead. Being of delicate body and mind, and in consequence of trouble with his eyes, his early school-days were interrupted. He spent about eight years at Westminster School, but, being the butt of much ridicule from his school-fellows, it seemed to subdue and embitter his spirits, so much so that many critics concur in believing that the effect of those days can be plainly traced in his writings. Leaving school at eighteen years of age he studied law, but being more inclined to literature than law, we find he constantly rambled from the thorny road of jurisprudence, to the primrose paths of literature." At thirty-two he was appointed Clerk to the House of Lords, but before he was prepared, his mind failed him through nervous excitement, and he retired for a time to a private asylum at St. Albans, and soon recovered. He now retired to Huntingdon, and took up his residence with the Unwins, and after the death of Mr. Unwin accompanied the widow and her daughter to Olney, where he spent many years of much happiness. While at Olney he met the Rev. Jno. Newton, in connection with whom he composed the Olney Hymns. His first volume of poems, con