Onwards he wends; near and more near he draws :
How sweet the tinkle of the palm-bowered brook!
The sunbeam slanting through the cedar grove
How lovely, and how mild! but lovelier still
The welcome in the eye of ancient friends,
Scarce known at first! and dear the fig-tree shade
'Neath which on Sabbath eve his father told *
Of Israel from the house of bondage freed,
Led through the desert to the promised land ;-
With eager arms the aged stem he clasps,
And with his tears the furrowed bark bedews :
And still, at midnight-hour, he thinks he hears
The blissful sound that brake the bondman's chains,
The glorious peal of freedom and of joy!
Did ever law of man a power like this
Display? power marvellous as merciful,
Which, though in other ordinances still
Most plainly seen, is yet but little marked
For what it truly is,-a miracle!
Stupendous, ever new, performed at once
In every region,-yea, on every sea
Which EUROPE's navies plough; yes, in all lands
From pole to pole, or civilized or rude,
People there are, to whom the Sabbath morn
Dawns, shedding dews into their drooping hearts:
Yes, far beyond the high-heaved western wave,
*And these words which I command thee this day shall be in thine heart; and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.-Thou shalt say unto thy son, We were Pharaoh's bondmen in Egypt, and the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand."Deut. vi. 6, 7, 21.
Amid COLUMBIA's wildernesses vast,
The words which God in thunder from the Mount
Of Sinai spake, are heard, and are obeyed.
Thy children, SCOTIA, in the desert land,
Driven from their homes by fell Monopoly,
Keep holy to the Lord the seventh day.
Assembled under loftiest canopy
Of trees primeval, soon to be laid low,
They sing, By Babel's streams we sat and wept.
What strong mysterious links enchain the heart
To regions where the morn of life was spent!
In foreign lands, though happier be the clime,
Though round our board smile all the friends we
love,
The face of nature wears a stranger's look :
Yea, though the valley which we loved be swept
Of its inhabitants, none left behind,
Not even the poor blind man who sought his bread
From door to door, still, still there is a want;
Yes, even he, round whom a night that knows
No dawn has ever spread, whose native vale
Presented to his closed eyes a blank,-
Deplores its distance now. There well he knew
Each object, though unseen; there could he wend
His way, guideless, through wilds and mazy woods;
Each aged tree, spared when the forest fell,
Was his familiar friend, from the smooth birch,
With rind of silken touch, to the rough elm :
The three grey stones that marked where heroes lay,
Mourned by the harp, mourned by the melting voice
Of Cona, oft his resting-place had been ;
Oft had they told him that his home was near:
The tinkle of the rill, the murmuring
So gentle of the brook, the torrent's rush,
The cataract's din, the ocean's distant roar,
The echo's answer to his foot or voice,-
All spoke a language which he understood,
All warned him of his way. But most he feels,
Upon the hallowed morn, the saddening change:
No more he hears the gladsome village bell
Ring the blest summons to the house of God:
And, for the voice of psalms, loud, solemn, grand,
That cheered his darkling path, as with slow step
And feeble, he toiled up the spire-topt hill,-
A few faint notes ascend among the trees.
What though the clustered vine there hardly tempts
The traveller's hand; though birds of dazzling plume
Perch on the loaded boughs:-"Give me thy woods,
(Exclaims the banished man,) thy barren woods,
Poor SCOTLAND! sweeter there the reddening haw,
The sloe, or rowan's bitter bunch, than here
The purple grape; dearer the redbreast's note,
That mourns the fading year in SCOTIA's vales,
Than Philomel's, where spring is ever new;
More dear to me the redbreast's sober suit,
So like a withered leaflet, than the glare
Of gaudy wings, that make the Iris dim."
Nor is regret exclusive to the old :
The boy, whose birth was midway o'er the main,
A ship his cradle, by the billows rocked,— "The nursling of the storm,"—although he claims No native land, yet does he wistful hear
Of some far-distant country still called home, Where lambs of whitest fleece sport on the hills; Where gold-specked fishes wanton in the streams; Where little birds, when snow-flakes dim the air, Light on the floor, and peck the table-crumbs, And with their singing cheer the winter day.
But what the loss of country to the woes
Of banishment and solitude combined ?
Oh! my heart bleeds to think there now may live
One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck,
Cast on some desert island of that main
Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore
To Acapulco. Motionless he sits,
As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days,
With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste;
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time
Upon the shell-notched calendar to mark
Another day, another dreary day,—
Changeless, for, in these regions of the sun, The wholesome law that dooms mankind to toil, Bestowing grateful interchange of rest
And labour, is annulled; for there the trees, Adorned at once with bud, and flower, and fruit, Drop, as the breezes blow, a shower of bread And blossoms on the ground: but yet by him, The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes.-'Tis his great delight,
Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think,-that setting sun
Is now empurpling SCOTLAND's mountain-tops,
Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church;
And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full,-where, not without a tear,
They are remembered who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep :* he sees the hand,
The widowed hand, that veils the eye suffused;
He sees his orphan'd boy look up, and strive
The widowed heart to sooth. His spirit leans
On God. Nor does he leave his weekly vigil,
Though tempests ride o'er welkin-lashing waves
On winds of cloudless wing+; though lightnings
burst
So vivid, that the stars are hid and seen
In awful alternation: calm he views
The far-exploding firmament, and dares
To hope-one bolt in mercy is reserved
For his release; and yet he is resigned
"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep."-Psal. cvii. 23, 24.
In the tropical regions, the sky during storms is often without a cloud.
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