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THOMAS MILLER.

And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'ermy sunny brow!

Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine; The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee;

And in thy look, my Columbine! Each fond-remembered spot she bade me

see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and well. known tree,

And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again,
And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the
glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand
Time;

of

And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime:

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The village-bells, with silver chime,
Come softened by the distant shore;
Though I have heard them many a time,
They never rung so sweet before.
A listening awe pervades the air;
A silence rests upon the hill,
The very flowers are shut and still,
And bowed as if in prayer.

And in this hushed and breathless close,
O'er earth and air and sky and sea,
A still low voice in silence goes,
Which speaks alone, great God, of thee.
The whispering leaves, the far-off brook,
The linnet's warble fainter grown,
The hive-bound bee, the building rook,

All these their Maker own.

Now Nature sinks in soft repose,
A living semblance of the grave;
The dew steals noiseless on the rose,
The boughs have almost ceased to wave;
The silent sky, the sleeping earth,
Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod,
All tell from whom they had their birth,
And cry, "Behold a God!"

JOHN KEBLE,

[1796-1821.]

MORNING.

O, TIMELY happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love
Our wakening and uprising prove,

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