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We view the Heaven's broad expanse; the
cloudless realms afar Are eloquent; we hear a voice in every shining
And sweetly falls that silent voice which
speaks of Hope and Love, Like gentle dews upon the heart from Hea
ven's full urn above.
The voiceless flowers have each a tone that
through Creation rings, The silent brook a pleasant song that still of
Nature sings; The light and shade-the passing years—the
seasons, as they rollMysterious are their voices, but they sink into
We turn toward the glowing East, we mark
the fading West; The silent voice still speaks to us, in labor or
in rest. Along the mighty ocean borne, upon the flow'r
clad sod, That sound unceasing speaks to us-that silent
Voice is God!
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
The darkness of her scenery.
To join the dreadful revelry.
Far flashed the red artillery.
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens! On, ye brave !
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few! few, shall part where many meet,
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Walter Bratt. IF thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go, visit it by the pale moonlight, For the gay beams of lightsome day, Gild but to flout the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers whiteWhen the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruined central towerWhen buttress and buttress alternately Seemed framed of ebon and ivory When silver edges the imagery And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die, When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet hoots o'er the dead man's grave
Then go—but go alone the while
21. A. Brownr.
THERE's a charming sound on the morning air,
They are ringing again, and in their sound Triumph and glory are scattered around; What mean the banners that float on the wind ? What mean the wreaths that these bright hel
mets bind ? Whose are the troop that in warlike array Sweep down the valley, their homage to pay
At the altar of Him who alone can break
Again they are ringing in calmer peal, Yet dearer and sweeter those notes we feel; 'Tis the sabbath morn, and the humble and
proud Together are thronging, in mingled crowd; Some from the valley, and some from the hall, All are obeying one general call; Coming from many a differing abode, Yet all approaching the house of God.
There's their sound again
but it's not the
As once on that summer morning came;
e are told that another his rest hath found;