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And with a sweeter aspect; as the pain,
She felt erewhile, had given a zest to joys
Returned, and all the glories that again
Circle and beautify her crimson throne.
The voice of labour gliding from the plain Is now distinctly heard, and the slow team Furrows the glebe-that glebe the Switzer loves To till his own dear native soil. He there Full many a lesson for his spirit finds, Breathing from mountain, lowland, or the vale, The sweets of liberty; while the big tear Of gratitude along his rugged cheek Wanders its silent way. Remembered well, The glooms so late that o'er his hills were spread, Dark as the curtains of the night around! Then dared he scarce to meet the smile of Morn, And yield like homage from his heavy heart, Lest by some secret foe maligned, his life Instant had paid the forfeit of his joy :*
• A Protestant gentleman, resident amongst the mountains of the Sevennes, in one of the southern provinces of France, in the course of conversation with the author, mentioned, that he recollected well the time, when no one dared to express his sentiments, even to those whom he
Or worse to some lone dungeon's noisome damps
Consigned, he had lingered out his cheerless days,
Till death, that welcome messenger arrived,
Bearing the tidings he had longed to hear,
And set him free.
The shepherd now afar
Upon the upland-green's acclivity
Unpenns his bleating charge, and peaceful guides
Them to the thymy hill. The lambs oft-times,
As I pursue his winding path, I see
carry in his bosom: those that are
With young he gently leads, and with a step
More staid and tranquil they attend his call.
Good shepherd! May they know thy voice in time
To come, and all thy tenderness with love
Repay! I gaze on him awhile; and still
My heart beats slower, as more fixed my gaze.
Sense seems absorbed in meditation sweet!
had once regarded as his most intimate and confidential friends, lest he should be denounced by them, and led to the guillotine.
The public walks, so much frequented in France, were deserted; and a gloomy silence pervaded alike town and country.
Methinks that in his countenance I read
The yearnings of his heart. No hireling he,
As I have marked with grief in other folds,
Till pity forced me to intreat, and warn :
For they were idol shepherds' that deceived
The flock, and led them far astray, where were
No pastures of fresh verdure found, nor streams
Of pleasant waters, by whose murmuring wave,
Meandering noiselessly its lucid way,
They might, or rove the grassy banks along,
Sprinkled with fair and gently-breathing flowers,
Or lay them down in quietness, and taste
The blessings of a purchased rest.
Of age upon his brow are strong, yet calm.
Serenity dwells there, with Hope—blest Hope,
That soars above this evanescent scene,
And sweetly seats her in a world beyond,
Where sin and sorrow are alike unknown,
Exiled the blissful region.-In that eye,
Loured in no scowl of malice, speaks a soul,
Where peace is not a stranger. Not of pride
It tells-but of humility, and joy
Unutterable-gift benign of heaven
To mourning, penitent, unworthy man.
I see him look upon his gentle charge;
And sadness mingles with his smile of love.
Methinks he sighs in spirit. Is his heart
Engaged in contemplation on a work,
Which highest angels humbly seek to scan-
-Emmanuel's finish'd toil?-And does he feel,
That, as his flock beneath his watchful care,
So he is guarded in the Saviour's fold?
And yet, at intervals, I trace a tear
Wetting his blanched cheek. Is't that he thinks
Of his loved lambs that soon may go astray,
And wander on the mountains where the wolf
In his dark lair is lurking? Or is't yet,
That he in spirit views their blameless lives
Without a murmur to some hand resigned,
Wielding in callousness the blood-stained knife?
-But ah! it may be, that that cheek is wet,-
That eye runs o'er-because he sees his Lord
And Master meekly to the slaughter led :-
Beholds him fainting-fallen beneath his cross,
And drops a tear in tribute at his feet!