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yet mysteriously brought back from vanishment by some one single silent thought, to which power has been yielding over that bright portion of the Past, will both of them sometimes reappear to thee in solitude-or haply when in the very heart of life. And then surely a few tears will fall for sake of himthen no more seen-by whose side thou stoodest, when that double sunset enlarged thy sense of beauty, and made thee in thy father's eyes the sweetest-best-and brightest poetesswhose whole life is musical inspirationode, elegy, and hymn, sung not in words but in looks-sigh-breathed or speechlessly distilled in tears flowing from feelings the farthest in this world from grief.

imagery, yet more steadfastly hanging there | of our own spirits. Again both are gone from than ever hung the banks of summer! For the outward world-and naught remains but a all one sheet of ice, now clear as the Glass of forbidden frown of the cold bleak snow. But Glamoury in which that Lord of old beheld his imperishable in thy imagination will both sunGeraldine-is Windermere, the heaven-loving sets be-and though it will sometimes retire and the heaven-beloved. Not a wavelet mur- into the recesses of thy memory, and lie there murs in all her bays, from the silvan Brathay among the unsuspected treasures of forgotten to where the southern straits narrow into a imagery that have been unconsciously accuriver-now chained too, the Leven, on his sil- mulating there since first those gentle eyes of van course towards that perilous Estuary afar thine had perfect vision given to their depths off raging on its wreck-strewn sands. The frost came after the last fall of snow-and not a single flake ever touched that surface; and now that you no longer miss the green twinkling of the large July leaves, does not imagination love those motionless frozen forests, cold but not dead, serene but not sullen, inspirative in the strangeness of their apparelling of wild thoughts about the scenery of foreign climes, far away among the regions of the North, where Nature works her wonders aloof from human eyes, and that wild architect Frost, during the absence of the sun, employs his night of months in building and dissolving his ice-palaces, magnificent beyond the reach of any power set to work at the bidding of earth's crowned and sceptred kings? All at once a So much, though but little, for the beautifulhundred houses, high up among the hills, seem with, perhaps, a tinge of the sublime. Are the on fire. The setting sun has smitten them, and two emotions different and distinct-thinkst the snow-tracts are illuminated by harmless thou, O metaphysical critic of the gruesome conflagrations. Their windows are all lighted countenance-or modifications of one and the up by a lurid splendour, in its strong sudden- same? 'Tis a puzzling question-and we, | ness sublime. But look, look, we beseech you, Sphinx, might wait till doomsday, before you, at the sun-the sunset-the sunset region-dipus, could solve the enigma. Certainly a and all that kindred and corresponding heaven, Rose is one thing and Mount Etna is another effulgent, where a minute ago lay in its cold-an antelope and an elephant-an insect and glitter the blue bosom of the lake. Who knows the laws of light and the perpetual miracle of their operation? God-not thou. The snowmountains are white no more, but gorgeous in their colouring as the clouds. Lo! Pavey-Ark -magnificent range of cliffs-seeming to come forward, while you gaze!-How it glows with a rosy light, as if a flush of flowers decked the precipice in that delicate splendour! Langdale-Pikes, methinks, are tinged with finest purple, and the thought of violets is with us as we gaze on the tinted bosom of the mountains dearest to the setting sun. But that long broad slip of orange-coloured sky is yellowing with its reflection almost all the rest of our Alps-all but yon stranger-the summit of some mountain belonging to another region— ay-the Great Gabel-silent now as sleepwhen last we clomb his cliffs, thundering in the mists of all his cataracts. In his shroud he stands pallid like a ghost. Beyond the reach of the setting sun he lours in his exclusion from the rejoicing light, and imagination, personifying his solitary vastness into forsaken life, pities the doom of the forlorn Giant. Ha! just as the eye of day is about to shut, one smile seems sent afar to that lonesome mountain, and a crown of crimson encompasses his forehead.

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On which of the two sunsets art thou now gazing? Thou who art to our old loving eyes so like the "mountain nymph, sweet Liberty?" On the sunset in the heaven-or the sunset in the lake? The divine truth is-O Daughter of our Age!—that both sunsets are but visions

a man-of-war, both sailing in the sun-a little lucid well in which the fairies bathe, and the Polar Sea in which Leviathan is "wallowing unwieldy, enormous in his gait"-the jewelled finger of a virgin bride, and grim Saturn with his ring-the upward eye of a kneeling saint, and a comet, " that from his horrid hair shakes pestilence and war." But let the rose bloom on the mouldering ruins of the palace of some great king-among the temples of Balbec or Syrian Tadmor-and in its beauty, methinks, 'twill be also sublime. See the antelope bounding across a raging chasm--up among the region of eternal snows on Mont Blanc-and deny it, if you please-but assuredly we think that there is sublimity in the fearless flight of that beautiful creature, to whom nature grudged not wings, but gave instead the power of plumes to her small delicate limbs, unfractured by alighting among the pointed rocks. All alone, by your single solitary self, in some wide, lifeless desert, could you deny sublimity to the unlooked-for hum of the tiniest insect, or to the sudden shiver of the beauty of his gauzewings? Not you, indeed. Stooping down to quench your thirst in that little lucid well where the fairies bathe, what if you saw the image of the evening star shining in some strange subterranean world? We suspect that you would hold in your breath, and swear devoutly that it was sublime. Dead on the very evening of her marriage day is that virgin bride whose delicacy was so beautifuland as she lies in her white wedding garments that serve for a shroud-that emblem of eter

nity and of eternal love, the ring, upon her fin- | turn with his ring, and with his horrid hair ger—with its encased star shining brightly now the comet-might be all less than nothings. that her eyes, once stars, are closed-would, me- Therefore beauty and sublimity are twin feelthinks, be sublime to all Christian hearts. In ings-one and the same birth-seldom insepacomparison with all these beautiful sublimities, rable;-if you still doubt it, become a fire-worMount Etna, the elephant, the man-of-war, shipper, and sing your morning and evening Leviathan swimming the ocean-stream, Sa- orisons to the rising and the setting sun.

THE HOLY CHILD.

visible and inaudible that you wonder to find that it is all vanished, and to see the old tree again standing in its own faint-green glossy bark, with its many million buds, which perhaps fancy suddenly expands into a power of umbrage impenetrable to the sun in Scorpio.

THIS House of ours is a prison-this Study | cay, but often melts away into changes so inof ours a cell. Time has laid his fetters on our feet-fetters fine as the gossamer, but strong as Samson's ribs, silken-soft to wise submission, but to vain impatience galling as cankered wound that keeps ceaselessly eating into the bone. But while our bodily feet are thus bound by an inevitable and inexorable law, our mental wings are free as those of the lark, the dove, or the eagleand they shall be expanded as of yore, in calm or tempest, now touching with their tips the bosom of this dearly beloved earth, and now aspiring heavenwards, beyond the realms of mist and cloud, even unto the very core of the still heart of that otherwise unapproachable sky which graciously opens to receive us on our flight, when, disencumbered of the burden of all grovelling thoughts, and strong in spirituality, we exult to soar

"Beyond this visible diurnal sphere," nearing and nearing the native region of its own incomprehensible being.

A sudden burst of sunshine! bringing back the pensive spirit from the past to the present, and kindling it, till it dances like light reflected from a burning mirror. A cheerful Sun-scene, though almost destitute of life. An undulating Landscape, hillocky and hilly, but not mountainous, and buried under the weight of a day and night's incessant and continuous snow-fall. The weather has not been windy—and now that the flakes have ceased falling, there is not a cloud to be seen, except some delicate braidings here and there along the calm of the Great Blue Sea of Heaven. Most luminous is the sun, yet you can look straight on his face, almost with unwinking eyes, so mild and mellow is his large light as it overflows the day. Now touching, we said, with their tips the All enclosures have disappeared, and you inbosom of this dearly beloved earth! How distinctly ken the greater landmarks, such as sweet that attraction to imagination's wings! a grove, a wood, a hall, a castle, a spire, a How delightful in that lower flight to skim village, a town-the faint haze of a far off and along the green ground, or as now along the smokeless city. Most intense is the silence soft-bosomed beauty of the virgin snow! We for all the streams are dumb, and the great were asleep all night long-sound asleep as river lies like a dead serpent in the strath. children-while the flakes were falling, "and | Not dead-for, lo! yonder one of his folds glitsoft as snow on snow" were all the descendingsters--and in the glitter you see him moving—— of our untroubled dreams. The moon and all her stars were willing that their lustre should be veiled by that peaceful shower; and now the sun, pleased with the purity of the morning earth, all white as innocence, looks down from heaven with a meek unmelting light, and still leaves undissolved the stainless splendour. There is frost in the air-but he "does his spiriting gently," studding the ground-snow thickly with diamonds, and shaping the tree-snow according to the peculiar and characteristic beauty of the leaves and sprays, on which it has alighted almost as gently as the dews of spring. You know every kind of tree still by its own spirit showing itself through that fairy veil-momentarily disguised from recognition —but admired the more in the sweet surprise with which again your heart salutes its familiar branches, all fancifully ornamented with their snow foliage, that murmurs not like the green leaves of summer, that like the yellow leaves of autumn strews not the earth with de

while all the rest of his sullen length is palsied by frost, and looks livid and more livid at every distant and more distant winding. What blackens on that tower of snow? Crows roosting innumerous on a huge tree—but they caw not in their hunger. Neither sheep nor cattle are to be seen or heard--but they are cared for ;-the folds and the farm-yards are all full of life—and the ungathered stragglers are safe in their instincts. There has been a deep fall-but no storm-and the silence, though partly that of suffering, is not that of death. Therefore, to the imagination, unsaddened by the heart, the repose is beautiful. The almost unbroken uniformity of the scene-its simple and grand monotony-lulls all the thoughts and feelings into a calm, over which is breathed the gentle excitation of a novel charm, inspiring many fancies, all of a quiet character. Their range, perhaps, is not very extensive, but they all regard the home felt and domestic charities of life. And the heart burns as here

felt to be most holy, as the image of some beautiful and beloved being comes and goes before our eyes-brought from a far distance in this our living world, or from a distance further still in a world beyond the grave-the image of a virgin growing up sinlessly to womanhood among her parents' prayers, or of some spiritual creature who expired long ago, and carried with her her native innocence unstained to heaven.

and there some human dwelling discovers | the innocent. "Pure as snow," are words then itself by a wreath of smoke up the air, or as the robin redbreast, a creature that is ever at hand, comes flitting before your path with an almost pert flutter of his feathers, bold from the acquaintanceship he has formed with you in severer weather at the threshold or window of the tenement, which for years may have been the winter sanctuary of the "bird whom man loves best," and who bears a Christian name in every clime he inhabits. Meanwhile the sun waxes brighter and warmer in heaven Such Spiritual Creature-too spiritual long -some insects are in the air, as if that mo- to sojourn below the skies-wert Thou—whose ment called to life-and the mosses that may rising and whose setting-both most starlike yet be visible here and there along the ridge of-brightened at once all thy native vale, and a wall or on the stem of a tree, in variegated at once left it in darkness. Thy name has lustre frost-brightened, seem to delight in the long slept in our heart-and there let it sleep snow, and in no other season of the year to be unbreathed-even as, when we are dreaming so happy as in winter. Such gentle touches our way through some solitary place, without of pleasure animate one's whole being, and naming it, we bless the beauty of some sweet connect, by many a fine association, the emo- wild-flower, pensively smiling to us through tions inspired by the objects of animate and of the snow. inanimate nature.

at thy own dying request-between services thou wert buried.

The Sabbath returns on which, in the little Ponder on the idea-the emotion of purity- kirk among the hills, we saw thee baptized. and how finely soul-blent is the delight imagi- Then comes a wavering glimmer of five sweet nation feels in a bright hush of new-fallen years, that to Thee, in all their varieties, were snow! Some speck or stain-however slight but as one delightful season, one blessed life -there always seems to be on the most perfectand, finally, that other Sabbath, on which, whiteness of any other substance-or "dim suffusion veils" it with some faint discolour witness even the leaf of the lily or the rose. Heaven forbid that we should ever breathe | aught but love and delight in the beauty of these consummate flowers! But feels not the heart, even when the midsummer morning sunshine is melting the dews on their fragrant bosoms, that their loveliness is "of the earth earthy”—faintly tinged or streaked, when at the very fairest, with a hue foreboding languishment and decay? Not the less for its sake are those soulless flowers dear to usthus owning kindred with them whose beauty is all soul enshrined for a short while on that perishable face. Do we not still regard the insensate flowers--so emblematical of what, in human life, we do most passionately love and profoundly pity-with a pensive emotion, often deepening into melancholy that sometimes, ere the strong fit subsides, blackens into despair! What pain doubtless was in the heart of the Elegiac Poet of old, when he sighed over the transitory beauty of flowers

"Conquerimur natura brevis quam gratia Florum!” But over a perfectly pure expanse of nightfallen snow, when unaffected by the gentle sun, the first fine frost has incrusted it with small sparkling diamonds, the prevalent emotion is Joy. There is a charm in the sudden and total disappearance even of the grassy green. All the "old familiar faces" of nature are for a while out of sight, and out of mind. That white silence shed by heaven over earth carries with it, far and wide, the pure peace of another region-almost another life. No image is there to tell of this restless and noisy world. The cheerfulness of reality kindles up our reverie ere it becomes a dream; and we are glad to feel our whole being complexioned by the passionless repose. If we think at all of human life, it is only of the young, the fair, and

How mysterious are all thy ways and workings, O gracious Nature! Thou who art but a name given by us to the Being in whom all things are and have life. Ere three years old, she, whose image is now with us, all over the small silvan world that beheld the evanescent revelation of her pure existence, was called the "Holy Child!" The taint of sin-inherited from those who disobeyed in Paradise-seemed from her fair clay to have been washed out at the baptismal font, and by her first infantine tears. So pious people almost believed, looking on her so unlike all other children, in the serenity of that habitual smile that clothed the creature's countenance with a wondrous beauty at an age when on other infants is but faintly seen the dawn of reason, and their eyes look happy just like the thoughtless flowers. So unlike all other children-but unlike only because sooner than they she seemed to have had given to her, even in the communion of the cradle, an intimation of the being and the providence of God. Sooner, surely, than through any other clay that ever enshrouded immortal spirit, dawned the light of religion on the face of the "Holy Child."

Her lisping language was sprinkled with words alien from common childhood's uncertain speech, that murmurs only when indigent nature prompts; and her own parents wondered whence they came, when first they looked upon her kneeling in an unbidden prayer. As one mild week of vernal sunshine covers the braes with primroses, so shone with fair and fragrant feeling-unfolded, ere they knew, before her parents' eyes-the divine nature of her who for a season was lent to them from the skies. She learned to read out of the Bible-almost without any teachingthey knew not how-just by looking gladly on the words, even as she looked on the pretty

daisies on the green-till their meanings stole insensibly into her soul, and the sweet syllables, succeeding each other on the blessed page, were all united by the memories her heart had been treasuring every hour that her father or her mother had read aloud in her hearing from the Book of Life. "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven"-how wept her parents, as these the most affecting of our Saviour's words dropt silver-sweet from her lips, and continued in her upward eyes among the swimming tears!

The linnet ceased not his song for her, though her footsteps wandered into the green glade among the yellow broom, almost within reach of the spray from which he poured his melody the quiet eyes of his mate feared her not when her garments almost touched the bush where she brooded on her young. Shyest of the winged silvans, the cushat clapped not her wings away on the soft approach of such harmless footsteps to the pine that concealed her slender nest. As if blown from heaven, descended round her path the showers of the painted butterflies, to feed, sleep, or die—undisturbed by her-upon the wild-flowers-with wings, when motionless, undistinguishable from the blossoms. And well she loved the brown, busy, blameless bees, come thither for the honey-dews from a hundred cots sprinkled all over the parish, and all high overhead sailing away at evening, laden and wearied, to their straw-roofed skeps in many a hamlet garden. The leaf of every tree, shrub, and plant, she knew familiarly and lovingly in its own characteristic beauty; and she was loath to shake

Be not incredulous of this dawn of reason, wonderful as it may seem to you, so soon becoming morn-almost perfect daylight-with the "Holy Child." Many such miracles are set before us-but we recognise them not, or pass them by with a word or a smile of short surprise. How leaps the baby in its mother's arms, when the mysterious charm of music thrills through its little brain! And how learns it to modulate its feeble voice, unable yet to articulate, to the melodies that bring forth all | round its eyes a delighted smile! Who knows | one dew-drop from the sweetbrier-rose. And what then may be the thoughts and feelings of the infant awakened to the sense of a new world, alive through all its being to sounds that haply glide past our ears unmeaning as the breath of the common air! Thus have mere infants sometimes been seen inspired by music till, like small genii, they warbled spell-strains of their own, powerful to sadden and subdue our hearts. So, too, have infant eyes been so charmed by the rainbow irradiating the earth, that almost infant hands have been taught, as if by inspiration, the power to paint in finest colours, and to imitate, with a wondrous art, the skies so beautiful to the quick-awakened spirit of delight. What knowledge have not some children acquired, and gone down scholars to their small untimely graves! Knowing that such things have been-areand will be-why art thou incredulous of the divine expansion of soul, so soon understand-gentle taskwork self-imposed among her pasing the things that are divine-in the "Holy Child?"

Thus grew she in the eye of God, day by day waxing wiser and wiser in the knowledge that tends towards the skies; and, as if some angel visitant were nightly with her in her dreams, awakening every morn with a new dream of thought, that brought with it a gift of more comprehensive speech. Yet merry she was at times with her companions among the woods and braes, though while they all were laughing, she only smiled; and the passing traveller, who might pause for a moment to bless the sweet creatures in their play, could not but single out one face among the many fair, so pensive in its paleness, a face to be remembered, coming from afar, like a mournful thought upon the hour of joy.

Sister or brother of her own had she none and often both her parents-who lived in a hut by itself up among the mossy stumps of the old decayed forest-had to leave her alone --sometimes even all the day long from morning till night. But she no more wearied in her solitariness than does the wren in the wood. All the flowers were her friends-all the birds.

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well she knew that all nature loved her in return-that they were dear to each other in their innocence-and that the very sunshine, in motion or in rest, was ready to come at the bidding of her smiles. Skilful those small white hands of hers among the reeds and rushes and osiers-and many a pretty flowerbasket grew beneath their touch, her parents wondering on their return home to see the handiwork of one who was never idle in her happiness. Thus early-ere yet but five years old-did she earn her mite for the sustenance of her own beautiful life. The russet garb she wore she herself had won—and thus Poverty, at the door of that hut, became even like a Guardian Angel, with the lineaments of heaven on her brow, and the quietude of heaven beneath her feet.

But these were but her lonely pastimes, or

times, and itself the sweetest of them all, inspired by a sense of duty that still brings with it its own delight, and hallowed by religion, that even in the most adverse lot changes. slavery into freedom-till the heart, insensible to the bonds of necessity, sings aloud for joy. The life within the life of the "Holy Child," apart from even such innocent employments as these, and from such recreations as innocent, among the shadows and the sunshine of those silvan haunts, was passed-let us fear not to say the truth, wondrous as such worship was in one so very young-was passed in the worship of God; and her parents-though sometimes even saddened to see such piety in a small creature like her, and afraid, in their exceeding love, that it betokened an early removal from this world of one too perfectly pure ever to be touched by its sins and sorrowsforbore, in an awful pity, ever to remove the Bible from her knees, as she would sit with it there, not at morning and at evening only, or all the Sabbath long as soon as they returned from the kirk, but often through all the hours of the longest and sunniest week-days, when, had she chosen to do so, there was nothing to

hinder her from going up the hill-side, or down | piety so far surpassing their thoughts; and to the little village, to play with the other chil- time-hardened sinners, it is said, when looking dren, always too happy when she appeared- and listening to the "Holy Child," knew the nothing to hinder her but the voice she heard error of their ways, and returned to the right speaking in that Book, and the hallelujahs path as at a voice from heaven. that, at the turning over of each blessed page, came upon the ear of the "Holy Child" from white-robed saints all kneeling before His throne in heaven.

Bright was her seventh summer-the brightest, so the aged said, that had ever, in man's memory, shone over Scotland. One long, still, sunny, blue day followed another, and in the Her life seemed to be the same in sleep. rainless weather, though the dews kept green Often at midnight, by the light of the moon the hills, the song of the streams was low shining in upon her little bed beside theirs, But paler and paler, in sunlight and moon her parents leant over her face, diviner in light, became the sweet face that had been dreams, and wept as she wept, her lips all the always pale; and the voice that had been al while murmuring, in broken sentences of ways something mournful, breathed lower and prayer, the name of Him who died for us all. sadder still from the too perfect whiteness of But plenteous as were her penitential tears- her breast. No need—no fear—to tell her that penitential in the holy humbleness of her stain- she was about to die. Sweet whispers had less spirit, over thoughts that had never left a sung it to her in her sleep-and waking she dimming breath on its purity, yet that seemed knew it in the look of the piteous skies. But in those strange visitings to be haunting her as she spoke not to her parents of death more the shadows of sins-soon were they all dried than she had often done-and never of her up in the lustre of her returning smiles. Wak-own. Only she seemed to love them with a ing, her voice in the kirk was the sweetest more exceeding love-and was readier, even among many sweet, as all the young singers, and she the youngest far, sat together by themselves, and within the congregational music of the psalm uplifted a silvery strain that sounded like the very spirit of the whole, even like angelic harmony blent with a mortal song. But sleeping, still more sweetly sang the "Holy Child;" and then, too, in some diviner inspiration than ever was granted to it while awake, her soul composed its own hymns, and set the simple scriptural words to its own mysterious music-the tunes she loved best gliding into one another, without once ever marring the melody, with pathetic touches interposed never heard before, and never more to be renewed! For each dream had its own breathing, and many-visioned did then seem to be the sinless creature's sleep.

The love that was borne for her all over the hill-region, and beyond its circling clouds, was almost such as mortal creatures might be thought to feel for some existence that had visibly come from heaven. Yet all who looked on her, saw that she, like themselves, was mortal, and many an eye was wet, the heart wist not why, to hear such wisdom falling from such lips; for dimly did it prognosticate, that as short as bright would be her walk from the cradle to the grave. And thus for the "Holy Child" was their love elevated by awe, and saddened by pity-and as by herself she passed pensively by their dwellings, the same eyes that smiled on her presence, on her disappearance wept.

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sometimes when no one was speaking, with a few drops of tears. Sometimes she disappeared-nor, when sought for, was found in the woods about the hut. And one day that mystery was cleared; for a shepherd saw her sitting by herself on a grassy mound in a nook of the small solitary kirkyard, a long mile off among the hills, so lost in reading the Bible, that shadow or sound of his feet awoke her not; and, ignorant of his presence, she knelt down and prayed-for a while weeping bitterly-but soon comforted by a heavenly calmthat her sins might be forgiven her!

One Sabbath evening, soon after, as she was sitting beside her parents at the door of their hut, looking first for a long while on their faces, and then for a long while on the sky, though it was not yet the stated hour of worship, she suddenly knelt down, and leaning on their knees, with hands clasped more fervently than her wont, she broke forth into tremulous. singing of that hymn which from her lips they never heard without unendurable tears:

"The hour of my departure's come,

I hear the voice that calls me home;
At last, O Lord, let trouble cease,
And let thy servant die in peace!"

They carried her fainting to her little bed, and uttered not a word to one another till she revived. The shock was sudden, but not unexpected, and they knew now that the hand of death was upon her, although her eyes soon became brighter and brighter, they thought, than they had ever been before. But forehead, Not in vain for others-and for herself, oh! cheeks, lips, neck, and breast, were all as what great gain!-for those few years on earth white, and, to the quivering hands that touched did that pure spirit ponder on the word of God! them, almost as cold, as snow. Ineffable was Other children became pious from their delight the bliss in those radiant eyes; but the breath in her piety-for she was simple as the of words was frozen, and that hymn was alsimplest among them all, and walked with most her last farewell. Some few words she them hand in hand, nor declined companion- spake-and named the hour and day she ship with any one that was good. But all wished to be buried. Her lips could then grew good by being with her-and parents just faintly return the kiss, and no more—a had but to whisper her name, and in a mo- film came over the now dim blue of her eyes ment the passionate sob was hushed-the-the father listened for her breath-and then lowering brow lighted-and the household in the mother took his place, and leaned her ear peace. Older hearts owned the power of the to the unbreathing mouth, long deluding her

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