A Rural Ramble [pp. 364-366]

TIME.-A RURAL RAMBLE.
author of Paradise Lost. Were it not for the thrilling description given by the Revelator, we would
not instinctively asociate the name of West with
every mention of Death on the Pale Horse. Nearly
every great poem and most of the celebrated paintings can trace their origin to this source. The wisest
statesmen have acknowledged their indebtedness to
it. "The sweet fragrance of the second Eden is over
its pages." Here then let us linger and learn wisdom, taught in a manner more enchanting and beautifiil than the imagination of man ever conjured up.
We here learn that when life's pilgrimage is over,
the silver cord will be loosed, and the golden bowl
be broken; the pitcher will be broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern; then shall
the dust return to the earth as it was, and the spirit
unto God who gave it.
TIME.
BY A. lF. RABBIS.
MORN and night,
Morn and night,
Light and shadow flowing, flowing;
Darkness, light,
Darkness, light,
Restive spirits going, going.
Staying never,
Staying never,
Wave to wave like mountains swelling;
On for ever,
On for ever.
To the throne of GoD's high dwelling.
Deeply moaning,
Deeply moaning,
Breathes the storm king's sullen blast;
Hollow groaning,
Hollow groaning,
Wafts the future to the past.
Rolls the thunder,
Rolls the thunder,
Breaks the lightning's brilliant wrath;
Gleaming under,
Gleaming under,
The awful tone the Eternal hath.
Life dividing,
Life dividing,
Steals the purer part away;
Darkly gliding,
Darkly gliding,
Melts the remnant here to clay.
Time! thy dwelling,
Time! thy dwelling,
Gleams where foot hath never trod;
Moments telling,
In their knelling,
It is with the eternal GOD.
A RURAL RAMBLE.
BY HAR.Ol.Y,
IT was the first of May-the "flowery month of
May." Just as the heavens were tinged with the
radiance of the departing day, I walked out to en joy the calm serenity of the sunset hour. The
spirit of beauty was blending itself with the bud ding and blossoming trees, and the deep verdure of
the ground, making it gay with early flowers; the
bright gold dandelion flowers were thick as the
"stars on a winter's night;" and here and there,
close to the fence, and amidst moss and bushes, the
most delicate wild flowers diffused their fragrance.
The orchards, too, displayed their highest beauty;
the peach trees were loaded with their gay blos soms; and the apple trees were in delicate bloom,
exhibiting, as Thomson says,
"One boundless blush-one white impurpled shower
Of mingled blossoms."
The birds were full of happy, instinctive intelligence, each telling its story, and singing its merry
song. The insects, too, were humming joyously;
and the murmuring streams danced merrily on
through glen and glade, or sparkled along the
flower-gemmed meads, ringing forth the deep cadences of joy and love.
0, how inspiring are thy influences, ever-glorious
Spring! Bright harbinger of an immortal dawn I
Emblem of spring-time that never fadeth I Type of
that beautiful land to which the mental vision ever
turns!-where the " essence of being and beauty," the
"soul of creation and redemption" preside-where
the tree of life is always verdant, in bud and blossom, and yet ever affording its rich and ready fruitwhere the crowns of rejoicing are twined by the
hands of bliss, and adorn the brows of dear departed ones which throb no more with pain and anguish, since they have bathed in the renovating
streams of immortality, and tuned their voices to
the glad songs of praise in that better country,
"Where everlasting spring abides,
And never withering flowers."
Many times I paused in my walk to gaze upon the
surrounding beauties. I love nature intensely, and
derive much pleasure in contemplating its varied
appearances, and associating thoughts of God with
all its brightness and beauty. At this hour, every
leaf seemed to tremble with the great thought, God
is love, and the richness of every flower was but
the radiation of the same truth. I felt the presence
of the Deity, and attempted to utter thanks; but
my feelings were too mighty for utterance; I could
but muse his praise.
"Yes! the rich air knows it, and the mossy sod Thou, thou art here, my God!
The silence and the sound,
In the lone places, breathe alike of thee;
The dew-cup of the frail anemone The reed, by every wandering whisper thrill'd All —all with thee are fill'd!"
Yonder is the pretty white gate which leads to
.4
364