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PO E T R Y.
*THE ACQUITTAL OF THE SEVEN BISHOPS.
(June 30th, 1688.)
Awoke morn's earliest ray;
Was peopled as by day.
The nation's heart was stirred ;
Hung trembling on its word.
That Romish power might rise ;
Watched o'er their bold emprise.
The living tide rolled on;
Was secret and unknown.
• Vide Macaulay's History of England.
The jurors came.
A hush profound
“ Not guilty, on our word !"
The listening crowd was heard.
Ee'n to the waters' flow;
That still broke forth anew ; While mounted horsemen lingering near The dense crowd's verge, with ready ear Caught the first cry when rose that cheer, Dashed
spur in steed, and swift as fear,
To spread the tidings flew.
Upon the stones they trod;
In the calm house of God.
Triumphantly the live long day,
Gave answering peals of mirth;
The Sabbath morn had birth.
THE HA' BIBLE.* CHIEF of the Household Gods
Which hallow Scotland's lowly cottage homes ! While looking on thy signs
That speak, though dumb, deep thought upon me comesWith glad yet solemn dreams my heart is stirr'd, Like childhood's when it hears the carol of a bird ! The mountains old and hoar
The chainless winds—the streams so pure and freeThe God-enamel'd flowers
The waving forest—the eternal seaThe eagle floating o'er the mountain's browAre teachers all; but, Oh! they are not such as Thou ! Oh! I could worship thee!
Thou art a gift a God of love might give; For love, and hope, and joy
In thine Almighty-written pages live! The slave who reads shall never crouch again; For, mind-inspired by thee, he bursts his feeble chain ! Thou doubly-precious Book !
Unto thy light what doth not Scotland owe?Thou teachest Age to die,
And Youth in truth unsullied up to grow !
* From “ The Family Sunday Book," a little work distinguished alike for the tact and sound sense displayed in its original papers, and the taste which marks its selections of poetry.
In lowly homes a comforter art thou-
How many dim and aged eyes have pored ?
In silence deep and holy have adored ?
Hast been a bond-an Altar of the Mind !
Here my heart reposes
By this bower of roses.
Send out a dreamy sound
Shed delights around.
Her own sweet song,
A whisper says How long ?
Which sang in the olden day,
Whose bloom has pass'd away.
Who in their darker hours
their home is vocal
“How long, O Lord! how long ?" Lyme Regis.
E. L. A.