And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms-the simple song of praise.
With dove-like wings, Peace o'er yon village broods:
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din
Hath ceased; all, all around is quietness.
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare,
Stops and looks back, and stops, and looks on man,
Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free,
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large;
And, as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls,
His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray.
But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys.
Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
On other days the man of toil is doom'd
To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground

Both seat and board; screen'd from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree.
But on this day, embosom'd in his home,
He shares the frugal meal with those he loves :
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form-
A word and a grimace-but reverently,
With covered face and upward, earnest eye.

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day.
The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe
The morning air, pure from the city's smoke.
While, wandering slowly up the river side,
He meditates on Him, whose power he marks
In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,
As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom
Around its roots; and while he thus surveys,
With elevated joy each rural charm,

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

THE SABBATH.

[When the late Mr Patrick M'Farlane translated to Galic the Essay on the Sanctification of the Lord's Day," written by the Rev. Samuel Gilfillan, Minister of Comrie (father of the celebrated George Gilfillan), he got the late learned and accomplished Mr

An riabhag dhìrich i an diugh gu nèamh,
Le 'feadan ceolmhor; tha'n t-alltan fein

Gu mòr ni's réidhe a' siubhal sios roi'n ghleann.
O'n bhothan bheag ud as am faicear smùid
Ag éiridh caol os ceann a' cheo, tha fuaim
Nam salma milis-laoidhean naomha, binn.
Tha sìth os ceann a' bhaile bhig ud thall,
An t-innein chlos; tha h-uile ni 'na thàmh.
Tha mhaidheach féin, ge fiamhach i, a' stad,
Le 'sùil 'na déigh, a' beachdachadh gun gheilt
Air duine, a nàmhaid bhorb. Tha'n gearran trom,
Gun taod no teothair 'g ionaltradh gu saor;
Air leud a dhroma 'cur nan car le strìgh,

A' baoisgeadh 'chrùidhean os a cheann ri gréin.

Ach 's leats' a dhuine an suaimhneas so mar sheilbh. Failt' air an là naomh, là chur sgìos nam bochd! Ré làithean eile air an claoidh gu goirt, 'Nan aonar ithidh iad gu grad an lòn Air an lòm bhlàr, fo dhìon o theas no fhuachd, Am fasgadh creige, no fo dhubhar chraobh ; Ach dhachaidh thig iad air an latha naomhs', Gu h-ait le luchd an gràidh gun suidh iad sìos A' roinn an lòin, 'sa thogail suas le chéil' An altacha do Dhia-cha'n ann gu faoin Le focal, no le gluasad beòil, ach fòs Le sùil gu nèamh, 's an cridhe 'n sàs

gu

dlùth.

Fàilt' air an latha naomh fàilt' air là nam bochd! Fhuair am fear-céirde glas an diugh a chead, 'S e 'falbh o smùid a' bhaile-mhòir gu tràth, Ri bruaich na h-aibhne dh'iarr e'm fàile glan; A' beachdachadh le taing 'an àird' nan craobh, 'Nan duilleach uaine, 's anns na blàithibh maoth Air cumhachd glòrmhor Dhé.-'S le sòlas ait Mar tha e 'breithneachadh gu stòld' leis féin Tha e fo dhòchas, (ge nach ann gun fhiamh) Gur Săbaid shiorruidh bhios faidheòidh air nèamh.

AN T-SABAID.

Fàilte dhuit, a Shàbaid chaomh!

'S tlàth do thàmh do 'n t-saoithreach bhochd,
A chuir na sèa làithean cian,

'Ga bhuan chlaidreadh le gnìomh goirt!

66

Ewan M'Lachlan, rector of the Grammar School, Aberdeen to translate the following extracts from "Grahame's Sabbath," which were given in the Appendix to the above Essay. Although this translation is rather a paraphrase on the original, yet, like all Mr M'Lachlan's compositions, the execution of it is so masterly that we feel much pleasure in giving it here. Mr M'Lachlan was the translator of The Messiah," the first piece given in this Collec. tion, and also of many other pieces, the most important of which is the "Iliad of Homer." Only mere specimens of this work have been printed; but we are informed that the entire MS. is in the hands of a female relative of Mr M'Lachlan, residing at Fortwilliam, who is somewhat reluctant to give it up for publication. We would recommend to some of those Societies, (say the Glasgow Celtic Society) who are so desirous to encourage and foster Gælic literature to rescue this MS. from oblivion, by getting it published with all possible speed.]

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor-man's day ;

On other days, the man of toil is doom'd

To eat his joyless bread lonely; the ground

Both seat and board,-screened from the winter's cold
And summer's heat, by neighbouring hedge or tree;

But on this day, embosomed in his home,

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves,
With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy
Of giving thanks to God; not thanks of form,
A word and a grimace, but reverently,
With covered face, and upward earnest eye.

The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe-
He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,
To reach those realms where Sabbath never ends,

But now his steps a welcome sound recalls,
Solemn the knell from yonder ancient pile
Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe:

Slowly the throng moves o'er the tomb-pav'd ground;
The aged man, the bowed down, the blind

Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes
With pain, and eyes the new-made grave, well-pleas'd;
These mingled with the young, the gay, approach
The house of God: These, spite of all their ills,
A glow of gladness feel; with silent praise
They enter in. A placid stillness reigns,
Until the man of God, worthy the name,

Aonarach trom dh'ith e 'lòn,
A shuidhe 's a bhòrd am feur;
Geug fo bhlàth, no callaid chrìon,
'Ga dhìdein o shion nan speur.
Faic e'n diugh gu seasgair, sèimh,
Ri fois air an làraich ghaoil;
A' furan cuirme gun stràic
'An comunn r'a chàirdibh caoin.
'An comunn muinntireach a rùin
'S eibhinn e 'toirt cliù d'a Righ;
Còmhdach mu 'ghnùis, sùil ri nèamh,
'S cha'n fhuar-chràbhadh 'ghnàth's gun bhrigh.
Is fois do fhear-cèird an droch neoil,
Daingeann a dhòigh, ge' mòr 'fhiamh,
Gum buannaich e 'n aimsir ghearr
Rioghachd 's nach faic Sàbaid crioch.
Faic mar thill e sud roi'n réidh,
A's fuaim 'na chluasaibh o'n t-séis bhinn ;
Beumadh chlag bu ghleadhrach pong,
O thùr an t-seann aitreabh dhuinn.
A' siubhal troi'n àilean chiùin,

Fiamh ait 'ga dhùsgadh 's gach cliabh ;
'S thar còmhnard leacach nan uaigh
Tiugh-dhòrtadh an t-sluaigh a' triall.
An t-aosda, 's an cròm, 's an dall,
'S gille nan teum baoth 'na cheann;
Euslaint' ag àinich le péin,

A làmh critheach, 's a cheum mall!
Le farmad tha beachd a shùl
Air leabaidh ghuirm ùr nam fòid;
'S e 'snàgan gu àros Dé

Mar ri treud nan treun 's nan òg.
Ge tursach iad sud 's ge trom
Lasaidh 'nan cuim fonn gu ceòl,
A' dìreadh a steach faraon,
Le balbh aoradh do'n BHITH-MHÒR.
Feuch, tha na mìltean 'nan tosd-
Seall 'ga nochdadh teachdair' Dhé !
Dh'fhosgal e'm Biobull le gràdh,
A's luaidh e reachd àigh nan speur.
Eiridh mar chòmhla na slòigh,
Le salm naomh 's le clàrsaich ghrinn,
Cridhe 's beul a' gleusadh phong
A' coimeasgadh nam fonn binn.

ALBAINN! gu'n deanainn riut faoilt, 'S tiorail leam raointean do ghleann ; Feasgar Dòmhnuich thar gach tràth

Opens the book, and reverentially

The stated portion reads. A pause ensues-
The people rising, sing, With harp, with harp,
And voice of psalms, harmoniously attun'd
The various voices blend.

O Scotland! much I love thy tranquil dales;
But most on Sabbath-eve, when low the sun
Slants through the upland copse, 'tis my delight,
Wandering, and stopping oft, to hear the song
Of kindred praise arise from humble roofs;
Or when the simple service ends, to hear
The lifted latch, and mark the grey-haired man,
The father and the priest, walk forth alone
Into his garden-plat, or little field,

To commune with his God in secret prayer;
To bless the Lord that in his downward years

His children are about him.

THE VOICE OF DIVINE COMPASSION.

Sweet is morn's first breeze that strays on the mountain,
And sighs o'er its bosom, and murmurs away;

And bright is the beam which upsprings from day's fountain,
And breaks o'er the East in its golden array.

And lovely the riv'let incessantly flowing,

Which winds, gently murm'ring, its course through the plain;
And welcome the beacon which faithfully glowing,
Cheers the heart of the mariner tost on the main.

But sweeter, my God, is thy voice of compassion,
Which soft as the summer's dew falls on the mind;
Which whispers the tidings of life and salvation,
And casts the dark shadows of sorrow behind.

Oh yes! I have known it, when kindly and cheering,
It hush'd the hoarse thunders of justice to rest;
It was heard, and the angel of mercy appearing,
Pour'd the balm of relief o'er the penitent's breast.
And still may I hear it, while crossing life's ocean,
Or borne on the billow, or breath'd in the gale;
Enkindling the flame of expiring devotion,
And utt'ring the promise that never shall fail.