No sculptured columns there are found,
Nor windows rich in hue:

But yet it wears a lovely grace
That captivates the view.

It may be that the seats are old,
And that the floor is worn,
And that no marble monuments
The modest walls adorn:

It may be there is naught to please
The high artistic mind,
And that the cultivated eye

No beauty there may find.

But old associations cling

Around the sacred spot,

Which make me find a charm therein

That others notice not.

For there my memory travels back,
With footsteps light and fast,
And calls up voices of the loved,
And visions of the past;

While spirits of a by-gone day
Enter the open door,

And whisper through the shady aisles,

And glide along the floor.

'Twas there my mother led me first,

Across the churchyard sod,

And taught my little lips to lisp

The holy name of God;

And one, whose love in youth I sought My lot in life to share,

Has passed with me beneath its porch, And sat beside me there.

Thus, thoughts of childhood's innocence And dreams of early love

Have underneath that roof appeared

As blessings from above;

While often on the day of rest,

The sweetest of the seven,

That earthly temple's quietude

Seemed like a glimpse of heaven.

Long, long may I, with gladdened heart,

Frequent the dear old place,

As long as life has left a spark,

Or memory a trace!

And, when at length the summons comes

Of Heaven's wise decree,

That calls me from this world away,

Another world to see,—

I would not that my bones should lie
In monumental state,

Within some mighty minster hid

In costly tomb and great :

But I would choose some peaceful nook,
That village church beside,

Where underneath the turf they might
The last great day abide ;

That often in the evening-time,

When summer skies are fair, And all the villagers go up

Into the house of prayer,—

Their feet, along the well-known path,
Beside the stone may tread,
That rises where my body rests
Among the village dead;

And, when their holy hymns arise
Within the hallowed fane,
May through the open window pass
The foot-falls of the strain,

And out into the churchyard steal,
Amid the flowers that wave
Beneath the gentle evening breeze
Upon my grass-grown grave.

TH

SPRING.

HE Spring went forth in triumph
To weave her spell of might,

And throw a trail of beauty

Beneath her fairy flight,

To clothe the woods with verdure,
To deck their barren bow'rs,

And over hill and valley

To cast her wreath of flow'rs.

The skies were bright above her;
The earth, where'er she went,
To hail her joyful coming,

A welcome upward sent ;
On gentle winds she journeyed
O'er mountain, down, and dell,
While on her path in splendour
The sunlight streaming fell.

The winter, at her advent,
His icy throne forsook,

And trembled at her presence,
And melted at her look :
The storms relaxed their fury,

And drew their curtain back,
And stretched an arch of glory
Across her shining track.

Above the hills she hovered,

While underneath her feet
In clusters sprung the daisies,
As if her touch to greet :
She wandered o'er the meadows,
And from their grassy mould
The buttercups and cowslips
Arose in sheets of gold :

Then through the woods she rambled,

The violet she woke,

And at her gentle summons

The primrose upward broke :—

Until with bud and blossom

The ground was thick and bright,

As shine the stars of heaven
Upon the brow of night.

Meanwhile, as ever onward

With joyful wing she flew,
O'er wood, and field, and meadow
Her magic glance she threw ;

Till over all the landscape

The bloom of youth appeared,

And earth's ten thousand forests
Their crown of verdure reared.

And, in her train awaking,
The song of bee and bird,

No longer sad and silent,

On every side was heard :