Oh hard condition! oh unhappy fate! Allotted, twin-born with our earthly state! Yet why repine? 'tis useless to complain; 'Tis worse, 'tis impious, as well as vain. Hence foolish plaints; unholy murm'rings hence; Self-mock'ry cease; 'tis daring Providence.

Let's rather turn our thoughts to other views, That shed a radiance o'er life's darker hues. And since on quitting once this earthly bourne, No wand'ring spirit ever can return;

Let's humbly hope, when time and age are pass'd, And all our mortal coil from off us cast;

Let's humbly hope our faults may be forgiven, And all again meet happily in Heaven.

AN ALPINE SCENE AT SUNSET.

Hark! 'tis the summons of the Alpine horn!

The sun has sunk beneath old Gothard's

brow,

The Southern Indian hails th' approach of morn; We, the still hour of eve. The distant low Of browzing herds, returning to their fold,

With quick ear train'd to note the ev'ning call, Floats on the breeze: pale roses chas'd with gold

The snow-clad hills appear: each waterfall, Like molten diamonds pouring from the skies, Flings back again to Heaven its own resplendent dyes.

The horns have ceas'd; their thrilling tones

grow weak;

The last faint echo mingles with the air; The cloud-capp'd herdsman, from the topmost peak,

Proclaims aloud the solemn hour of pray'r; And ev'ry voice repeats the holy call,

From Alp to Alp, the frozen cliffs around. Low on their bended knees the rustics fall,

And ev'ry tongue takes up the grateful sound; "Praise ye the Lord," with hallow'd lips they sing! "Praise ye the Lord," rocks, caves, and hoary [glaciers ring!

Such the bless'd strains the Eastern shepherds heard,

When, with the word "Salvation," on the wing A glorious angel host on earth appear'd,

To hail the birth of Heaven's eternal King! With loud acclaim the choir of Cherubs sang,

"Peace, peace to man! Glory to God on high." The mountains shook, the air with anthem's rang, And shouts resounded o'er the sea and sky;

So Alpine peasants still at ev'ning call
Sing praises to the Lord, and at his footstool fall.

A solemn pause succeeds-a sacred calm,

As deep as though the very breath of life Had ceas'd for aye; and death's eternal balm

Had heal'd all wounds and ended human strife. The mountain serfs within their huts retire,

To hold communion with their God alone; (Hush'd ev'ry worldly thought, each vain desire,

Absorb'd in that profound and holy one;) Before His throne the contrite heart to bare, And plead, tho' undeserv'd, for grace and mercy

[there.

The pray'r is o'er; and night and darkness throw Their starry mantle o'er the radiant sky. Again the horns, like Angel-trumpets, blow; "Good night," from ev'ry voice ascends on high.

Sink, sink, ye vallies into silent sleep;

Fear not, tho' tempests rend the mountain's

breast!

A faithful Shepherd watches o'er his sheep, And lulls them, midst the wildest storms, to

rest,

Though earthquakes split, and avalanches tear The world's dark womb, and lay her deep foundations bare.

Soft fall the cooling dews of parting day; The painted flow'rs their fragrant eyelids

close,

Again to ope with morning's earliest ray,

Like beauty waking from the dread repose Of chaos, when the Almighty's word was giv'n, (And darkness burst and stagger'd at the

blaze,)

"Let there be light!" and light sprang forth from Heav'n,

And all Creation shouted hymns of praise. So close my eyelids, free from earthly care, And holy dreams bring back this scene of mountain pray'r.