One day as I passed o’er the mountain,
She sung by a clear crystal fountain
      (Nor knew I was near);
      Her notes charmed my ear,
As thus she melodiously chanted: 

“Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus? 
His presence from poverty frees us,—­
      And bright from His face
      The rays of His grace
Beam, purging transgression for ever.

“Oh! when shall we see our dear Jesus? 
His presence from sorrow will ease us,
      When up to the sky
      With angels we fly—­
Then farewell all sorrow for ever!

“Come quickly! come quickly, Lord Jesus! 
Thy presence alone can appease us;
      For aye on Thy breast
      Believers shall rest,
Where blest they shall praise Thee for ever.”

Oh, had you but seen this sweet maiden! 
She smiled like the flowers of Eden,
      And raised to the skies
      Her fond beaming eyes,
And sighed to be with her Redeemer

While thus she stood heavenly musing,
And sometimes her Bible perusing,
      Came over the way,
      All silvered with grey,
A crippled and aged poor woman.

Her visage was sallow and thin,
Through her rags peeped her sunburnt skin;
      With sorrow oppressed,
      She held to her breast
An infant, all pallid with hunger.

Half breathless by climbing the mountain,
She tremblingly stood by the fountain,
      And begged that our maid
      Would lend her some aid,
And pity both her and her infant.

Our maiden had nought but her earning—­
Her heart with soft pity was yearning;
      She drooped like a lily
      Bedewed in the valley,
Whilst tears fell in pearly showers.

With air unaffected and winning,
To cover them, of her own spinning
      Her apron of blue,
      Though handsome and new,
She gave, and led them to her cottage.

All peace, my dear maiden, be thine: 
Your manners and looks are divine;
      On earth you shall rest,
      In heaven be blest,
And shine like an angel for ever.

More blest than the king on the throne
Is he who shall call you his own! 
      The ruby, with you
      Compared, fades to blue—­
Its price is but dust on the balance. {233a}

Religion makes beauty enchanting,
And even where beauty is wanting,
      The temper and mind,
      Religion-refined,
Will shine through the veil with sweet lustre.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

The sun shines bright, the morning’s fair,
The gossamers {233b}float on the air,
The dew-gems twinkle in the glare,
      The spider’s loom
Is closely plied, with artful care,
      Even in my room.

See how she moves in zigzag line,
And draws along her silken twine,
Too soft for touch, for sight too fine,
      Nicely cementing: 
And makes her polished drapery shine,
      The edge indenting.