Now o’er the landscape signs of twilight creep,
And sounds that tell of night—sounds that
I love:
The hooting of the owl, the tree-frog’s cry
By distance mellowed; and—more distant
still—
I hear the barking of the village dogs.
The breath of evening whispering ’mid the pines,
And deepening shadows, bid me homeward turn;
And yet I linger—for I seem a part
Of lake and mountain, meadow, tree and sky,—
And realize how sweet a thing it is
To lay my heart so close to Nature’s own
That I can feel its throbbing, while each pulse
Responsive beats, and o’er my being steals
A rapturous calm like that out parents felt
When to the bowers of Eden they repaired,
And praised their Maker seen in all his works.
Author of nature! Source of life and light!
Almighty Father! let me praise thee too.
This lovely world is thine; yon moon and stars
That now begin to usher in the night
Are but the outposts of unnumbered spheres
That march in order round thy dazzling throne,
And chant thy praises in perpetual song.
All these are thine, for thou hast made them all;
And I am thine! I thank thee, Lord of lords,
King of the Universe, Creator, God,
That while in part I realize thy power
I know it has an equal in the love
Which bowed the heavens and consecrated earth
When the Messiah came to save mankind,
And in its proper orbit reinstate
A fallen world, which shall one day become
The fairest ’mid the sisterhood of orbs,
The most renowned because the dearest bought,—
The best beloved, because the ransom given
Was all that God omnipotent could pay!
AUTUMN TEACHINGS.
The howling winds rage around my casement. The
summer is past, and everything indicates that winter
will soon be here. The seared leaves are falling
from their homes in the waving forests; the earth has
thrown aside her gay mantle of green, and one scene
of desolation presents itself to the eye. The
decay of nature brings with it sad and solemn reflections,
how much more the decay of the human form—of
which autumn seems so striking an emblem. The
days of man are few. Like the flower of the field
he perisheth, and yet how few seem to realize it!
O God, teach me to apply my heart unto wisdom.
Help me to love and serve thee, that when “the
heavens shall be dissolved and the elements shall
melt with fervent heat” I may not be among those
who shall take up the sad lamentation: “The
harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not
saved.”—Oct., 1852.
THE WATCHER.
[As Miss Johnson lived in the house with Dr. G. O.
Somers, who would frequently in winter cross lake
Memphremagog on the ice in visiting his patients,
the following, written on a sick-bed, gives a graphic
description of what her fears pictured might be a reality.]
