A Church In North Wales.[427]

Blessings be round it still! that gleaming fane, Low in its mountain-glen! Old, mossy trees Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane; And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze, The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas, Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone, There meets the voice of psalms! Yet not alone For memories lulling to the heart as these, I bless thee, midst thy rocks, gray house of prayer! But for their sakes who unto thee repair From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore. Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer Words to sustain earth’s toiling children hear, Within thy lowly walls, for evermore!

That of Aber, near Bangor.

LOUISE SCHEPLER.

[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pastor Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.]

A fearless journeyer o’er the mountain-snow Wert thou, Louise! The sun’s decaying light Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow, Redden’d thy steep, wild way: the starry night Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle’s height, Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well, Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright Oft in mid-storms--oh! not with beauty’s eye, Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning; No! pilgrim of unwearying charity! Thy spell was love--the mountain-deserts turning To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!

TO THE SAME.

For thou, a holy shepherdess and kind, Through the pine forests, by the upland rills, Didst roam to seek the children of the hills, A wild, neglected flock! to seek, and find, And meekly win! there feeding each young mind With balms of heavenly eloquence: not thine, Daughter of Christ! but His, whose love divine Its own clear spirit in thy breast had shrined, A burning light! Oh! beautiful, in truth, Upon the mountains are the feet of those Who bear His tidings! From thy morn of youth, For this were all thy journeyings; and the close Of that long path, heaven’s own bright sabbath-rest, Must wait thee, wanderer! on thy Saviour’s breast

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.