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SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY. 



grey and moss-grown steeple calls its humble throng within its walls, to 

 hear the word of Divine instruction, and to look forward to something 

 beyond the present, but still to regard the blessings they enjoy with a 

 contented and thankful spirit. Everything has some standard of compar- 

 ison whereby its merits are determined; and by what can we judge of art 

 but by the works of human hands? Place it beside Nature, and the 

 meanest weed that obscures our paths is far more beautiful in its con- 

 struction than the most magnificent work of man. What is a city but 

 one continued series of man's works? what the life of its inhabitants but 

 one continued artificial display? It is true that life is sustained by 

 labour, and rendered more pleasurable by those aids which the labour of 

 different arts supplies; but there are many which can be followed without 

 the city's sounds, and among the works of the Creator; there is also a 

 constant wholesome lesson or memento contained in the survey of natural 

 objects, and the man, who, admiring their admirable fitness, finds pleasure 

 in their contemplation, can never be without a monitor to remind him 

 of the source from whence they spring. 



"Life is a varying chequered scene, 

 Where lights and shadows fall; 

 And he who would attain the mesne, 

 Must see and scan them all. 



Yet chiefly in the fields and plains 



Tour silent task pursue, 

 And though bright fancy take the reins, 



Let reason govern too. 



That painted flower and azure sky, 



Beautiful though they be, 

 May not alone absorb your eye, 



Nor cause you not to see 



Through them, the Author of them all, 

 Whose lovely works they arc, 



Who did into existence call 

 The insect and the star, 



Nor as you wander through the grove, 



Where untaught voices sing 

 In liquid tones their lays of love, 



The source from whence they spring. 



Doubtless the eye, the ear, the sense, 

 Were all for blessings given, 



But meant by God's omnipotence, 

 As steps from earth to heaven. 



For through his works, 'tis Him we see, 



If we but see aright; 

 And ever should our converse be 



The guide to help our sight, 



Nor less the sense to bid us feel 



His goodness, and to know 

 That as His works so much reveal, 



So much to Him we owe." 



Look at the little harebell that grows beside the moorland sheep-walk, 

 how delicately and beautifully it is made; look at even the very purple 

 heath itself, and see how pretty it is, and what a bloom it gives to the 

 face of the landscape, mingling with the green fern, and making such a 

 sweet contrast of bright hues on the hill side. Then again, beneath 

 your feet, as it were, stretches away the undulation of the more cultivated 

 districts, like a miniature panorama of fields and gardens. The little 

 furze-chat sits on the topmost fern-tuft, the swallow sweeps over the sur- 

 face of the sedge, and scuds away with wild cries, as the kestrel wheels 

 his soaring flight athwart the valley. Here and there are black turf-cocks 



