More earnest was his voice! most mild his look,
As with raised hands he bless'd his parting flock.
He is a faithful pastor of the poor; -
He thinks not of himself; his Master's words,

Feed, feed my sheep
are ever at his heart,
The cross of Christ is aye before his eyes.
O, how I love, with melted soul, to leave
The house of prayer, and wander in the fields
Alone! What though the opening spring be chill!
Although the lark, check'd in his airy path
Eke out his song, perch'd on the fallow clod,
That still o'ertops the blade! Although no branch
Have spread its foliage, save the willow wand
That dips its pale leaves in the swollen stream!
What though the clouds oft lower! Their threats but end
In sunny showers, that scarcely fill the folds
Of moss-couch'd violet, or interrupt
The merle's dulcet pipe, - melodious bird!
He, hid behind the milk-white slow-thorn spray,
(Whose early flowers anticipate the leaf,)
Welcomes the time of buds, the infant year.

Sweet is the sunny nook, to which my steps
Have brought me, hardly conscious where I roam'd
Unheeding where, - so lovely all around
The works of God, array'd in vernal smile!

Oft at this season, musing, I prolong
My devious range, till, sunk from view, the sun
Emblaze, with upward-slanting ray, the breast,
And wing unquivering of the wheeling lark,
Descending, vocal, from her latest flight;
While, disregardful of yon lonely star, -
The harbinger of chill night's glittering host, -
Sweet Redbreast, Scotia's Philomela, chants,
In desultory strains, his evening hymn.