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158  MRS. GRAY.

Mrs. Gray's effusions are all of a serious cast. Her Sabbath Reminiscences is a vivid and truthful picture of persons and places embalmed in her affectionate memory. It has been published in an English periodical, as presenting a favourable specimen of American poetry. We will not trust ourselves to speak the fervent praises its heart-melting simplicity awakes; but to us it is far more useful than the most learned and eloquent sermon could be, upon the fourth commandment. Two hundred years ago kindles enthusiasm as one reads it, for it is full of holy fire, and has moreover a sound like a far-reaching trumpet, full of exultation and triumph. Morn was published, without the writer's knowledge, in England, where it was so highly appreciated as to be translated into other languages. James Montgomery, of Sheffield, says, in a letter to Dr. Gray, "The critics who have mistaken the beautiful stanzas, 'Morn,' for mine, have done me honour; but I willingly forego the claim, and am happy to recognise a sister-poet in the writer." As a writer of strictly religious poetry, Mrs. Gray is, in our estimation, almost unrivalled. 

SABBATH REMINISCENCES.

I REMEMBER, I remember, when Sabbath morning rose,
We changed, for garments neat and clean, our soiled and week-day clothes;
And yet no gaud nor finery, no brooch nor jewel rare,
But hands and faces polish'd bright, and smoothly-parted hair.
'T was not the decking of the head, my father used to say,
But careful clothing of the heart, that graced that holy day;
'T was not the bonnet nor the dress;—and I believed it true,
But those were very simple times, and I was simple too.

I remember, I remember, the parlour where we met;
Its paper'd walls, its polish'd floor, and mantel black as jet;
'T was there we raised the morning hymn, melodious, sweet, and clear,
And join'd in prayer with that loved voice which we no more may hear.

MRS. GRAY.  159

Our morning sacrifice thus made, then to the house of God,
How solemnly, and silently, and cheerfully we trod!
I see e'en now its low-thatch'd roof, its floor of trodden clay,
And our old Pastor's time-worn face, and wig of silver gray.

I remember, I remember, how hush'd and mute we were, 
While he led our spirits up to God, in heartfelt, melting prayer;
To grace his action or his voice no studied charm was lent,
Pure, fervent, glowing from the heart, so to the heart it went.
Then came the sermon long and quaint, but full of gospel truth,—
Ah me! I was no judge of that, for I was then a youth;
But I have heard my father say, and well my father knew,
In it was meat for full-grown men, and milk for children too.

I remember, I remember, as 't were but yesterday,
The Psalms in Rouse's version sung, a rude but lovely lay;
Nor yet, though fashion's hand has tried to train my wayward ear,
Can I find aught in modern verse so holy or so dear!
And well do I remember too our old precentor's face,
As he read out and sung the line with patriarchal grace;
Though rudely rustic was the sound, I'm sure that God was praised,
When David's words to David's* [[footnote 1]] tune, five hundred voices raised.

I remember, I remember, the morning sermon done,
And hour of intermission come, we wander'd in the sun;—
How hoary farmers sat them down upon the daisy sod,
And talk'd of bounteous nature's stores, and nature's bounteous God;

[[footnote 1]] * St. David's was one of the few tunes used by the congregation alluded to. [[/footnote 1]]

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