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JOHANN PETER HEBEL, called the German Burns, was born May 11, 1760, and rose to be a prominent professor of theology. He wrote poems in the Black Forest dialect on rustic themes. He died at Schwetzingen, Sept. 22, 1826.

"WELL," Saturday to Sunday said,
"The people now have gone to bed;
All, after toiling through the week,
Right willingly their rest would seek;
Myself can hardly stand alone,
So very weary I have grown."

His speech was echoed by the bell,
As on his midnight couch he fell,
And Sunday now the watch must keep.
So, rising from his pleasant sleep,
He glides half dozing through the sky,
To tell the world that morn is nigh.

JOHN NEWTON.

He rubs his eyes, and, none too late,
Knocks aloud at the sun's bright gate;
She slumbered in her silent hall,
Unprepared for his early call.

Sunday exclaims, "Thy hour is nigh!"
"Well, well," says she, "I'll come by and by."

Gently on tiptoe Sunday creeps;
Cheerfully from the stars he peeps;
Mortals are all asleep below,
None in the village hears him go;
E'en chanticleer keeps very still,
For Sunday whispered 't was his will.

Now the world is awake and bright,
After refreshing sleep all night;
The Sabbath morn in sunlight comes,
Smiling gladly on all our homes.

He has a mild and happy air;
Bright flowers are wreathed among his hair.

He comes with soft and noiseless tread,
To rouse the sleeper from his bed;
And tenderly he pauses near,
With looks all full of love and cheer,
Well pleased to watch the deep repose
That lingered till the morning rose.

How gayly shines the morning dew,
Loading the grass with its silver hue!
And freshly comes the fragrant breeze,
Dancing among the cherry-trees;
The bees are humming all so gay, -
They know not it is Sabbath day.

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The cherry-blossoms now appear,
Fair heralds of a fruitful year;
There stands upright the tulip proud,
Bethlehem stars around her crowd,
And hyacinths of every hue,
All sparkling in the morning dew.

How still and lovely all things seem!
Peaceful and pure as an angel's dream!
No rattling carts are in the streets;
Kindly each one his neighbor greets :
"It promises right fair to-day."

“Yes, praised be God!" 'Tis all they say.

The birds are singing, "Come, behold
Our Sabbath morn all bathed in gold,
Pouring his calm celestial light
Among the flowers so sweet and bright!"
The pretty goldfinch leads the row,
As if her Sunday robe to show.

Mary, pluck those auriculas, pray,
And don't shake the yellow dust away;
Here, little Ann, are some for you,
I'm sure you want a nosegay too.
The first bell rings, - away! away!
We will go to church to-day.

JOHANN PETER HEBEL. Translated by
F. GRAETER.

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And when each Sabbath dawn is born
For death a healing grows.
This day proclaims an ended strife,
And Christ's benign and holy life.
By countless lips the wondrous tale
Is told throughout the earth;
Ye that have ears to hear, oh, hail
That tale with sacred mirth!
Awake, my soul, rise from the dead,
See life's grand light around thee shed.
Death trembles each sweet Sabbath hour,
Death's brother, Darkness, quakes;
Christ's word speaks with divinest power,
Christ's truth its silence breaks;
They vanquish with their valiant breath
The reign of darkness and of death.

Translated from the Danish of NICOLAI FREDERIK
SEVERIN GRUNDTVIG by GILBERT TAIT, 1858.

SUNDAY MORNING.

O DAY to sweet religious thought
So wisely set apart,

Back to the silent strength of life
Help thou my wavering heart.

Nor let the obtrusive lies of sense
My meditations draw

From the composed, majestic realm Of everlasting law.

GOING TO SUNDAY SCHOOL
ON Sunday morning early,
While yet the grass is pearly,

The air is bright and cool,
All clad in our best graces,
With rosy morning faces,

We go to the Sunday school.

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