"There, if thy Spirit touch the soul, And grace her mean abode, Oh! with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God! "There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays; Nor asks a witness of her song, Nor thirsts for human praise. "Author and guardian of my life, Sweet source of light divine, And--all harmonious names in one-- My Saviour! thou art mine. "What thanks I owe thee, and what love! A boundless, endless store, Shall echo through the realms above When time shall be no more." I lingered here some time after the music had died away, luxuriating in my own hallowed reflections; and then advancing a few steps, I perceived, seated in a hollow, a decent middle-aged woman, and, apparently, her daughter, who were thus pouring forth their evening hymn of praise. I then returned to the inn, had my supper, and after engaging in prayer with the family, retired to rest. In the morning I rose early and revisited the vale, humming over, as I sauntered along, the following suggestive and consolatory lines of a modern poet:-- "God is here; how sweet the sound! All I feel and all I see, Nature teems, above, around, With universal Deity. "Is there danger? Void of fear, Though the death-wing'd arrow fly, I can answer, God is here, And I move beneath his eye. "When I pray, he hears my pray'r; When I weep, he sees my grief: Do I wander? He is here, Ready to afford relief."