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Grahame Says, or Rather unclear?, How still the morning of the hallow’d day! Mute is the voise of rural labor, hush’d The ploughboy’s whistle, and the milkmaid’s song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, that yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze. Sounds the most faint attract the ear,—the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. To him who wanders o’er the upland leas, The blackbird’s note comes mellower from the dale ; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark warbles his heaven- tuned song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke O’ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals. The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise