There's not a blossom fondled by the breeze,
There's not fruit that beautifies the trees,
There's not a particle in sea or air,

But Nature owns thy plastic influence there!
With fearful gaze, still be it mine to see
How all is fill'd and vivified by Thee;
Upon thy mirror, earth's majestic view,
To paint Thy presence, and to feel it too.

TIME.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

"WHY sitt'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle, so stern and grey? Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it pass'd away?"

"Know'st thou not me!" the deep voice cried, "So long enjoyed, so oft misused;

Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused?

"Before my breath, like blazing flax,
Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax,
Are founded, flourish, and decay.

"Redeem mine hours-the space is brief-
While in my glass the sand grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief

When Time and thou shalt part for ever!"

THE DEATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS.

MONTGOMERY.

THIS place is holy ground,
World, with thy cares away!
Silence and darkness reign around,
But, lo! the break of day:
What bright and sudden dawn appears
To shine upon this scene of tears?

'Tis not the morning light

That wakes the lark to sing, 'Tis not a meteor of the night, Nor track of angel's wing;

It is an uncreated beam,

Like that which shone on Jacob's dream.

Eternity and Time

Met for a moment here,

From earth to heaven, a scale sublime

Rested on either sphere,

Whose steps a saintly figure trod,

By Death's cold hand led home to God.

He landed in our view,

'Midst flaming hosts above,

Whose ranks stood silent while he drew
Nigh to the throne of love,
And meekly took the lowest se",
Yet nearest his Redeemer's feet.

Thrill'd with ecstatic awe,

Entranced our spirits fell,

And saw-yet wist not what we saw,
And heard--no tongue can tell

What sound the ear of rapture caught,
What glory fill'd the eye of thought.
Thus, far above the pole,

On wings of mounting fire,

Faith may pursue the enfranchised soul,
But soon her pinions tire;
It is not given to mortal man
Eternal mysteries to scan.

Behold the bed of death;

This pale and lovely clay-
Heard ye the sob of parting breath?
Mark'd ye the eye's last ray?
No-life so sweetly ceased to be,
It lapsed in immortality.

Bury the dead-and weep

In stillness o'er the loss;

Bury the dead-in Christ they sleep,
Who bore on earth his cross,

And from the grave their dust shall rise
In his own image to the skies.

COMFORT IN A CLOUDY DAY.

BARTON.

EXPECT not, pilgrim, Zion-ward,
A bright sky always will be thine,
Or that the presence of thy Lord
Will constantly around thee shine:
If all were clear, around, above,
What test could prove thy faith and love?

In storm or whirlwind, as in wrath, He holds unseen his righteous way, Dark clouds denote his viewless path,

And thine may seem a winter's day,
Yet not the less His path may be
One of unbounded love to thee.

Be patient, though the sea be made
Before him like a desert, dry,-
Though Bashan languish, Carmel fade,
And flowers of Lebanon may die;
Yet slow to anger is the Lord,

A tower of strength His name ador'd.

The Lord is good: He still remains,
As in the ancient days of old,
When doubt, or fear, or trouble reigns,
A strong, a safe, a stedfast Hold;
When hearts are faint, and eyes are dim,
He knoweth them that trust in Him.

THE WORM.

GISBORNE.

TURN, turn thy hasty foot aside,
Nor crush that helpless worm:
The frame thy wayward looks deride
Required a God to form.

The common Lord of all that move,
From whom thy being flowed,
A portion of his boundless love
On that poor worm bestowed.