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Thy goodness beyond thought and power divine. Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels, for behold him, and with songs

ye

And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing; ye in heaven:
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of Stars! last in the train of night,

If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet : praise him in the sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou, Sun! of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon has gain'd, and when thou
fall'st:

Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st;
And
ye five other wandering Fires! that move
In mystic dance, nor without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air! and ye Elements ! the eldest birth
Of nature-oh, let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations! that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paints your fleecy skirts with gold,

In honour to the world's great Author, rise: Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

THE EMIGRANT'S DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Sigourney.

"THE way is long," the father said, While through the western wild he sped

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With eager searching eye;

Cheer ye, my babes," the mother said,

And drew them closer to her side,

As frown'd the evening sky.

Just then, within the thicket rude,
A long-rear'd cabin's roof they view'd,
And its low shelter blest;

On the rough floor their simple bed
In haste and weariness they spread,
And laid them down to rest.

On leathern hinge the doors were hung,
Undeck'd with glass the windows swung,

The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall;

And here they found their only home, Who once had ruled the spacious dome, And paced the pictured hall.

But hearts, with pure affection warm,
Unmurmuring at the adverse storm,
Did in that cell abide ;

And there the wife her husband cheer'd,
And there her little ones she rear'd,
And there in hope she died.

Still, the lone man his toil pursued, While, 'neath his roof so low and rude,

A gentle daughter rose,

As peering through some refted rock,

And blooming on a broken stock,

The blushing sweetbriar grows !

With tireless hand the board she spread; The Holy Book at evening read;

And when, with serious air,

He saw her bend so sweetly mild,
To lull to sleep the moaning child,
He bless'd her in his prayer.

But stern disease his footstep staid,
And down the woodman's axe was laid,—

The fever flame was high;

No more the forest fear'd his stroke,

He fell, as falls the rugged oak
Beneath the whirlwind's eye.

His youngest girl, his fondest pride,
His baby when the mother died,
How desolate she stands !

While gazing on his death-struck eye,
His kneeling sons with anguish cry,
And clasp his clenching hands.

Who hastes his throbbing head to hold ?
Who bows to chafe his temples cold?

In beauty's opening prime !

That blessed daughter, meek of heart,
Who, for his sake, a matron's part

Had borne before her time.

That gasp, that groan,-'tis o'er, 'tis o'er! The manly breast must heave no more!

That heart no longer pine.

Oh! Thou, who feed'st the raven's nest,
Confirm to them the promise blest,

"The fatherless are mine."

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Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms asWhence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day. The halls, from old heroic ages gray,

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds

play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways,-to the feverish bed Of sickness bound;-yet, oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

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