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And eyes intent upon

the scanty herb

It yields them, or recumbent on its brow,
Ruminate, heedless of the scene o'erspread
Beneath, beyond, and stretching far away,
From inland regions to the boundless main.
Man views it and admires, but rests content
With what he views. The landscape has its praise,
But not its Author. Unconcern'd, who form'd
The paradise he sees, he finds it such,

And such well-pleased to find it, asks no more.
Not so the mind that has been touch'd from Heaven,
And in the school of sacred wisdom taught

To read His wonders, in whose thought the world, Fair as it is, existed ere it was:

Not for its own sake merely, but for his

Much more who fashion'd it, he gives it praise;
Praise, that from earth resulting, as it ought,
To earth's acknowledged Sovereign, finds at once
Its only just proprietor in him.

The soul that sees him, or receives sublimed,
New faculties, or learns at least t' employ
More worthily the powers she own'd before,
Discerns in all things what with stupid gaze
Of ignorance till then she overlook'd,—
A ray of heavenly light, gilding all forms
Terrestrial, in the vast and the minute,
The unambiguous footsteps of the God,

Who gives its lustre to the insect's wing,
And wheels his throne upon the rolling worlds.
Much conversant with Heaven, she often holds
With those fair ministers of light to man,

That fill the skies nightly with silent pomp,
Sweet conference.

One Spirit-His

Who wore the platted thorns with bleeding brows, Robes universal nature. Not a flower

But shows some touch in freckle, streak, or stain,
Of his unrivall'd pencil. He inspires

Their balmy odours, and imparts their hues,
And bathes their eyes with nectar, and includes
In grains as countless as the sea-side sands,
The forms with which he sprinkles all the earth.
Happy who walks with him! whom what he finds
Of flavour or of scent in fruit or flower,
Or what he views of beautiful or grand
In nature, from the broad majestic oak
To the green blade that twinkles in the sun,
Prompts with remembrance of a present God.
His presence, who made all so fair, perceived,
Makes all still fairer.

MEDITATION IN THE NIGHT.

Miss Carter.

WHILE night in solemn shade invests the pole,
And calm reflection soothes the pensive soul;
While reason undisturb'd asserts her sway,
And life's deceitful colours fade

away:
To Thee, all-conscious Presence, I devote
This peaceful interval of sober thought;
Here all my better faculties confine,
And be this hour of sacred silence thine.
If, by the day's illusive scenes misled,

My erring soul from virtue's path has stray'd;
Snared by example or by passion warm'd,
Some false delight my giddy sense has charm'd,
My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove,
And my best hopes are center'd in thy love.
Deprived of this, can life one joy afford?
Its utmost boast, a vain, unmeaning word.
But oh! how oft my lawless passions rove,
And break those awful precepts I
Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor,

And violate the virtue I adore!

approve,

Oft, when thy better Spirit's guardian care
Warn'd my fond soul to shun the tempting snare,
My stubborn will his gentle aid repress'd,
And check'd the rising goodness in my breast;
Mad with vain hopes, or urged by false desires,
Still'd his soft voice, and quench'd his sacred
fires.

With grief oppress'd, and prostrate in the dust,
Shouldst Thou condemn, I own the sentence just.
But oh! thy softer titles let me claim,

And plead my cause by Mercy's gentle name,-
Mercy, that wipes the penitential tear,
And dissipates the horrors of despair,

From rig'rous justice steals the vengeful hour,
Softens the dreadful attribute of power,
Disarms the wrath of an offended God,
And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood.
All-powerful Grace, exert thy gentle sway,
And teach my rebel passions to obey;
Lest lurking folly, with insidious art,
Regain my volatile, inconstant heart.
Shall every high resolve devotion frames

?

Be only lifeless sounds and specious names
Oh! rather, while thy hopes and fears control
In this still hour, each motion of my soul,
Secure its safety by a sudden doom,
And be the soft retreat of sleep, my

tomb;

Calm let me slumber in that dark repose,
Till the last morn its orient beam disclose;
Then, when the great archangel's potent sound
Shall echo through creation's ample round,
Waked from the sleep of death, with joy survey
The opening splendours of eternal day.

THE SABBATH BELLS.

Mrs. C. B. Wilson.

THE Sabbath bells! the Sabbath bells!
To me no sound of gladness bring!
Their sacred music only swells

The fountain whence my sorrows spring;
Telling of mis-spent hours gone by,

And Sabbaths pass'd unworthily!

They speak of days in folly past,
Of talents wasted-misapplied;

Of many a blessing from me cast

In the heart's wanton hour of pride;

They tell of passions, struggles, fears,
The warfare of this vale of tears!

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