Where the God of Nature veils Himself
In the brighter realms of grace : —
But they who have not bent the knee
Will smile at this my story:
For, though they enter the temple gates,
They know not the inner glory.
THE GLORY OF GOD IN CREATION
HOU art, O God! the life and light
THOUath; wondrous world we see,
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven,—
Those hues, that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes,—
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn Thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.
PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen
With garlands gay of various green;
I praised the sea, whose ample field
Shone glorious as a silver shield;
And earth and ocean seemed to say,
"Our beauties are but for a day."
I praised the sun, whose chariot rolled
On wheels of amber, and of gold;
I praised the moon, whose softer eye
Gleamed sweetly through the summer sky;
And moon, and sun, in answer said,
"Our days of light are numberèd."
O God! O good beyond compare !
If thus Thy meaner works are fair,
If thus Thy bounties gild the span
Of ruined earth, and sinful man,
How glorious must the mansion be,
Where Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee!
Bishop Heber
HEAR hee neak of te etter mi
Thon call' its drenar nr.
Mother! O where's hat dam Bore.
Shall we not seek I and veed to cre
Is it where the lower of the range o
And the fire-flies glance through the nitte
"Not there, not here, my m
"Is it where the feathery paim-rees use.
And the date grows ripe under sunny tes
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering as
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze.
And strange, bright birds on their sarry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?*
'Not there, not there, my child.”
Is it far away in some region old
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of geid —
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine.
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, —
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!
ye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Har hath not heard its deep songs of joy,
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,—
Norrow and death may not enter there ;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!
A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A
HE had been told that God made all the stars
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this was its first eve. She stood alone
By the lone window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half-parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That looked so still and delicate above,
Filled her young heart with gladness; and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half-smile,
As if a pleasant dream were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively,-
"Father! dear father! God has made a star!"
N. P. Willis
WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil,
When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's
When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the
In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker
The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade;
The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy
The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his
The moon, and stars, their Maker's name in silent pomp display.
Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,— Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny ? No; let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease
Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honor Thee.
The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, —
The Autumn droop in Winter,— the birds forsake the shade,
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