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 With eager searching eye; 'Cheer ye, my babes," the mother said, And drew them closer to her side, Just then, within the thicket rude, On the rough floor their simple bed On leathern hinge the doors were hung, The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall; And here they found their only home, But hearts, with pure affection warm, And there the wife her husband cheer'd, 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, 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, But stern disease his footstep staid, The fever flame was high; No more the forest fear'd his stroke,- His youngest girl, his fondest pride, While gazing on his death-struck eye, Who hastes his throbbing head to hold? That blessed daughter, meek of heart, 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, 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. THE STILL, SMALL VOICE. M'Comb. HE cometh, He cometh, the Lord passeth by; The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh; The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast; But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast. He cometh, He cometh, the Lord, He is near, He cometh, He cometh, the Lord is in ire; He cometh, He cometh, the tempest is o'er ; Are still as the voice that descends from on high. |