Thou art “ the life”-thine be the praise !
Thy pow'rful voice the dead can raise,
The slumbering dust to life restore,
And bid it live, to die no more.

Thou art “ the way”—for thou alone
The glorious path to heaven hast shown:
Thee only, Lord, will we obey-
Thou art “ the truth, the life, the way.”

WISDOM.

Mrs. H. More.

Ah! when did Wisdom covet length of days,
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise ?
No; Wisdom views with an indiff'rent eye
All finite joys, all blessings born to die;
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compell’d to starve at an ideal feast,
A spark that upward tends by nature's force,
A stream diverted from its parent source,
A drop dissever'd from the boundless sea,
A moment parted from eternity,
A pilgrim panting for a rest to come,
An exile anxious for his native home.

DELIGHT IN THE WORKS OF CREATION.

T. D. Hull.

Dear is the joy each warm heart knows,

The thrill of mutual love sincere; Dear is the happiness that flows

From making others happy here: Yea, even the consciousness is dear

Of warm existence, though unblest;
To move upon this sun-lit sphere,

Creation's beauty to attest,
And see almighty love in all things manifest.

Who has not joy'd to see the sun,

From ocean burst on wings of light, While birds, their morning hymn begun,

Would hail the heavens and mountains bright? Who has not joy'd, as jewell'd night

Her tent high o'er the world hath spread, To view the grand, the unbounded sight

Nor thought, while he the scene survey'd, How infinite that Power which spake, and all was Oh! for the hour, the ecstatic hour,

When winter's raven blasts take wing; And rapture's renovating power

Comes bounding in the breath of spring! When trees are newly blossoming,

When flowers beneath the sun expand, And songs through all the ether ring

What heart the impulse can withstand, Nor inly bless the God who hath such blessings

plann’d?”

GOD'S PROVIDENCE THE HONEST MAN'S

FORTUNE.

Beaumont.

O man, thou image of thy Maker's good,
What canst thou fear when breathed into thy

blood
His Spirit is that built thee? what dull sense
Makes thee suspect, in need, that Providence,
Who made the morning, and who placed the light,
Guide to thy labours ?—who call’d up the night,

And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers
In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers ?
Who gave thee knowledge, who so trusted thee
To let thee grow so near himself, the tree ?
Must he then be mistrusted ?-shall his frame
Discourse with him, why thus and thus I am ?
He made the angels thine, thy fellows all ;
Nay, even thy servants when devotions call:
O canst thou be so stupid, then, so dim,
To seek a saving influence, and lose him ?

HUMANITY AT HOME.

Bowring.

I HONOUR and I love the mind,

Whose warm and generous thoughts embrace The common interests of our kind,

Through time'slong track and earth's wide space; And, like the glorious god of day, Sheds o'er the world its living ray.

I watch with throbbing heart the zeal,

Whose all-incorporating plan

Can teach a million souls to feel

For all that's man's—for all that's Man ;
And every human title blend
In those of Brother and of Friend.

I've travelled many a country far,

Through Finland's wild, on Afric's strand, And there went with me, like a star,

The glory of my native land;
A star whose light, where'er I trod,
Seem'd blazing with the truths of God.

But sometimes sadness came, and dwelt

Within my heart. 'Twas proud to hear My country's name, but oh! I felt

That misery dwelt unheeded there : That hearts were sad, and eyes were wet,Forgotten—how could I forget ?

I would not check the nobly good,

Who, joy diffusing, widely roam ; But I would whisper, if I could,

Look round, for there are wrongs at home; And voices, though but feeble, call On heaven-on thee-on me on all !

Dost thou not hear their cry? to thee,

Who hear'st the lightest plaint of wo