Thou Giver of all Earthly Good.

HOU Giver of all earthly good-—

THOU

Thou wonder-working Power,
Whose spirit smiles in every star,

And breathes in every flower:
How gratefully we speak thy name-
How gladly own thy sway!
How thrillingly thy presence feel,
When mid thy works we stray!

We may forget thee for a time,
In scenes with tumult rife,

Where worldly cares or pleasures claim
Too large a share of life;

But not in Nature's sweet domain,

Where everything we see,

From loftiest mount to lowliest flower,
Is eloquent of thee.

Where waves lift up their tuneful voice,

And solemn anthems chime;

Where winds through echoing forests peal Their melodies sublime;

Where e'en insensate objects breathe

Devotion's grateful lays—

Man can not choose but join the choir
That hymns his Maker's praise.

Beneath the city's gilded domes,
In temples decked with care,
Where Art and Splendor vie to make
Thine earthly mansions fair,

Our forms may lowly bend, our lips
May breathe a formal lay,

The whilst our wayward hearts refuse
These holy rites to pay.

But in that grander temple, reared
By thine Almighty hand,

Where glorious beauty bids the mind's
Diviner powers expand,

Our thoughts, like grateful vassals, give
An homage glad and free;

Our souls in adoration bow,
And mutely reverence Thee.

EMELINE S. SMITH.

The Winged Worshippers.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of

prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:

Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 'tis given

To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;
Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In

yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

"Twere heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,
On Nature's charms to feed,
And Nature's own great God adore.

CHARLES SPRAGUE.

The Future Life.

HOW shall I know thee in the sphere which

keeps

The disembodied spirits of the dead,

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps And perishes among the dust we tread ?

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain

If there I meet thy gentle presence not; Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought.

Will not thine own meek heart demand me there? That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given ?

My name on earth was ever in thy prayer,

Shall it be banish'd from thy tongue in heaven?

In meadows framed by heaven's life-breathing wind,

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, And larger movements of the unfetter'd mind, Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here;

The love that lived through all the stormy past, And meekly with my harsher nature bore, And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last,Shall it expire with life, and be no more?

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, Await thee there; for thou hast bow'd thy will

In cheerful homage to the rule of right,

And lovest all, and renderest good for ill.

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell Shrink and consume the heart, as heat the scroll;

And wrath has left its scar-that fire of hell

Has left its frightful scar upon my soul.

Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky,
Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name,
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye,
Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the
same ?

Shalt thou not teach me in that calmer home
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this-
The wisdom which is love-till I become
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ?
W. C. BRYANT.

F

The True Vine.

ATHER of heaven! if by thy mercy's grace A living branch I am of that true vine Which spreads o'er all,-and would we did resign Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace !— In me much drooping, Lord, thine eye will trace, Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of mine, Unless in season due thou dost refine The humour gross, and quicken its dull pace. So cleanse me, that, abiding e'er with thee, I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew, And with my falling tears refresh the root. Thou saidst, and thou art truth, thou'dst with me be :

Then willing come, that I may bear much fruit, And worthy of the stock on which it grew.

VITTORIA COLONNA, Trans. ANON.