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The Heavens Declare thy Glory. VE many twinkling stars, who yet do tread

Your brilliant places in the sable vault Of night's dominions! planets and central orbs Of other systems, big as the burning sun Which lights this nether globe, yet to our eye Small as the glow-worm's lamp! to you I raise My lowly orisons, while, all bewildered, My vision strays o'er your ethereal hosts, Too vast, too boundless for our narrow mind, Warped with low prejudices, to unfold, And sagely comprehend. Thence higher soaring, Through ye I raise my solemn thoughts to Him, The mighty Founder of this wondrous maze, The great Creator ; Him, who now sublime, Wrapped in the solitary amplitude Of boundless space, above the rolling spheres, Sits on his silent throne and meditates.

Th' angelic hosts, in their inferior heaven, Hymn to the golden harps his praise sublime, Repeating loud, “ The Lord our God is great," In varied harmonies : the glorious sounds Roll o'er the air serene. Th' Æolian spheres, Harping along their viewless boundaries, Catch the full note and cry, “The Lord is great!” Responding to the seraphim. O'er all, From orb to orb, to the remotest verge Of the created world, the sound is borne, Till the whole universe is full of Him.

Oh! 'tis this heavenly harmony which now In fancy strikes upon my listening ear, And thrills my inmost soul. It bids me smile On the vain world and all its bustling cares, And gives a shadowy glimpse of future bliss. Oh! what is man, when at ambition's height, What e'en are kings, when balanced in the scale Of these stupendous worlds! Almighty God! Thou, the dread Author of these wondrous works, Say, canst thou cast on me, poor passing worm, One look of kind benevolence? Thou canst; For thou art full of universal love, And in thy boundless goodness wilt impart Thy beams as well to me as to the proud, The pageant insects of a glittering hour!

Oh! when reflecting on these truths sublime, How insignificant do all the joys, The gauds, and honours of the world, appear! How vain ambition! Why has my wakeful

lamp Outwatched the slow-paced night ? Why on the

page, The schoolman’s laboured page, have I employed The hours devoted by the world to rest, And needful to recruit exhausted nature ? Say, can the voice of narrow fame repay The loss of health? Or can the hope of glory Lend a new throb unto my languid heart, Cool, even now, my feverish aching brow, Relume the fires of this deep sunken eye, Or paint new colours on this pallid cheek ?

Say, foolish one, can that unbodied fame, For which thou barterest health and happiness, Say, can it soothe the slumbers of the graveGive a new zest to bliss, or chase the pangs Of everlasting punishment condign? Alas ! how vain are mortal man's desires ! How fruitless his pursuits! Eternal God, Guide thou my footsteps in the way of truth, And, oh! assist me so to live on earth, That I may die in peace, and claim a place In thy high dwelling. All but this is folly, The vain illusions of deceitful life.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

The Ore of Truth from Mines of

Thought.
THE heart has tendrils, like the vine,
1 Which round another's bosom twine,
Outspringing from the parent tree
Of deeply-planted sympathy,
Whose flowers are hope, its fruits are bliss,
Beneficence its harvest is.-
There are some bosoms dark and drear,
Which an unwatered desert are;
Yet there a curious eye may trace
Some silent spot, some verdant place,
Where little flowers, the weeds between,
Spend their soft fragrance all unseen.

Despise them not-for wisdom's toil
Has ne'er disturbed that stubborn soil ;
Yet care and culture might have brought
The ore of truth from mines of thought;
And fancy's fairest flowers had bloomed
Where truth and fancy lie entombed.-
Insult him not-his blackest crime
May, in his Maker's eye sublime,
In spite of all thy pride, be less
Than e'en thy daily waywardness :
Than many a sin, and many a stain,
Forgotten, and impressed again.-
There is, in every human heart,
Some not completely barren part,
Where seeds of love and truth might grow,
And flowers of generous virtue blow;
To plant, to watch, to water there,
This be our duty—be our care!
And sweet it is the growth to trace
Of worth, of intellect, of grace,
In bosoms where our labours first
Bid the young seed of spring-time burst;
And lead it on, from hour to hour,
To ripen into perfect flower.
Hast thou e'er seen a garden clad
In all the robes that Eden had !-
Or vale o'erspread with streams and trees,-
A paradise of mysteries !
Plains, with green hills adorning them,
Like jewels in a diadem ?

These gardens, vales, and plains, and hills,
Which beauty gilds and music fills,
Were once but deserts-culture's hand
Has scattered verdure o'er the land;
And smiles and fragrance rule, serene,
Where barren wilds usurped the scene.
And such is man! a soil which breeds
Or sweetest flowers, or vilest weeds :
Flowers lovely as the morning's light!-
Weeds deadly as the aconite;
Just as his heart is trained to bear
The poisonous weed, or floweret fair.
Flow, then, pure knowledge! ever flow!
Change nature's face to man below;
A paradise once more disclose-
Make deserts bloom with Sharon's rose;
And, through a Saviour's blood once shed,
Raise his forlorn and drooping head.

BOWRING.

The Light of Stars. THE night is come, but not too soon;

And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon

Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven,

But the cold light of stars ;
And the first watch of night is given

To the red planet Mars.

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