20. Whence, then, cometh wisdom? And where is the place of understanding? 21. Since it is hidden from the eyes of all living, And kept close from the fowls of the air. 22. Destruction and Death say, We have heard a rumor3 of it with our ears. 23. God knoweth the way to it; He knoweth its dwelling-place. 24. For he seeth to the ends of the earth, And surveyeth all things under the whole heaven. 25. When he gave the winds their weight, And meted out the waters by measure, 26. When he prescribed a law to the rain, And a path to the thunder-flash, 27. Then did he see it, and make it known; He established it, and searched it out. 28. But he said unto man, Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom, 1 SHAFT. A long pit or opening made in the earth, as into a mine. 2 TRICKLE. Fall or run down in drops. RUMOR. Flying or popular report. MET ED. Measured. 5 PRE-SCRIBED' appointed. Set down; dictated; LII. MORNING. KEBLE. [John Keble, an English clergyman and poet, was born at Fairford, Gloucestershire, April 25, 1792, and died in March, 1866. He was appointed professor of poetry at Oxford in 1833, and in 1835 became vicar of Hursley, where he lived during the remainder of his life, discharging faithfully the modest duties of an English country clergyman. He was an admirable scholar and a man of fine genius, but was most of all remarkable for his deep religious faith and the singular purity of his life and conversation. A volume of poems by him, called "The Christian Year: Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year," obtained unprecedented popularity both in England and America, having passed through more than fifty editions. He is the author of a poetical work of a similar kind, entitled “Lyra Innocentium: Thoughts in Verse on Christian Children, their Ways and Privileges." He also published several sermons and theological tracts, a Life of Bishop Wilson, and a volume of lectures on poetry, in the Latin language, and edited the works of Richard Hooker.] 1. NEW every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, 2. New mercies, each returning day, New perils past, new sins forgiven, 3. If on our daily course our mind Be set, to hallow1 all we find, New treasures still, of countless price, 4. O, cculd we learn that sacrifice, What lights would all around us rise! 5. Seek we no more; content with these, As Heaven shall bid them, come and go - 6. Only, O Lord, in thy dear love, 1 HALLOW. Consecrate; make holy. | 2 RĂPT'URE. Extreme delight. LIII.-NIGHT. 1. THE Sun rests on the brink of the western horizon, sparkling over the ever-restless surface of the ocean. Dazzled by the excess of light, I turn my eyes from the brilliant orb, and look down upon the strand at my feet, where the tide wave rolls upwards in broad sheets of foam, and then again falls back in a thousand little rills, and with a thousand delightful murmurs. 2. My eye has rested, and once more wishes to enjoy the aspect of the setting sun; but the fiery globe has already sunk below the margin of the waters, to cast its streams of light over other lands and seas to awaken millions to the labors and enjoyments of a new-born day. A gorgeous canopy2 of clouds, glowing in every tint of gold, scarlet, and purple, alone remains to bear witness to the vanished sun's magnificence as after the death of a hero the memory of his deeds still lingers behind in many a glorious tradition, and spreads a halo over his tomb. 3. At length even the last faint glimmerings of light have disappeared; night has fully vanquished day, and an increasing gloom seems about to cover all nature with a funereal pall. But this triumph of death is only apparent and of short duration, for as the darkness deepens, new worlds blaze forth from the dark heavens, and open the portals of the Infinite to our astonished gaze. Thus night, far from contracting our horizon, withdraws in reality the veil which hid from us the wonders of a boundless universe. 4. Who can describe the splendor of the starry heavens? With vivid colors the painter imitates the blushing morn or the moonbeam dancing on the lake: the forest, the sea, the mountains appear on his canvas like reality itself; but the wonders of the starry heavens mock the weakness of his art, for how could he confine the boundless fields of ether within the narrow limits of a painting? 5. In all times, in all zones the aspect of the nocturnal9 firmament has awakened feelings of pious awe in the breast of man; and surely the idea of a single and omnipotent 10 God first dawned in his soul while his eye was plunging into the depths of the skies, and star after star shone down upon him from that amazing dome whose cupola is everywhere extended, and whose pillars are nowhere to be found. 1 BRINK. The edge of any place. 5 VĂN QUISHED. Conquered. 6 FU-NE'RE-AL. Suiting a funeral ; dark. 7 AP-PÁR'ENT. Visible; not real. 9 NOC-TURNAL. Relating to night. LIV. THE RESCUE. EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. He is [Edward Bulwer Lytton, Lord Lytton, was born in 1805. He has written & great number of novels, which have been generally read in England and America. He is also the author of several plays, of poems, pamphlets, and political speeches. generally known by the name of Bulwer, under which his earlier works were written. In 1866 he was made a peer, and assumed the title of Lord Lytton, having for some years previously added Lytton to his original name of Bulwer; Lytton having been that of his mother. The 'ollowing is from the drama of "The Rightful Heir." Vyvyan is by birth heir to a title and an inheritance, of which he has been deprived with the connivance of his mother, Lady Montreville, who has recognized in him her wronged son, but is not known to him.] Vyvyan. In truth we made a scurvy1 figure After our shipwreck. Lady M. That sigh, in truth, speaks sadness. if I In aught could serve you, trust me. Eveline. Sir, Trust her, Vyvyan. Methinks the mournful tale of thy young years Would raise thee up a friend wherever pity Lives in the heart of woman. Vyvyan. Gentle lady, The key of some charmed music in your voice 'Tis briefly told. Until my fifteenth year, Beneath the roof of a poor village priest, Not far from hence, my childhood wore away; Then stirred within me restless thoughts and deep: |