In the broad book of nature. 'Tis to have
Attentive and believing faculties;

To go abroad rejoicing in the joy
Of beautiful and well-created things;

To love the voice of waters, and the sheen
Of silver fountains leaping to the sea;
To thrill with the rich melody of birds
Living their life of music; to be glad
In the gay sunshine, reverent in the storm;
To see a beauty in the stirring leaf

And find calm thoughts beneath the whispering tree; To see, and hear, and breathe the evidence

Of God's deep wisdom in the natural world!

-American.

N. P. WILLIS.

GOD'S GLORY IN THE HEAVENS.

THE spacious firmament on high,

With all the blue ethereal sky,

And spangled heavens, a shining frame,

Their great Original proclaim.

Th' unweary'd sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,

The moon takes up the wondrous tale,

And, nightly to the list'ning earth,
Repeats the story of her birth:

While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,

And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice, nor sound,
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
-In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;

For ever singing, as they shine,

"The hand that made us is divine."

J. ADDISON, 1672-1719.

COMFORTS OF RELIGION.

WHEN gloomy thoughts, and boding fears,
The trembling heart invade,
And all the face of nature wears
A universal shade,

Religion's dictates can assuage
The tempest of the soul;
And every fear shall lose its rage
At her divine control.

Through life's bewilder'd darksome way
Her hand unerring leads;

And o'er the path her heavenly ray

A cheering lustre sheds.

When feeble reason, tired and blind,
Sinks helpless and afraid,

Thou blest supporter of the mind,
How powerful is thy aid!

Oh, let my heart confess thy power,
And find thy sweet relief,

To brighten every gloomy hour,

And soften every grief!

ANNE STEELE, 1760.

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS.

CHILDREN of night! unfolding meekly, slowly,
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours,
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy,
And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers;

To solemn things and deep,

To spirit-haunted sleep,
To thoughts, all-purified
From earth, ye seem allied,
O dedicated flowers!

Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined, Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly, and sadly kind.

-So doth love's dreaming heart

Dwell from the throng apart,

And but to shades disclose

The utmost thought, which glows
With its pure life entwined.

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices,
To no triumphant song your petals thrill,
But send forth odours, with the faint, soft voices
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still.
-So doth lone prayer arise,
Mingling with secret sighs,
When grief unfolds, like you,
Her breast, for heavenly dew
In silent hours to fill.

MRS F. HEMANS, 1793-1835.

SERVE GOD AT MORN.

WHEN day-light breaks, and sheds his rays abroad,
Turn from the splendour of his sunny glow;
Let thy soul leave the earth and soar to God,
As the sweet flower turns to the sun below,
And drinks the blessed rays which from his bright-
ness flow.

Oh! let not nature's praises soar on high,
Ere thy lip opens with its morning prayer:
Let not the lark's shrill music fill the sky,
Ere thy heart lifts its aspirations there;
But let the dawn of morn thy orisons declare.

Morn is the time to see thy prayers begun ;

For morning hymn'd the young creation's birth; And the grave open'd with the morning sun,

When man's redemption was complete on earth; And morn shall see our God in judgment coming forth.

Serve God at morn, that solemn hallow'd hour,

When nature wakes as from the sleep of death, When the glad song from mountain, grove, and bower,

Is heard through heaven, and on the earth beneath, Serve God, let Him receive thy morning's early breath.

Happy the day, whose first beam bears thy song

On his bright wing up to the gate of heaven,