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And God shall be your father still,

'Twas be, in mercy, sent me here, To teach you to obey his will,

Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer."

116.—THE LOCUST. The locust is fierce, and strong, and grim, And an armed man is afraid of him : He comes like a winged shape of dread, With his shielded back and his armed head, And his double wings, for hasty flight, And a keen, unwearying appetite. He comes with famine and fear along, An army a million million strong; The Goth and the Vandal, and dwarfish Hun, [1] With their swarming people, wild and dun, Brought not the dread that the locust brings, When is heard the rush of their myriad wings. From the deserts of burning sand they speed, Where the lions roam and the serpents breed, Far over the sea, away, away! And they darken the sun at noon of day. Like Eden the land before they find, But they leave it a desolate waste behind. [2]

[1] Goths, Vandals, and Huns—barbarian nations of the north, celebrated in history as the invaders, and at last, the destroyers of the Roman empire.

[2] The prophet Joel (i. 3, 7, 8), referring to the invasion of locusts, thus writes

A fire devoureth before them;
And behind them a flame burneth:

The peasant grows pale when he sees them come,
And standeth before them weak and dumb;
For they come like a raging fire in power,
And eat up a harvest in half an hour;
And the trees are bare, and the land is brown,
As if trampled and trod by an army down.

There is terror in every monarch's eye,
When he hears that this terrible foe is nigh ;
For he knows that the might of an armed host
Cannot drive the spoiler from out his coast,
That terror and famine his land await,
And from north to south 'twill be desolate.

Thus the ravening locust is strong and grim;
And what were an armed man to him?
Fire turneth him not, nor sea prevents,
He is stronger by far than the elements !
The broad green earth is his prostrate prey,
And he darkens the sun at the noon of day!

Mary Howitt.

The land is as the Garden of Eden before them,
And behind them a desolate wilderness;
Yea, and nothing shall escape them.
And they shall march every one on his way,
And they shall not break their ranks :
Neither shall one thrust another;
They shall walk every one in his path:
And when they fall on the sword, they shall not be
wounded.

117.—THE CREATOR'S WORKS. There's not a star whose twinkling light

Illumes the distant earth,
And cheers the solemn gloom of night,

But mercy gave it birth.
There's not a cloud whose dews distil

Upon the parching clod,
And clothe with verdure vale and hill,

That is not sent by God.
There's not a place in earth's vast round,

In ocean deep, or air,
Where skill and wisdom are not found,

For God is every where.
Around, beneath, below, above,

Wherever space extends,
There Heaven displays its boundless love,
And power with mercy blends.

Wallace.

118.—OUR ENGLISH HOME. Oh! who would leave our happy land,

Where peace and plenty dwell, To roam upon a foreign strand,

Whose wonders travellers tell?
The orange sheds its sweet perfume

Beneath Hispania's[1] skies ;
But we've the apple's ruddy bloom,
The orchards' rich supplies!

[1] Hispania-Spain.

The cocoa and the date tree spread

Their boughs in India's clime,
The yellow mango hangs o'erhead,

And stately grows the lime;
But we've the cherry's tempting bough,

The currant's coral gem;
What English child will not allow

That these may vie with them?
Italy boasts its citron groves,

And walks of lemon trees;
Ceylon, its spicy nuts and cloves,

That scent the summer breeze;
But we've the peach, and nect'rine red,

The ripe and blooming plum,
The strawberry, in its leafy bed,

When holidays are come.
The purple vine its harvest yields,

France, in thy fertile plain ;
But we've the yellow waving fields

Of golden British grain.
Heaven on our favour'd land hath smil'd,

From want and war we're free;
The noble’s heir, the peasant's child,

Alike have liberty.
Grateful we'll praise the mighty hand

That sheds such blessings here,
Protecting still our native land

From ills that others fear.
Still let us love this spot of earth-

The best where'er we roam-
And duly estimate the worth
Of our dear English home.

Mrs. C. B. Wilson.

119.-THE WINTER FIRE. A fire's a good companionable friend, A comfortable friend, who meets your face With pleasant welcome, makes the poorest shed As pleasant as a palace! Are you cold? He warms you-weary? he refreshes youHungry? he doth prepare your food for you. Are you in darkness ? he gives light to you In a strange land, he wears a face that is Familiar from your childhood. Are you poor, What matters it to him? He knows no difference Between an emperor and the poorest beggar! Where is the friend, that bears the name of man, Will do as much for you?

Mary Howitt.

120.—THE MOTHER TRIED. “Oh! blessed is my baby boy!”.

Thus spoke a mother to her child ; And kissed him with excess of joy

He looked into her face and smiled. But as the mother breathed his name,

The fervent prayer was scarcely said,
Convulsions shook his infant frame

The mother's only hope was dead!
Yet still her faith in Him she kept,

On Him who turn’d to grief her joys;
And still she whisper'd, as she wept,
“ Oh! blessed is my baby boy!”.

S. C. Hall.

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