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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,  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. 
 Goths, Vandals, and Huns—barbarian nations of the north, celebrated in history as the invaders, and at last, the destroyers of the Roman empire.
 The prophet Joel (i. 3, 7, 8), referring to the invasion of locusts, thus writes
A fire devoureth before them;
The peasant grows pale when he sees them come,
There is terror in every monarch's eye,
Thus the ravening locust is strong and grim;
The land is as the Garden of Eden before them,
117.—THE CREATOR'S WORKS. There's not a star whose twinkling light
Illumes the distant earth,
But mercy gave it birth.
Upon the parching clod,
That is not sent by God.
In ocean deep, or air,
For God is every where.
Wherever space extends,
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?
Beneath Hispania's skies ;
The cocoa and the date tree spread
Their boughs in India's clime,
And stately grows the lime;
The currant's coral gem;
That these may vie with them?
And walks of lemon trees;
That scent the summer breeze;
The ripe and blooming plum,
When holidays are come.
France, in thy fertile plain ;
Of golden British grain.
From want and war we're free;
Alike have liberty.
That sheds such blessings here,
From ills that others fear.
The best where'er we roam-
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?
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,
The mother's only hope was dead!
On Him who turn’d to grief her joys;
S. C. Hall.