It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more
she lies;

How in the grave

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his

Toiling, rejoicing,

eyes.

sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Longfellow.

THE GREATNESS AND GLORY OF GOD.

I.

THOU art, O Lord, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee:
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

II.

When day, with parting beam, delays
Among the op'ning clouds of ev'n;

And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heav'n;
Those hues that mark the sun's decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.

III.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd dyes;-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.

IV.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flow'r the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye:
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.

T. Moore.

THE SONG OF MIRIAM.

SOUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free.
Sing for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots and horsemen, all splendid and brave;
How vain was their boasting! The Lord hath but
spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave;
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
Jehovah has triumphed his people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord,
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword!-
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide; Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumph'd-his people are free!

T. Moore.

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.1

THE bark that held a prince went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on;
And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne,
Ere sorrow break its chain ;-

Why comes not death to those who mourn?

He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms before his throne,
The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?

Before him passed the young and fair,

In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair—
He never smiled again !

It is recorded of Henry the First, that, after the death of his son Prince William, who perished by shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing;
He saw the tourney's victor crowned
Amidst the knightly ring:

A murmur of the restless deep
Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board;

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,

Fresh hopes were born for other years

He never smiled again!

Mrs. Hemans.

THE MARINER'S SONG.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

"Oh for a soft and gentle wind!"
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-

The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners,

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

Allan Cunningham.

THE STORMY PETREL.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast;
The sails are scattered about like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds;
The mighty cables and iron chains,

The hull which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack; and hearts of stone
Their natural hard proud strength disown.

Up and down! up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown, Amidst the flashing and feathery foam

The stormy petrel finds a home;