But more majestic far they stand,

When, side by side, their ranks they form, To wave on high their plumes of green, And fight their battles with the storm.

God of the light and viewless air!

Where summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might,

The fierce and wintry tempests blow; All-from the evening's plaintive sigh, That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry— Breathe forth the language of thy power.

God of the fair and open sky!

How gloriously above us springs
The tented dome, of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings!
Each brilliant star, that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud, that wanders free
In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.

God of the rolling orbs above!

Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze, Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,

And every spark that walks alone
Around the utmost verge of heaven,
"Were kindled at thy burning throne.

God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return;
Her crumbling altars must decay;

Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
But still her grand and lovely scenes
Have made man's warmest praises flow,

For hearts grow holier as they trace.
The beauty of the world below.

The Garden of Gethsemane.-J. PIERPONT.

O'ER Kedron's stream, and Salem's height,
And Olivet's brown steep,

Moves the majestic queen of night,
And throws from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep ;-

All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care-

Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless;--
These leave the couch of restlessness,

To breathe the cool, calm air.

For those who shun the glare of day,
There's a composing power,
That meets them, on their lonely way,
In the still air, the sober ray
Of this religious hour.

'Tis a religious hour;-for he,
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,
In agony and prayer.

O, Holy Father, when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,

May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,

In trust and prayer like him.

Trust in God.—PERCIVAL.

THOU art, O Lord, my only trust,
When friends are mingled with the dust,

And all my loves are gone.

When earth has nothing to bestow,

And every flower is dead below,

I look to thee alone.

Thou wilt not leave, in doubt and fear,
The humble soul, who loves to hear
The lessons of thy word.
When foes around us thickly press,
And all is danger and distress,
There's safety in the Lord.

The bosom friend may sleep below
The churchyard turf, and we may go
To close a loved one's eyes:
They will not always slumber there;
We see a world more bright and fair,
A home beyond the skies.

And we may feel the bitter dart,
Most keenly rankling in the heart,
By some dark ingrate driven:
In us revenge can never burn;
We pity, pardon; then we turn,
And rest our souls in heaven.

'Tis thou, O Lord, who shield'st my head,
And draw'st thy curtains round my bed;
I sleep secure in thee;

And, O, may soon that time arrive,
When we before thy face shall live
Through all eternity.

Heaven.-CHRISTIAN EXAMINER.

THE earth, all light and loveliness, in summer's golden hours, Smiles, in her bridal vesture clad, and crowned with festal flowers,

So radiantly beautiful, so like to heaven above,

We scarce can deem more fair that world of perfect bliss and love.

Is this a shadow, faint and dim, of that which is to come? What shall the unveiled glories be of our celestial home, Where waves the glorious tree of life, where streams of bliss

gush free,

And all is glowing in the light of immortality!

To see again the home of youth, when weary years have passed,

Serenely bright, as when we turned and looked upon it last;
To hear the voice of love, to meet the rapturous embrace,
To gaze, through tears of gladness, on each dear familiar face-

Oh! this indeed is joy, though here we meet again to part
But what transporting bliss awaits the pure and faithful heart,
Where it shall find the loved and lost, those who have gone

before,

Where every tear is wiped away, where partings come no more!

When, on Devotion's seraph wings, the spirit soars above,
And feels thy presence, Father, Friend, God of eternal love,—
Joys of the earth, ye fade away before that living ray,
Which gives to the rapt soul a glimpse of pure and perfect
day-

A gleam of heaven's own light-though now its brightness scarce appears

Through the dim shadows, which are spread around this vale

of tears;

But thine unclouded smile, O God, fills that all glorious place, Where we shall know as we are known, and see thee face to face!

Geehale. An Indian Lament.-ANONYMOUS.

THE blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore
As sweetly and gayly as ever before;

For he knows to his mate he, at pleasure, can hie,
And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly.

The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright,

And reflects o'er our mountains as beamy a light,

As it ever reflected, or ever expressed,

When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best.

The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night,

Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light,

And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track,

For they know that their mates are expecting them back.
Each bird, and each beast, it is blessed in degree:

All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me.

I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair;
I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair;
I will sit on the shore, where the hurricane blows,
And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes;
I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed,

For my kindred are gone to the hills of the dead;
But they died not by hunger, or lingering decay;
The steel of the white man hath swept them away.

This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore,
I will toss, with disdain, to the storm-beaten shore:
Its charms I no longer obey or invoke;

Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke.

I will raise up my voice to the source of the light;
I will dream on the wings of the bluebird at night;
I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves,
And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves;
And will take a new Manito-such as shall seem
To be kind and propitious in every dream.

O, then I shall banish these cankering sighs,
And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes;
I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain;
Red-red shall, alone, on my visage remain!

I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow;
By night and by day I will follow the foe;

Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows;—
His blood can, alone, give my spirit repose.

They came to my cabin when heaven was black:
I heard not their coming, I knew not their track;
But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees,
They were people engendered beyond the big seas:
My wife and my children,-O, spare me the tale !—
For who is there left that is kin to GEEHALE!

Scene from "Percy's Masque."-HILLHOUSE.

SCENE. A high-wood walk in a park. The towers of Warkworth castie, in Northumberland, scen over the trees.-Enter ARTHUR, in a huntsman's dress.

Arthur. HERE let me pause, and breathe awhile, and wipe These servile drops from off my burning brow.