GOD IN STORM.

THOU, Terrible! O who can cope
With thy dread thunder's power?
The Lord is great; what is our hope?
-His Love's for ever sure.

He hides himself in darkest night,
Pale Fear pervades the scene,
And wing'd Destruction wheels his flight
Where Peace and Hope have been.

O'er wood and wave his red right hand
Directs the lightning's ire,

And thunder peals o'er all the land,

A sea of rolling fire.

Her God all trembling nature owns,

When tempests sweep the sky;

The Heavens are bow'd beneath his frowns, Earth dreads, with closed eye.

To feeble worms, when hills are riven,
His love shall still appear;

When worlds, like arid leaves, are driven,
E'en then his aid is near.

Our God is Love-his mercy sure,
Though wrath may cloud his brow;
He ne'er denies,-his ear's secure
To those who seek Him now.

"He rides upon the wind;" his name Is heard on every side;

And e'en if mute, he's still the same,

-Who

may

his wrath abide ?

Then seek him, mortal, while you may,
Nor slight his proffer'd boon:
The bolt that thee hath spared to-day,
To-morrow may consume!

W. Z.

MY POOR SCHOOL-MASTER;

OR, EARTHLY GRIEF ASSUAGED BY HEAVENLY

HOPE.

BY THE REV. J. T. BARR.

"Full oft, unknowing and unknown,
He wore his endless noons alone,
Amid th' autumnal wood;

Oft was he wont in hasty fit,

Abrupt the social board to quit,

And gaze with eager glance upon the

trembling flood."

WARTON.

IN the summer of 18-, while taking a solitary walk through the beautiful grounds of the late poet Shenstone, near Birmingham, after an absence of several years, I met with an adventure, the remembrance of which will not fail to accompany my subsequent visits to that place with melancholy interest.

It was about the hour of five, on a fine summer's evening, when I arrived at Mucklow-hill, near the Leasowes; and being fatigued by my walk, I sat down on a rustic seat, which stands on the summit of the hill, and which formerly bore this appropriate inscription,

"Divini gloria ruris."

From this seat, which commands a most extensive view of the country, my eye wandered with delight over the rich and varied scenery, which was in every direction presented to its view. The beauty of the landscape cannot be excelled. As far as the eye can reach may be seen the misty summits of the Welsh mountains-the "blue-topt Wreken" in Shropshire-the Clee-hillsthe celebrated ruins of Dudley Castle, and a thousand other magnificent objects, which form a delightful contrast with the little farm-houses and white-washed cottages of

the peasantry, which are scattered throughout the wide-spread valley.

The evening was remarkably pleasant; the sky was unobscured by a single cloud; and scarcely a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. At this moment, my ears were agreeably saluted by the bells of Hales Owen church, whose venerable spire was seen in the distance.-Their music soon lulled me into a pleasing reverie; and the sweet sounds seemed to harmonize with the tender emotions I was indulging. I thought of by-gone pleasures;

"Of youth, of home, and that sweet time,
When first I heard their soothing chime."

Having sat for nearly an hour, enjoying this inimitable scene, and indulging a train of thoughts into which its well-known beauties had insensibly led me, I arose; and continuing my walk, arrived at the spot where stands an ornamented Urn, inscribed to the