No God!-Who gives the evening dew, The fanning breeze, the fostering shower? Who warms the spring-morn's budding bough, And paints the summer's noontide flower? Who spreads in the autumnal bower, The fruit-tree's mellow stores around; And sends the winter's icy power, T' invigorate the exhausted ground? No God!-Who makes the bird to wing Like floating isle, on ocean plains? No God!-Who warms the heart to heave With fair ethereal forms to meet, That tell us of an after life? No God!-Who fixed the solid ground Who all things to perfection brought On earth below, in heaven abroad?— Go ask the fool of impious thought That dares to say,-"There is no God!" WILLIAM KNOX. The Pauper Child's Burial. STRETCHED on a rude plank the dead pauper lay: No weeping friends gathered to bear him away; His white, slender fingers were clasped on his breast; The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest. The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted; No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him, Poor little one! often thy meek eyes have sought And when in strange gladness thy young voice was heard, As in winter's stern sadness the song of a bird, Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear, Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear. And when the last pang rent thy heartstrings in twain, And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain, No gentle one soothed thee, in love's melting tone, With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown. Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear With the songs of the angels the dying may hear; And thrillingly tender, amid Death's alarms, Was thy mother's voice welcoming thee to her arms. Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarse shroud reposes In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses, And while on thy coffin the rude clods are pressed, The good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb to his breast. MARGARET L. BAILEY. The Good Woman. COME, ladies, you that would appear Like angels fair, come, dress you here; Come, dress you at this marble stone, Which once adorn'd as fair a mind These ne'er disturb'd her peaceful mind. The same in low, in high estate, Ne'er vex'd with this, ne'er mov'd with that. Go, ladies, now, and if you'd be As fair, as great, as good as she, ANON. The Glories of Spring Time. HAIL, uncreated Being, source of life, Whose love is boundless, and whose mercy wise! Whose power hath wrought, to spread thy glo ries wide, For every sense a paradise of joy! Thyself art All, and in thy spirit pure Live all created things: each form declares Thy touch and pressure; every meanest tribe Summer, and autumn's sun, and wintry blasts Singing thy name; proclaiming to the dull. awake New scenes to witness all thy majesty, New shapes and creatures: none dost thou forbid |