In honour to the world's great Author, rise: Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

THE EMIGRANT'S DAUGHTER.

Mrs. Sigourney.

"THE way is long," the father said, While through the western wild he sped With eager searching eye;

'Cheer ye, my babes," the mother said,

And drew them closer to her side,
As frown'd the evening sky.

Just then, within the thicket rude,
A long-rear'd cabin's roof they view'd,
And its low shelter blest;

On the rough floor their simple bed
In haste and weariness they spread,
And laid them down to rest.

On leathern hinge the doors were hung,
Undeck'd with glass the windows swung,

The smoke-wreath stain'd the wall;

And here they found their only home,
Who once had ruled the spacious dome,
And paced the pictured hall.

But hearts, with pure affection warm,
Unmurmuring at the adverse storm,
Did in that cell abide ;

And there the wife her husband cheer'd,
And there her little ones she rear'd,
And there in hope she died.

Still, the lone man his toil pursued, While, 'neath his roof so low and rude,

A gentle daughter rose,

As peering through some refted rock,
And blooming on a broken stock,
The blushing sweetbriar grows!

With tireless hand the board she spread; The Holy Book at evening read;

And when, with serious air,

He saw her bend so sweetly mild,
To lull to sleep the moaning child,
He bless'd her in his prayer.

But stern disease his footstep staid,
And down the woodman's axe was laid,-

The fever flame was high;

No more the forest fear'd his stroke,-
He fell, as falls the rugged oak
Beneath the whirlwind's eye.

His youngest girl, his fondest pride,
His baby when the mother died,
How desolate she stands !

While gazing on his death-struck eye,
His kneeling sons with anguish cry,
And clasp his clenching hands.

Who hastes his throbbing head to hold?
Who bows to chafe his temples cold?
In beauty's opening prime !

That blessed daughter, meek of heart,
Who, for his sake, a matron's part

Had borne before her time.

That gasp, that groan,-'tis o'er, 'tis o'er! The manly breast must heave no more!

That heart no longer pine.

Oh! Thou, who feed'st the raven's nest,

Confirm to them the promise blest,

Toward spire and tower, 'midst shadowy elms asWhence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow'd day. The halls, from old heroic ages gray,

Pour their fair children forth; and hamlets low, With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,

Send out their inmates in a happy flow,

Like a free vernal stream. I may not tread With them those pathways,-to the feverish bed Of sickness bound;-yet, oh my God! I bless Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath fill'd My chasten'd heart, and all its throbbings still'd To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.

THE STILL, SMALL VOICE.

M'Comb.

HE cometh, He cometh, the Lord passeth by; The mountains are rending, the tempest is nigh; The wind is tumultuous, the rocks are o'ercast; But the Lord of the Prophet is not in the blast.

He cometh, He cometh, the Lord, He is near,
The earth it is reeling, all nature's in fear;
The earthquake's approaching, with terrible form;
But the Lord of Sabaoth is not in the storm.

He cometh, He cometh, the Lord is in ire;
The smoke is ascending, the mount is on fire!
O say, is Jehovah revealing His name!
He is near, but Jehovah is not in the flame.

He cometh, He cometh, the tempest is o'er ;
He is come, neither tempest nor storm shall be more;
All nature reposes; earth, ocean, and sky,

Are still as the voice that descends from on high.