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Doth not thy God behold thee still,

With all-surveying eye?
Doth not his power all nature fill,

Around, beneath, on high ?

Know, hadst thou eagle-pinions free,

To track the realms of air,
Thou couldst not reach a spot, where He

Would not be with thee there !

In the wide city's peopled towers,

On the vast ocean's plains, Midst the deep woodland's loneliest bowers,

Alike the Almighty reigns !

Then fear not, though the angry sky

A thousand darts should cast; Why should we tremble, e'en to die,

And be with Him at last ?

THE BIRDS.

“Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings; and not one of

them is forgotten before God?” — ST LUKE, xii. 6.

TRIBES of the air ! whose favour'd race
May wander through the realms of space,

Free guests of earth and sky;
In form, in plumage, and in song,
What gifts of nature mark your throng

With bright variety!

love ;

Nor differ less your forms, your flight,
Your dwellings hid from hostile sight,
And the wild haunts

ye
Birds of the gentle beak !* how dear
Your wood-note to the wanderer's ear,

In shadowy vale or grove!

Far other scenes, remote, sublime,
Where swain or hunter may not climb,

The mountain-eagle seeks;
Alone he reigns a monarch there,
Scarce will the chamois' footstep dare

Ascend his Alpine peaks.

Others there are that make their home
Where the white billows roar and foam

Around the o'erhanging rock;
Fearless they skim the angry wave,
Or, shelter'd in their sea-beat cave,

The tempest's fury mock.

Where Afric's burning realm expands,
The ostrich haunts the desert sands,

Parch'd by the blaze of day;
The swan, where northern rivers glide,
Through the tall reeds that fringe their tide

Floats graceful on her way.

The condor, where the Andes tower,
Spreads his broad wing of pride and power,

* The Italians call all singing-birds, birds of the gentle beak.

And many a storm defies;
Bright in the Orient realms of morn,
All beauty's richest bues adorn

The bird of paradise.

Some, amidst India's groves of palm,
And spicy forests breathing balm,

Weave soft their pendant nest ;
Some, deep in Western wilds, display
Their fairy form and plumage gay,

In rainbow colours drest.

Others no varied song may pour,
May boast no eagle-plume to soar,

No tints of light may wear ;
Yet know, our Heavenly Father guides
The least of these, and well provides

For each, with tenderest care.

Shall He not then thy guardian be?
Will not His aid extend to thee ?

Oh, safely may'st thou rest!
Trust in His love ; and e'en should pain,
Should sorrow, tempt thee to complain,

Know what He wills is best !

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The sky-lark, when the dews of morn
Hang tremulous on flower and thorn,

And violets round his nest exhale
Their fragrance on the early gale,
To the first sunbeam spreads his wings,
Buoyant with joy, and soars and sings.

He rests not on the leafy spray
To warble his exulting lay;
But high above the morning cloud
Mounts in triumphant freedom proud,
And swells, when nearest to the sky,
His notes of sweetest ecstasy.

Thus, my Creator ! thus the more
My spirit's wing to Thee can soar,
The more she triumphs to behold
Thy love in all thy works unfold,
And bids her hymns of rapture be
Most glad, when rising most to Thee!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

CHILD'S EVENING HYMN.

When twilight's grey and pensive hour
Brings the low breeze, and shuts the flower,
And bids the solitary star
Shine in pale beauty from afar;

When gathering shades the landscape veil,
And peasants seek their village dale,
And mists from river-wave arise,
And dew in every blossom lies ;

When evening's primrose opes to shed
Soft fragrance round her grassy bed;
When glow-worms in the wood-walk light
Their lamp, to cheer the traveller's sight ;-

At that calm hour, so still, so pale,
Awakes the lonely nightingale;
And from a hermitage of shade
Fills with her voice the forest glade.

And sweeter far that melting voice
Than all which through the day rejoice;
And still shall bard and wanderer love
The twilight music of the grove.

Father in heaven! O thus when day
With all its cares hath pass’d away,
And silent hours waft peace on earth,
And hush the louder strains of mirth;

Thus
may
sweet songs

of praise and prayer
To Thee my spirit's offering bear-
Yon star, my signal, set on high,
For vesper-hymns of piety.

So may Thy mercy and Thy power
Protect me through the midnight hour,
And balmy sleep and visions blest
Smile on Thy servant's bed of rest.

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