Could man conceive the vast design?
Could he the grand machine combine?
Stretch his weak hands from pole to pole,
And bid them on their centre roll?

Could man, with all his skill, compose
The smallest blade of grass that grows?
Or at his will, ordain to be

The meanest insect that we see?

'Twas God, who gave creation birth,
Who formed this wondrous globe of earth,
Who fashioned by his mighty hand
Sun, moon, and stars, and sea, and land.

Harrington Hymns.

146.

A MINUTE.

A minute, how soon it has flown!

And yet how important it is! God calls every moment his own,

For all our existence is his:

And though we may waste them in folly or play, He notices each that we squander away.

Why should we a minute despise,
Because it so quickly is o'er?
We know that it rapidly flies,

And therefore should prize it the more.
Another, indeed, may appear in its stead,
But that precious minute for ever is fled.

Then let us not waste all our years
In idleness, folly, or strife;
For neither repentance nor tears

Can bring back one moment of life!

But time, if well spent, and improved as it goes, Will render life pleasant, and happy its close.

And when all the minutes are past,
Which God for our portion has given,
We shall cheerfully welcome the last,
Which will take us to Him and to heaven.

The value of time then may all of us see,
Not knowing how near our last minute may

be.

Hymns for Infant Minds.

147.

THE LOVE OF GOD.

Even in Lapland's land of snow,
Lilies spring, and roses blow;

E'en on Arabia's desert sand,
Showers refresh the thirsty land:
God is present everywhere,
Making every place his care,
Looking from his throne above,
With a parent's tender love.

Child of sorrow! cease to weep,
For his mercy cannot sleep;
Goodness, love, and care divine
Through the whole creation shine.
He who marks a sparrow's fall,
Looks with tenderness on all;

Child of woe, then cease to weep,
For His mercy cannot sleep.

D. P. Campbell.

148.

REFLECTIONS ON RETIRING TO REST.

It is good when we lay on the pillow our head, And the silence of night all around us is spread, To reflect on the deeds we have done through the day,

Nor allow it to pass without profit away.

A day-what a trifle!—and yet the amount
Of the days we have passed form an awful account,
And the time may arrive, when the world we
would give

Were it ours-might we have but another to live.

In whose service have we through the day been employed?

And what are the pleasures we mostly enjoyed? Our desires and our wishes, to what did they tend, To the world we are in, or the world without end?

Hath the sense of His presence encompassed us

round,

Without whom not a sparrow can fall to the

ground?

Have our hearts turned to Him with devotion

most true,

Or been occupied only with things that we view?

Have we often reflected how soon we must go
To the mansions of bliss, or to regions of woe?
Have we felt unto God a repentance sincere,
And in faith to the Saviour of sinners drawn near?

Let us thus with ourselves solemn conference hold,

Ere sleep's silken fetters our senses enfold;
And forgiveness implore for the sins of the day,
Nor allow them to pass unrepented away.

Bentham.