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Can all that Optics teach unfold

Thy form to please me so,

As when I dreamt of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow ?

When Science from Creation's face
Enchantment's veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth,
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled
O'er mountains yet untrod,

Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the poet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THIS

The Bible.

HIS Book, this holy Book-on every line Marked with the seal of high divinity, On every leaf bedewed with drops of love Divine, and with the eternal heraldry And signature of God Almighty stamped From first to last-this ray of sacred light, This lamp, from off the everlasting throne, Mercy took down, and in the night of Time Stood, casting on the dark her gracious bow;

And evermore beseeching men, with tears
And earnest sighs, to read, believe, and live.
And many to her voice gave ear, and read,
Believed, obeyed; and now, as the Amen,
True, Faithful Witness swore, with snowy robes
And branchy palms surround the fount of life,
And drink the streams of immortality,

For ever happy, and for ever young.

ROBERT POLLOK.

The Good Shepherd.

SHEPHERD, with meek brow wreathed with

blossoms sweet,

Who guard'st thy timid flock with tenderest

care,

Who guid'st in sunny paths their wandering feet, And the young lambs dost in thy bosom bear; Who lead'st thy happy flock to pastures fair, And by still waters at the noon of day— Charming with lute divine the silent air, What time they linger on the verdant way: Good shepherd! might one gentle, distant strain

Of that immortal melody sink deep

Into my heart, and pierce its careless sleep,

And melt by powerful love its sevenfold chain: Oh, then my soul thy voice should know, and flee To mingle with thy flock, and ever follow Thee. ELIZABETH F. ELLET.

The Soul's Return.

F in departed souls the power remain

IF

seen,

These earthly scenes to visit once again, Not in the night thy visit wilt thou make, When only sorrowing and longing wake;No! in some summer morning's light serene, When not a cloud upon the sky is When high the golden harvest rears its head, All interspersed with flowers of blue and red, Thou, as of yore, around the fields wilt walk, Greeting the reapers with mild, friendly talk. JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND,

Trans. by W. W. STORY.

The Christian yields an Angel to his God.

HERE sleeps what once was beauty, once was

grace;

Grace with that tenderness and sense combin'd To form that harmony of soul and face,

Where beauty shines, the mirror of the mind. Such was the maid, that in the morn of youth,

In virgin innocence, in nature's pride, Blest with each art that owes its charm to truth, Sunk in her father's fond embrace and died.

He weeps: O venerate the holy tear:

Faith lends her aid to ease Affliction's load; The parent mourns the child upon the bier, The Christian yields an angel to his God.

JOHN MASON.

The Death of a Good Bishop. THE good old man is gone!

He lies in his saintly rest,

And his labours all are done,
And the work that he loved the best.

The good old man is gone-
But the dead in the Lord are blest!

I stood in the holy aisle,

When he spake the solemn word,

That bound him, through care and toil, The servant of the Lord:

And I saw how the depths of his manly soul

By that sacred vow were stirred.

And nobly his pledge he keptFor the truth he stood up alone, And his spirit never slept,

And his march was ever on!

Oh! deeply and long shall his loss be wept, The brave old man that's gone.

There were heralds of the cross,

By his bed of death that stood,

And heard how he counted all but loss,

For the gain of his Saviour's blood;

And patiently waited his Master's voice,

Let it call him when it would.

The good old man is gone!

An apostle's chair is void;

There is dust on his mitre thrown, And they've broken his pastoral rod!

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