Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain, Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse.

All that spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores.

These to Thee, my God, we owe, Source whence all our blessings flow; And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear; Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot

Drop her green untimely fruit;

Should the vine put forth no more,

Nor the olive yield her store;

Though the sickening flocks should fall,

And the herds desert the stall;

Should thine altered hand restrain

The early and the latter rain;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;

Yet to Thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee-for Thyself alone.

1

FOR EASTER SUNDAY.

AGAIN the Lord of life and light
Awakes the kindling ray;

Unseals the eyelids of the morn,
And pours increasing day.

Oh! what a night was that which wrapt
The heathen world in gloom;
Oh! what a Sun which broke this day
Triumphant from the tomb!

This day be grateful homage paid,
And loud hosannas sung;
Let gladness dwell in every heart,
And praise on every tongue.

Ten thousand differing lips shall join
To hail this welcome morn,
Which scatters blessings from its wings,
To nations yet unborn.

Jesus, the friend of human kind,

With strong compassion moved,

Descended, like a pitying God,

To save the souls He loved.

The powers of darkness leagued in vain To bind his soul in death;

He shook their kingdom, when He fell, With his expiring breath.

Not long the toils of hell could keep
The hope of Judah's line;
Corruption never could take hold

On aught so much divine.

And now his conquering chariot wheels
Ascend the lofty skies;

While broke, beneath his powerful cross,
Death's iron sceptre lies.

Exalted high at God's right hand,

And Lord of all below;

Through Him is pardoning love dispensed, And boundless blessings flow.

And still for erring, guilty man
A brother's pity flows;

And still his bleeding heart is touched
With memory of our woes.

To Thee, my Saviour and my King,
Glad homage let me give;

And stand prepared like Thee to die,
With Thee that I may live.

WILLIAM KNOX.

WILLIAM KNOx, the son of a respectable farmer in Roxburgshire, was the author of The Harp of Sion, and Songs of Israel, works deserving far more attention than they have yet obtained. His Scripture themes have a rich glow of fancy and feeling, and their language is singularly elegant. He died in Edinburgh at the age of thirty-six, in 1825.

YOUTH AND AGE.

JOB VII. 16.

OH! Youth is like the spring-tide morn,
When roses bloom on Jordan's strand,
And far the turtle's voice is borne

Through all Judea's echoing land!
When the delighted wanderer roves
Through cedar woods, and olive groves,

That spread their blossoms to the day;
And climbs the hill, and fords the streain,
And basks him in the noon-tide beam,
"Oh! I would live alway."

But Age is like the winter's night,

When Hermon wears his mantle cloud,
When moon and stars withdraw their light,
And Hinnom's blast is long and loud;

When the dejected pilgrim strays
Along the desert's trackless maze,

Forsaken by each friendly ray;

And feels no vigour in his limb,
And finds no home or earth for him,
And cries, amid the shadows dim,

"I would not live alway."

Oh! Youth is firmly bound to earth,

When hope beams on each comrade's glance; His bosom chords are tuned to mirth,

Like harp-strings in the cheerful dance;
But Age has felt those ties unbound,
Which fixed him to that spot of ground

Where all his household comforts lay;
He feels his freezing heart grow cold,
He thinks of kindred in the mould,
And cries, amid his grief untold,
"I would not live alway."

THE ATHEIST.

PSALM XIV. 1.

THE fool hath said, "There is no God:"
No God!-Who lights the morning sun,
And sends him on his heavenly road,
A far and brilliant course to run?
Who, when the radiant day is done,
Hangs forth the moon's nocturnal lamp,
And bids the planets, one by one,
Steal o'er the night-vales, dark and damp?

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
Its flight like arrow through the sky,
And gives the deer its power to spring

From rock to rock triumphantly?