THE MIDNIGHT RAIN.

THE midnight rain comes pattering down,

The winds are howling by,

And clouds of darkest hue and gloom

Enshroud the spangled sky.

Yet, careless I pursue my way,

Not heeding Nature's frown;

And all within is bright as day,
Though rain comes pattering down.

He who has learned his Maker's ways,

His mercy and his love,

Can view them through the endless mist

That shroudeth all above.

Ay, though he sees the faded flower,

At Autumn's sunset brown,

Or hears, at midnight's lonely hour,

The rain come pattering down.

The flower, he knows, will bloom again,

And sweet will be the scene,

When Autumn's russet brown shall change

To Spring's enchanting green.

And bright will be the morning's light

Unclouded by a frown,

Though now, amid this howling night,
The rain comes pattering down.

Thus, let us feel thy presence, Lord,

In darkness and in light,

When blessings shed around their bloom, Or sorrows cast their blight.

And let us still Thy ways pursue;

So shall we wear a crown,

When o'er our grave falls midnight dew,

Or rain comes pattering down.

ANONYMOUS.

THE LAND WHICH NO MORTAL MAY KNOW.

THOUGH Earth has full many a beautiful spot,

As the poet or painter might show;

Yet more lovely and beautiful, holy and bright,

To the hopes of the heart, and the spirit's glad sight, Is the land which no mortal may know.

There the cystalline stream, bursting forth from the Throne,

Flows on, and for ever will flow;

Its waves, as they roll, are with melody rife,

And its waters are sparkling with beauty and life
In the land which no mortal may know.

And there, on its margin, with leaves ever green,
With fruits, healing sickness and woe,

The fair Tree of Life, in its glory spread wide,

Is fed by the deep, inexhaustible tide,

On the land which no mortal may know!

There, too, are the lost!-whom we loved on this earth,

With whose memory our bosoms still glow!

Their relics we gave to the place of the dead,

But their glorified spirits before us have fled

To the land which no mortal may know.

There, the pale orb of Night, and the fountain of Day,

Nor beauty nor splendor bestow;

But the presence of Him, the unchanging I AM,
And the holy, the pure, the immaculate Lamb,
Light the land which no mortal may know!

Oh! who but must pine, in this dark vale of tears,

From its clouds and its shadows to go,

To walk in the light of the glory above,

And to share in the peace, and the joy, and the love,

Of the land which mo mortal may know?

B. BARTON.

BURNS.

BY AN ANONYMOUS AUTHOR, IN VIEW OF THE BEAUTIFUL MONUMENT

ERECTED IN SCOTLAND, TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

Is yonder little snowy dome,

The sacred shrine, the silent tomb

Where thinking strangers love to come,

Where Genius mourns,

The last, the solitary home.

Of thee, poor Burns?

Yes yes, that dome adorns thy bed;

'Twas given by those who scarcely bread

When living gave thee

nor a shred

To hide thy wants,

But now, would o'er thy mouldering head

Build monuments!