OMNIPOTENCE.

He sits upon the circle

Of the revolving earth;

And, as the human tumult stirs,
The people are like grasshoppers
That cherup in their mirth.

He touches but the mountains,

And they with terror smoke;

He frowns the earth's foundations shake;
He smiles and gushing waters break
Profusely from the rock.

He clothes him with the sun-light,
And every tongue is praise;

He wraps

him in the thunder-cloud, And drives with ruin o'er the proud, And all the works they raise.

He rides upon the whirlwind,

He walks upon the waves

His ministers are flaming fire,
That chase, in his consuming ire,
The impious to their graves.

He is the same for ever

To those that on him trust;

While men and all their boasted hopes
Are scattered like the water-drops-

Like particles of dust.

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At last he will extinguish

The brilliant orb of day

The heavens, with all their stars, shall roll
Together, like a burning scroll,
And earth dissolve away.

Oh! then, Eternal Father!

Stretch forth thy mighty hand,

And from the overwhelming flame
That racks the scorners of thy name,
Oh! snatch us like a brand!

THE CURSE OF CAIN.

(GENESIS, iv. 15, 16.)

On, the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!
Like the tempest that withers the blossoms of spring-
Like the thunder that bursts on the summer's domain-
It fell on the head of the homicide Cain.

And, lo! like a deer in the fright of the chase,
With a fire in his heart, and a brand on his face,
He speeds him afar to the desert of Nod-
A vagabond smote by the vengeance of God.

All nature to him has been blasted and banned,
For the blood of a brother yet reeks on his hand;
And no vintage has grown, and no fountain has sprung,
For cheering his heart or for cooling his tongue.

The groans of a father his slumber shall start,
And the tears of a mother shall pierce to his heart,
And the kiss of his children shall scorch him like flame,
When he thinks of the curse that hangs over his name.

And the wife of his bosom-the faithful and fair-
Can mix no sweet drop in his cup of despair;
For her tender caress, and her innocent breath,
But stir in his soul the hot embers of wrath.

And his offering may blaze-unregarded by Heaven; And his spirit may pray-yet remain unforgiven; And his grave may be closed-but no rest to him bring: Oh, the wrath of the Lord is a terrible thing!

THE DEAD.

(JOB, xiv. 12, 21.)

How sleep the dead, who in the clay
Forget each pang this being gave!
Nor midnight storm nor morning's ray
Can break the slumbers of the grave.

Though there no tender mother sit

To watch her infant's closed eyes,
To see the dream-smile flush and flit-
Yet, oh, how still the baby lies!

Though there no spousal arms be pressed
Around the fair and youthful bride,
No cheek repose on beauty's breast-
Yet loved ones slumber side by side.

Though thunders roll from vale to vale,
Though battles fill the world with woes,
Though widows weep and orphans wail-
Yet calmly there the dead repose.

Though sunshine gild the summer scene,
Though wild birds sing and wild bees hum,
Though flowers be fair and leaves be green-
Yet all to them is dark and dumb.

Their sons may rise to mount a throne,
May bear the chains that gall the slave-
'Tis all the same-the dead sleep on,

Till Heaven's last trumpet reach the grave.

THE GOOD MAN.

(PSALM CXXviii.)

THE good man alone has the hope to be blessed,
For the Lord out of Zion hath promised to bless him;
The fruits of his toil shall be safely possessed,

And the angels have charge that no evil distress him.

TRUST IN GOD.

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His wife-like the vines by his care that have throve, And brought forth their grapes for the season of gladness

Shall nurse at her bosom the fruits of their love,
And lift up his heart in the moment of sadness.

His babes-like the beautiful emblems of peaceLike the branches of olive, shall blossom and flourish; And the hearts of the parents in joy shall increase When the hands that they nourished are held forth to nourish.

The good man's existence all placidly runs,

For no war-cloud around his Jerusalem gathers-Till his seasons be full, and the sons of his sons Shall carry his bones to the tomb of his fathers.

TRUST IN GOD.

(PSALM xlii. &c.)

To thee, O God! to thee

My prayers like silent dews arise,
When labour shuts his weary eyes,
And through the moonless, midnight skies,
The startling whirlwinds flee-

While I, upon my wakeful bed,
The tears of friendless anguish shed