GOD bids the sun ascend the skies, And heaven and earth rejoice; He speaks, the rushing whirlwind flies, Through the dull eve, the blithsome morn, That He who rules them, rules them well. Thus over life's wide darkling plain, Thro' many a path of joy and pain And though sometimes in prospect view'd, On hearing the Church Bells, while long confined by Illness. AGAIN these solemn sounds-again That awful call I hear, In social bands while others move, And in His courts with holy love Their MAKER's praise to sing ;* In slow procession by; Th' awak'ning sound, the solemn show, Speak to my soul of sabbaths past Of time, for me how short to last, While here my moveless useless frame Light up my darken'd mind. Might heavenly grace abroad be shed Tho' exil'd from Thy dwelling place Could I before Thy blessed cross Tho' in thy earthly temple here Thou wilt not cast away. Thou canst refresh my fainting soul That depth of love th' angelic host O can that boon, profusely pour'd O let thy sanctifying Dove With healing wings descend, So shall a gleam of heavenly light And cheer, with rays serenely bright, On Parting from a Gentleman at the Door of one of the Protestant Churches, at Paris, immediately after Dirine Service. By J. H. G. a native of America. STRANGER! I know thee not by name, Stranger! I read it in thine eye, That GOD has chosen thee His child. The moment was a fleeting one In which we felt the Christian tie, Perchance, beyond this world of care, Meanwhile, His guardian care attend THE SEASONS.-By an American Lady. I LOVE the rising grace, the varied charms, Which on the Earth's enamell'd bosom play, When Nature bursts from April's humid arms, And springs impatient to the Ides of May. I love the rip'ning beam, the fervid glow, Which crowns with full maturity the year; When busy Summer shows his swarthy brow, And severs from the root the bending ear. I love the rich profusion Autumn yields, I love the bright effulgence Winter wears, When o'er the plains his fleecy showers descend, And the soft germs which shiv'ring Nature bears, From the rude blasts and piercing cold defend. I love-but ah! such matchless beauties rise, So thick the forms of varied goodness throng, That sweet confusion dims my wond'ring eyes, And swelling transports overpower my song. For still the impress of a Hand Divine Marks each mutation of this earthly ball, Through all its scenes parental bounties shine FATHER of light and life! I love them all. HE FROM THE SONG OF DAVID. sung of GOD, the mighty source Of all things, the stupendous force On which all things depend: From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, The world, the clustering spheres he made, |