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 ?
Who formed Behemoth, huge and high,
That at a draught the river drains,
And great Leviathan to lie,

Like floating isle, on ocean plains?

No God!-Who warms the heart to heave
With thousand feelings soft and sweet,
And prompts the aspiring soul to leave
The earth we tread beneath our feet,
And soar away on pinions fleet,
Beyond the scene of mortal strife,

With fair ethereal forms to meet,

That tell us of an after life?

No God!-Who fixed the solid ground
On pillars strong, that alter not ?
Who spread the curtained skies around?
Who doth the ocean bounds allot?

Who all things to perfection brought On earth below, in heaven abroad?— Go ask the fool of impious thought That dares to say,-"There is no God!" WILLIAM KNOX.

The Pauper Child's Burial.

STRETCHED on a rude plank the dead pauper

lay:

No weeping friends gathered to bear him away; His white, slender fingers were clasped on his

breast;

The pauper child meekly lay taking his rest.

The hair on his forehead was carelessly parted;
No one cared for him, the desolate hearted:
In life none had loved him-his pathway all sear
Had not one sweet blossom its sadness to cheer.

No fond, gentle mother had ever caressed him,
In tones of affection and tenderness blessed him;
For ere his eye greeted the light of the day,
His mother had passed in her anguish away.

Poor little one! often thy meek eyes have sought
The smile of affection, of kindness unbought,
And wistfully gazing, in wondering surprise,
That no one beheld thee with pitying eyes.

And when in strange gladness thy young voice was heard,

As in winter's stern sadness the song of a bird, Harsh voices rebuked thee, and, cowering in fear, Thy glad song was hushed in a sob and a tear.

And when the last pang rent thy heartstrings in twain,

And burst from thy bosom the last sign of pain, No gentle one soothed thee, in love's melting tone, With fond arm around thee in tenderness thrown. Stern voices and cold mingled strange in thine ear With the songs of the angels the dying may hear; And thrillingly tender, amid Death's alarms, Was thy mother's voice welcoming thee to her

arms.

Thy fragile form, wrapped in its coarse shroud

reposes

In slumbers as sweet as if pillowed on roses, And while on thy coffin the rude clods are pressed, The good Shepherd folds the shorn lamb to his breast.

MARGARET L. BAILEY.

The Good Woman. COME, ladies, you that would appear

Like angels fair, come, dress you here;

Come, dress you at this marble stone,
And make that humble grace your own,

Which once adorn'd as fair a mind
As e'er yet lodg'd in womankind:
So she was dress'd, whose humble life
Was free from pride, was free from strife;
Free from all envious brawls and jars,
Of human life the civil wars.

These ne'er disturb'd her peaceful mind.
Which still was gentle, still was kind.
Her very looks, her garb, her mien,
Disclos'd the humble soul within.
Trace her thro' ev'ry scene of life,
View her as widow, virgin, wife;
Still the same humble she appears,
The same in youth, the same in years;

The same in low, in high estate,

Ne'er vex'd with this, ne'er mov'd with that.

Go, ladies, now, and if you'd be

As fair, as great, as good as she,
Go learn of her humility.

ANON.

The Glories of Spring Time. HAIL, uncreated Being, source of life,

Whose love is boundless, and whose mercy wise!

Whose power hath wrought, to spread thy glo

ries wide,

For every sense a paradise of joy!

Thyself art All, and in thy spirit pure

Live all created things: each form declares

Thy touch and pressure; every meanest tribe
The sacred image of thy nature bears!

Summer, and autumn's sun, and wintry blasts
Proclaim thy might and glory: but the spring,
Wherefore and whence, O Lord, its genial breath?
'Tis the loud voice that bids the faithless bow;
With thousand thousand tongues of joy and praise,
With the full choir of new-created life,

Singing thy name; proclaiming to the dull.
Thy love, thy bounty, thine almighty hand!
And thee it most resembles; like thyself,
It moulds and fashions; bids the spirit wake;
Gives life and aliment, and clothes the form
With strength and vigor! 'Tis the holy type
Of thy creative breath!-How mean of soul,
How lost are they to every finer bliss,
Who, prisoned 'mid the dusty smoke of towns
(When Nature calls aloud, and Life invites,
Arrayed in youth and freshest beauty), sit
Forlorn and darkling in the maze of thought!
Life springs at thy command; thou bidd'st

awake

New scenes to witness all thy majesty,

New shapes and creatures: none dost thou forbid
To view the wondrous produce of thy word;
And shall that creature, whom thy bounty raised
By reason high above the grovelling race,
With coldness trace thy glory, taste thy gifts
Contemptuous and unmoved?--I tremble, Lord,
I roam, as on a wide and fathomless sea,
Amid the wonders of thy growing year!