Then, O my soul, since God doth love thee,
Faint not, droop not, do not fear;
For though His Heaven is high above thee,
He Himself is ever near!

Near to watch thy wayward spirit,
Sometimes cold and careless grown;
But likewise near with grace and merit,
All thy Saviour's, thence thine own.

Whatsoever your sickness is, know you certainly, that it is God's visitation.

DIVERS PROVIDENCES.

WITHER.

WHEN all the year our fields are fresh and green, And while sweet showers and sunshine every day,

As oft as need requireth, come between

The heavens and earth, they heedless pass away. The fulness and continuance of a blessing Doth make us to be senseless of the good; And if sometimes it fly not our possessing, The sweetness of it is not understood. Had we no winter, summer would be thought Not half so pleasing; and if tempests were not, Such comforts by a calm could not be brought; For things save by their opposites appear not.

Both health and wealth are tasteless unto some,
And so is ease and every other pleasure;
Till poor, or sick, or grieved they become,
And then they relish these in ampler measure.
God, therefore, full as kind as He is wise,

So tempereth all the favours He will do us,
That we His bounties may the better prize,
And make His chastisements less bitter to us.
One while, a scorching indignation burns

The flowers and blossoms of our hope away,
Which into scarcity our plenty turns,

And changeth new-mown grass to parched hay; Anon, His fruitful showers and pleasing dews, Commixed with cheerful rays, He sendeth down, And then the barren earth her crops renews,

Which with rich harvests hills and valleys crown; For as, to relish joys, He sorrow sends,

So comfort on temptation still attends.

Know you certainly, that it is God's visitation.

THE WALL-FLOWER.

WHY loves my flower, so high reclined
Upon these walls of barren gloom,
To waste her sweetness on the wind,
And far from every eye to bloom?

H. F. LYTE.

Why joy to twine with golden braid
This ruined rampart's aged head,
Proud to expose her gentle form,

And swing her bright locks in the storm?

That lonely spot is bleak and hoar,

Where prints my flower her fragrant kiss ; Yet sorrow hangs not fonder o'er

The ruins of her faded bliss.

And wherefore will she thus inweave
The owl's lone couch, and feel at eve
The wild bat o'er her blossoms fling,
And strike them down with heedless wing?

Thus, gazing on the loftiest tower

Of ruined FORE at eventide,

The Muse addressed a lonely flower
That bloomed above in summer pride.
The Muse's eye, the Muse's ear,
Can more than others see and hear:
The breeze of evening murmured by,
And gave, she deemed, this faint reply:

"On this lone tower, so wild and drear, 'Mid storms and clouds I love to lie, Because I find a freedom here

Which prouder haunts could ne'er supply. Safe on these walls I sit, and stem The elements that conquered them; And high o'er reach of plundering foe Smile on an anxious world below.

"Though envied place I may not claim
On warrior's crest, or lady's hair;
Though tongue may never speak my name,
Nor eye behold and own me fair;

To Him, who tends me from the sky,
I spread my beauties here on high,
And bid the winds to waft above
My incense to His throne of love.

"And though in hermit solitude,

Aloft and wild, my home I choose,
On the rock's bosom pillowed rude,
And nurtured by the falling dews;
Yet duly with the opening year
I hang my golden mantle here.
A child of God's I am, and He
Sustains, and clothes, and shelters me.

"Nor deem my state without its bliss:
Mine is the first young smile of day;
Mine the light zephyr's earliest kiss;
And mine the skylark's matin lay.
These are my joys: with these on high
In peace I hope to live and die,

And drink the dew, and scent the breeze,
As blithe a flower as Flora sees."

Bloom on, sweet moralist! Be thine

The softest shower, the brightest sun!

Long o'er a world of error shine,

And teach them what to seek and shun!

Bloom on, and show the simple glee

That dwells with those who dwell like thee;
From noise, and glare, and folly driven,

To thought, retirement, peace, and Heaven.

Show them, in thine, the Christian's lot,
So dark and drear in worldly eyes;
And yet he would exchange it not

For all they most pursue and prize.
From meaner cares and trammels free,
He soars above the world, like thee;
And, fed and nurtured from above,
Returns the debt in grateful love.

Frail, like thyself, fair flower, is he,
And beat by every storm and shower;
Yet on a Rock he stands, like thee,

And braves the tempest's wildest power.
And there he blooms, and gathers still
A good from every seeming ill;
And, pleased with what his lot has given,
He lives to God, and looks to Heaven.

J. S.

SWIM through the waves of Time, and ne'er despair, But lift thy head, and breathe eternal air.

F