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Till thick as dews upon a twilight green,
Earth's living creatures rose upon the scene !
Creation's master-piece, a breath of God,
Ray of His glory, quickened at His nod,
Immortal man came next, divinely grand,
Glorious and perfect from his Maker's hand.
And now the gorgeous universe was rife,
Full, fair, and glowing with created life;
And when the Eternal, from His starry height,
Beheld the young world basking in His light,
And breathing incense of deep gratitude,

He blessed it--for His Wisdom made it good.

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A thunder-storm,-the eloquence of heaven,
When every cloud is from its slumber riven,
Who hath not paused beneath its hollow groan,
And felt Omnipotence around him thrown?
With what a gloom the ushering scene appears!
The leaves all fluttering with instinctive fears,
The waters curling with a fellow dread,
A breezeless fervour round creation spread,
And last, the heavy rain's reluctant shower,
With big drops pattering on the tree and bower,
While wondrous shapes the bowing sky deform,-
All mark the coming of the thunder-storm!
Oh! now to be alone on some still height,

Where heaven's black curtains shadow all the sight,
And watch the swollen clouds their bosoms clash,
While fleet and far the living lightnings flash,—
To mark the caverns of the sky disclose
The furnace-flames that in their wombs repose,

And see the fiery arrows fall and rise,
In dizzy chase along the rattling skies.—
How stirs the spirit while the echoes roll,
And God, in thunder, rocks from pole to pole!
Tremendous art thou! in thy tempest ire,
When the mad surges to the clouds respire,
And like new Apennines from out the sea,
Thy waves march on in mountain majesty!
We hear thee in the wind-heaved ocean's roar,
Hurling her billowy crags upon the shore;
We hear thee in the riot of the blast,

And shake, while rush the raving whirlwinds past!
But not alone, when waves and whirlwinds rise,
And wing their voices through the startled skies;
Not in the storm, the thunder, or the sea,
Alone, we feel thy dread Ubiquity:

In calmer scenes, and the unruffled hour,
Our stilled hearts own thine Omnipresent power.

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Stupendous God! how shrinks our bounded sense,
To track the triumphs of Omnipotence;

From the dread mountain to the deepest den,
From the mean insects to immortal men ;
Blessed with thy brightest smile, dare we confine
Paternal Providence, supreme as thine?
Far as the thought can fly, or life-stream flow,
From Georgia's deserts to the Greenland snow,
Where space exists, thine eyes of mercy see,-
Creation lives, and moves, and breathes in thee!
Yes! pause and think, within one fleeting hour,
How vast a universe obeys thy power;

Unseen, but felt, thine interfused control
Works in each atom, and pervades the whole;
Expands the blossom, and erects the tree,
Conducts each vapour, and commands each sea,
Beams in each ray, bids whirlwinds be unfurled,
Unrolls the thunder, and upheaves a world!
E'en now, when awful midnight walks the land,
And spreads the wings of darkness with her wand,
What scenes are witnessed by thy watchful eye!
What millions waft to thee the prayer and sigh!
Some gaily vanish to an unfeared grave,
Fleet as the sun-flash o'er a summer wave;
Some wear out life in smiles, and some in tears,
Some dare with hope, while others droop with fears;
The vagrant roaming in his tattered vest,
The infant sleeping on the mother's breast;
The captive muttering o'er his rust-worn chain,
The widow weeping for her lord again.
While many a mourner shuts his languid eye,
To dream of heaven, and view it ere he die;
And yet, no sigh can swell, no tear-drop fall,
But thou dost see, and guide, and govern all !
R. MONTGOMERY.

THE DEATH-BED OF RUTHERFORD.

"Mr. Rutherford was for some years Minister of Anworth, but in 1636 he was sentenced to be deprived of his Ministry; he was in confinement in Aberdeen till the year 1638, when he returned to his flock: he died in 1661, when he was on the point of being apprehended, for the testimony of Jesus.”

TREAD lightly through the darkened room, for a sick man lieth there,

And 'mid the dimness only stirs the whispered breath of prayer, As anxious hearts take watch by turns beside the lowly bed, Where sleep the awful stillness wears that soon must wrap the dead.

Hours hath he known of fevered pain; but now his rest is calm,

As though upon the spirit worn, distilled some healing balm; It may be that his dreaming ear wakes old accustomed words, Or drinks once more the matin song of Anworth's “blessed birds."

Oh green and fresh upon his soul those early haunts arise, His kirk! his home! his wild-wood walk! with all their

memories;

The very rushing of the burn by which he often trod,
The while on eagle wings of faith his spirit met its God.

A smile hath brightened on his lip,—a light around his brow; Oh! surely "words unspeakable" that dreamer listeth now; And glories of the upper sky his raptured senses steep,

Blent with the whispers of His love who gives His loved ones

sleep.

But hark! a sound! a tramp of horse! a loud, harsh, wrangling din!

Oh! rudely on that dream of heaven this world hath broken in, In vain affection's earnest plea—the intruders forward press, And with a struggling spasm of pain, he wakes to consciousness!

Strange lights are gleaming through the room,—strange forms are round his bed;

Slowly his dazzled sense takes in each shape and sound of dread. "False to thy country's honoured laws, and to thy sovereign

lord,

I summon thee to meet thy doom, thou traitor Rutherford!"

Feebly the sick man raised his hand,—his hand so thin and pale,

And something in the hollow eye made that rude speaker quail: "Man! thou hast sped thy errand well!- yet is it wasted breath,

Except the great ones of the earth can break my tryst with death.

A few brief days, or briefer hours, and I am going home, Unto mine own prepared place, where but few great ones come!

Unto the judgment-seat of Him who sealed me with His seal; Against evil tongues and evil men, I make my last appeal!

A traitor was His name on earth! a felon's doom His fate, Thrice welcome were my Master's cup! but it hath come too late.

The summons of that mightiest King, to whom all kings must

bow,

Is on me for an earlier day,—is on me even now!

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