And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,

Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled,

O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child, To bless the bow of God.

Methinks thy jubilee to keep

The first-made anthem rang,
On earth delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

GOD SEEN IN ALL.

WILLIAMS.

My God, all nature owns thy sway;
Thou givest the night and thou the day:
When all thy loved creation wakes,
When morning, rich in lustre, breaks,
And bathes in dew the opening flower,
To thee we owe her fragrant hour;
And when she pours her choral song,
Her melodies to thee belong.

Or, when in paler tints arrayed,

The evening slowly spreads her shade; That soothing shade, that grateful gloom, Can more than day's enlivening bloom, every fond and vain desire,

Still

And calmer, purer thoughts inspire;
From earth the pensive spirit free,
And lead the softened heart to thee.

In every scene thy hands have dressed,
In every form by thee impressed,
Upon the mountain's awful head,

Or where the sheltering woods are spread;
In every note that swells the gale,
Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,
The cavern's depth or echoing grove,
A voice is heard of praise and love.

As o'er thy works the seasons roll
And soothe with change of bliss the soul,

O! never may their smiling train

Pass o'er the human sense in vain!

But oft as on their charms we gaze,
Attune the wondering soul to praise;
And be the joys that most we prize,
The joys that from thy favour rise.

WEEP NOT FOR ME.

DALE.

WHEN the spark of life is waning,
Weep not for me.

When the languid eye is straining,
Weep not for me.

When the feeble pulse is ceasing,
Start not at its swift decreasing,
'Tis the fettered soul's releasing;
Weep not for me.

When the pangs of death assail me,
Weep not for me.

Christ is mine-He cannot fail me,

Weep not for me.

Yes, though sin and doubt endeavour,

From his love my soul to sever,

Jesus is my strength-for ever!
Weep not for me.

IT IS GOOD TO BE HERE.

KNOWLES.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to ambition? Ah! no; Affrighted he shrinketh away

For see! they would pin him below

To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To beauty? Ah! no; she forgets The charms that she wielded before:

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the shroud.

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again ;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful hoard,

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is reveller here.

Shall we build to affection and love?
Ah! no; they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above;

Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve,

Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear;
Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no; for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow;

Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which insures it fulfilled; And the third to the LAMB of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.