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And as the spangles in the sunny rays
A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Yes! as a drop of water in tlie sea, All this magnificence in Thee is lost ;-What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee? And what am I then? Heaven's unnumbered hosty Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed In all the glory of sublimest thouglit, Is but an atom in the balance weighed Against Thy greatness,-is a cipher brought Against infinity! What am I then? Naught! Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine, Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too; Yes, in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine, As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly Eager toward Thy presence; for in Thee I live, and breatlie, and dwell; aspiring high Even to the throne of Thy divinity. I am, O God! and surely Thou must be! Thou art! directing, guiding all, Thou art ! Direct my understanding then to Thiee; Control my spirit, guide my wandering leart; Though but an atom midst immensity, Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand ! I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and earth, On the last verge of mortal being stand, Close to the realm where angels have their birth, Just on the boundaries of the spirit land ! The chain of being is complete in me; In me is matter's last gradation lost, And the next step is spirit-Deity! I can command the lightning and am dust! A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god! Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously, Constructed and conceived ? Unknown ! this clod Lives surely through some higher energy ; For from itself alone it could not be! Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word Created me! Thou source of life and good! Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Loru!
Thy light, Thy love, in the bright plenitude,
Oh thoughts ineffable! Oh visions blest!
WHICII COULD I SPARE?
I SOMETIMES wonder, that if Death should come,
Not he to whom my early vows were given,
Our fair, young boy-with free and happy soul,
All-all too dear! each golden link so bright-
Frances B. M. Brotherson.
MRS. CAUDLE URGING THE NEED OF
If there's anything in the world I hate—and you know it-it is, asking you for money. I am sure, for myself, I'd rather go without a thing a thousand times, and I do, the more shame for you to let me. What do I want now? As if you didu't know! I'm sure, if I'd any money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing-nerer! It's painful to me, gracious knows! What do you say? If it's painful, why so often do it? I suppose you call that a jokc-one of your club-jokes! As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything that humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing
It's dreadful ! Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often 1 speak. Pray, do you know what month it is? And did you see how the children looked at church to-day-like nobody else's children? What was the matter with them? Oh! Candle how can you ask? Weren't they all in their thick merinoes and bearer bonnets? What do you say? Ilhut of it? What! You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, turned their noses up at 'em? And you did n't see how the Browns looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, “ Poor creatures! what figures for the first of May ?"
You didn't see it! The more shame for you! I'm sure, those Briggs girls—the little minxes !-put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over the pew. What do you say! I ought to be ashamed, to own it? · Now, Caudle, it's no use talking; those children shall not cross over the threshold next Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. Now mind-they shan't; and there's an end of it!
I'm always wanting money for clothes? How can you say that? I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little; but that's it—the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, Caudle, dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me the money, because, after all, I think
love your children, and like to see 'em well dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I want? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and Mary Anne, and—What do you say? 1 needn't count 'em ? You know how many there are? That's just the way you take me up! Well, how much money will it take? Let me see—I'll tell you in a ininute. You always love to see the dear things like new pins. I know that, Caudle; and though I say it, bless their little hearts! they do credit to you, Caudle.
How much? Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good pinching—and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch closer than I can—I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. What did you say? Twenty fiddlesticks? What! You won't give half the money? Very well, Mr. Caudle; I don't care; let the children go in rags; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals; and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. What do you say? : Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think things cost nothing for women; but you don't care how much you lay out upon yourselves. They only want frocks and bonnets ? How do you know what
they want? How should a man know anything at all about it? And you won't give more than ten pounds ? Very well. Then you may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it! I'll have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you—no sir!
No; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children up like countesses ! You often throw that in my teeth, you do; but you know it's false, Caudle; you know it! I only wish to give 'em proper notions of themselves; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths,—and their fathers don't make the money you do, Caudie-when they see them as fine as tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty pounds I will have, if I've any; or not a farthing ! No, sir; no,—I don't want to dress up the children like peacocks and parrots! I only want to make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds? No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would seem as if I wanted to waste your mon. cy; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it twenty pounds will hardly do!
SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.
A figure all dirty and ragged,
Sat on a rickety chair
'Twas the picture of woe and despair.
Itself on the chair to and fro,