And as the spangles in the sunny rays
Shine around the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss;
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Pyres of crystal light-
A glorious company of golden streams--
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-
Suns lighting systems with their joyful beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.
Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in Thee is lost ;

What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I then? Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed
In all the glory of sublimest thought,
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 breathie, 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 Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;
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 Lord!

Thy light, Thy love, in the bright plenitude,
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere,
Even to its source-to Thee-its author there.
Oh thoughts ineffable! Oh visions blest!
Though worthless our conception all of Thee,
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to Thy Deity.

God! thus.alone my lonely thoughts can soar;
Thus seek Thy presence-Being wise and good,
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And, when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

Derzhavin

WHICH COULD I SPARE?

I SOMETIMES Wonder, that if Death should come,
With stealthy tread, unto my happy home,
To tell me, that of those I love so well,
One, in his silent, shadowy realm must dwell;

No hope, no refuge, from his fatal dart;

Which could I yield him first? oh! loving heart,
Which of mine own, my blessed household band
Could I resign? though for the better land.

Not he to whom my early vows were given,

Whose love has made this earth seem like a Heaven •
Oh no! oh no! the dark and cheerless tomb
May not enclose him, with its voiceless gloom!

Not she, who first made glad my parent-heart;
Our first to love, of our young life a part;
Whose opening bloom has blest us day by day;
Oh, Death!-I pray thee take not her away.

Nor him, of noble soul and manners mild,

Whom one short year we've loved to call our child;
Oh! no-not him, that high and loving heart
I fain would shield, from thy unerring dart.

Our absent child? oh, no! destroyer, no!—
Near her bright path, I pray thee do not go:
We wait to welcome her around our hearth,
And long to listen to her voice of mirth.

Our fair, young boy-with free and happy soul,
Enjoys the moments that so brightly roll;
I would not see that flashing eye grow dim,
Scaled in thy slumbers-ask thou not for him.

Not my loved parents! take thou not from mo
The arms that were my childhood's panoply;
Life would be sad and drear unto their child,
Missing the love that o'er my days has smiled.

My own dear brother? no, thy ways pursue
Ye may not take him-for we are but two,
My heart with keenest sorrow would o'erflow,
If to the grave this cherished one should go.

All-all too dear! each golden link so bright-
Death! cast no shadow on love's rosy light-
Father! thou gavest them all-to thee we look--
To us the future is a sealed book.

Frances B. M. Brotherson.

MRS. CAUDLE URGING THE NEED OF
SPRING CLOTHING.

know

of

If there's anything in the world I hate-and you 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, What do I want now? the more shame for you to let me. I'm sure, if I'd any money As if you didn't know! my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing-never! 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 joke-one of your club-jokes! As I say, I only wish If there is anything that I'd any money of my own. 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 What was the matter with them? nobody else's children? Weren't they all in their Oh! Caudle how can you ask? What do you say?

You didn't see it!

Whut 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 ?" I'm sure, those Briggs girls-the little minxes!-put me The more shame for you! 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. dear! What a man you are! I know you'll give me Now, Caudle, the money, because, after all, I think you 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, andneedn't count 'em? -What do you say? 1 That's just the way you take me up! You know how many there are? money will it take? Let me see-I'll tell you in a minWell, how much ute. 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, Caudle-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 ey; and I'm sure, when I come to think of it twenty Dougloxiera. pounds will hardly do!

SONG OF THE DRUNKARD.

A figure all dirty and ragged,
Sat on a rickety chair

As it rocked itself to and fro

'Twas the picture of woe and despair.

It rocked, rocked, rocked

Itself on the chair to and fro,

And sang aloud, in a doleful strain,
This song of grief and woe.

Drink-drink-drink!

And destroy the vigor of youth;
Drink-drink-drink!

And blight all virtue and truth.

Better, far better 'twould be

With the savage and heathen to dwell,

Than with swillers of brandy, beer and wine,