How wonderful is Nature, in whose womb

Creation multiplies! The fruitful grain,

That seems, like man, to moulder in the tomb,
Springs with fresh beauty into life again.

There is a mystery in life: on all

Around us hangs a strange, o'er-mast'ring spell ; And man that walks erect, and worms that crawl, Alike within the realms of wonder dwell.

We know not how the seed becomes a tree,
Nor whence the blossoms spring, nor why they fade;
But reverence and deep humility,

At sight of all, the inmost soul pervade.

We thank thee, Lord, for that thy goodness still
The glad young year in flow'ry garb arrays;
We may not scan the workings of thy will,

We lift our hearts to thee in songs of praise.

And, as thou guid'st the seasons, mayst thou guide Our thoughts and feelings in thy sacred way! 'Tis thine o'er all Creation to preside,—

'Tis ours to love, to honour, and obey.

THE PAST.

THE Past, the happy Past,

Oh! how beautiful it seems,

With its unforgotten loves

And the light of childhood's dreams!

They are there-those holy loves,

With their colours fresh and true;

And those visions pure and bright,

They are there the early friends,
Whom in silence we deplore;

And the fondly cherish'd smiles

Which we meet on earth no more.

In the twilight of the Past,

Though for them life's sun hath set, They have form and beauty still Which our hearts may ne'er forget.

Full of care life's Present seems,
And its Future sad may be,
But there's still the happy Past,
With bright memories for me.

LINES

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY AN ORPHAN GIRL LEFT AT SCHOOL

DURING THE HOLIDAYS.

-Then shall I behold

Him by whose kind paternal side I sprung,

And her who still and cold

Fills the next grave-the beautiful and young.

BRYANT.-American Poets, p. 130.

ON all around me there is gloom to-day;

My friends and gay companions—where are they? Where now the smiles that erst on bright lips hung? The voices that to mine responsive sung?

No longer here to share my toil or play,

Gone, one by one, to happier scenes away;

Gone to the spot whence thoughts no longer roam;

Gone to the glad realities of home.