Of Him who hung the boundless arch of night
With golden lamps, for ever burning bright;
Of Him who can at once the sea control,
However high the threatening billows roll;
Or, in a moment, rend the earth in twain,
And the same moment close it up again!

Oh! who can fathom that stupendous mind,

Which all in Earth, and Hell, and Heaven designed ?

JOU shall find her again in the land of the blest,

Where the weak and the weary for ever shall rest,
Where no evil awaiting its prey shall be found,
Concealed in the ever green verdure around;

You shall find her again at the close of the day,
When all that is mortal has vanished away,

Where the hills are for ever illumined with light,

And the vales never know the dim shadows of night;
Where eternal serenity reigns in the skies,

And all tears shall for ever be wiped from your eyes,—

If you tread in the steps she so faithfully trod,

The bright pathway that leads to the temple of God.

The Tittle Child and its Mother.

"It is a beautiful, a blessed belief, that the beloved dead, grown angels, watch the dear ones left behind."-MISS LANDON.

For me at midnight hour to care?

And is it true that they have wings,
That they on dove-like pinions fly,
Surpassing all the pride of kings,

Too brilliant for a mortal's eye?

That they on golden cymbals play

The hills of Paradise among,

Or chant through an eternal day

Some sweet, some all-inspiring song?

That they are spirits, which have been

Once tenants of this earthly sphere,

And who, on this terrestrial scene,

Have shed full many a heart-wrung tear?

MOTHER.

Yes, O my child! the angels love

To hear you say your evening prayer,

To leave their blessed seats above

For you at midnight hour to care.

And it is true that they have wings,

That they on dove-like pinions fly,

Surpassing all the pride of kings,

Too brilliant for a mortal's eye:

That they on golden cymbals play

The hills of Paradise among,

Or chant through an eternal day

Some sweet, some all-inspiring song:

D

That they are spirits, which have been

Once tenants of this earthly sphere,

And who on this terrestrial scene

Have shed full many a heart-wrung tear.

Yet, still, my child, you cannot see

The angels with a mortal's eye;

Though they around your bed may be,
Sent to watch o'er you from the sky.

But you may be an angel, too,

And on a golden cymbal play;

Unto your heavenly Father go,

In happy regions far away:

Only, my child, remember this,

Be good, and kind, and true to all,

And there is not a saint in bliss

That shall not you an angel call.