WHAT ART THOU, MIGHTY ONE?

WHAT art thou, Mighty One! and where Thy seat?
Thou broodest on the calm that cheers the lands,
And thou dost bear within Thine awful hands
The rolling thunders and the lightnings fleet.
Stern, on Thy dark-wrought car of cloud and wind,
Thou guid'st the northern storm at night's dead

noon,

Or on the red wing of the fierce Monsoon,
Disturb'st the sleeping giant of the Ind.
In the drear silence of the polar span

Dost Thou repose? or in the solitude

Of sultry tracts, where the lone caravan

Hears nightly howl the tiger's hungry brood? Vain thought! the confines of His throne to trace, Who glows through all the fields of boundless space. H. KIRKE WHITE, 1785-1806.

TO THE EVENING WIND.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice—thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day-
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow.
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their

spray,

And swelling the white sail.-I welcome thee
To the scorch'd land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone: a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight,
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind at night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast island, stretch'd beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade-go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,

And dry the moisten'd curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep:

And they who stand about the sick man's bed

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go; but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odours in the sea-air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. W. C. BRYANT, 1798-American.

"SHOW US THE FATHER.”

JOHN xiv. 8.

HAVE ye not seen Him, when through parted snows
Wake the first kindlings of the vernal green?
When 'neath its modest veil the arbutus blows,
And the pure snow-drop bursts its folded screen?
When the wild rose, that asks no florist's care,
Unfoldeth its rich leaves, have ye not seen Him there?

Have ye not seen Him, when the infant's eye, Through its bright sapphire-windows, shows the mind?

When, in the trembling of the tear or sigh,

Floats forth that essence, trembling and refined?

Saw ye not Him, the Author of our trust,

Who breathed the breath of life into a frame of dust?

Have ye not heard Him, when the tuneful rill
Casts off its icy chains and leaps away?
In thunders echoing loud from hill to hill?

In song of birds at break of summer's day?
Or in the ocean's everlasting roar,

Battling the old gray rocks that sternly guard his shore?

Amid the stillness of the Sabbath morn,

When vexing cares in tranquil slumber rest, When in the heart the holy thought is born,

And Heaven's high impulse warms the waiting breast,

Have ye not felt Him, while your kindling prayer Swell'd out in tones of praise, announcing God was there?

Show us the Father! If ye fail to trace

His chariot where the stars majestic roll, His pencil 'mid earth's loveliness and grace, His presence in the Sabbath of the soul, How can you see Him till the day of dread,

When to assembled worlds the book of doom is read? MRS L. H. SIGOURNEY.

HYMN TO HESPERUS.

BRIGHT lonely beam, fair heavenly speck,
That, calling all the stars to duty,
Through stormless ether gleam'st to deck
The fulgent west's unclouded beauty;
All silent are the fields, and still

The umbrageous wood's recesses dreary,
As if calm came at thy sweet will,
And Nature of day's strife were weary.

Fair star! with soft repose and peace
I hail thy vesper beam returning;
Thou seem'st to say that troubles cease
In the pure sphere where thou art burning;
Sweet 'tis on thee to gaze and muse;
Sure angel wings around thee hover,
And from life's fountain scatter dews,
To freshen earth, day's fever over.

Star of the bee! with laden thigh

Thy twinkle warns its homeward winging ; Star of the bird! thou bidd'st her lie

Down o'er her young, and hush her singing;

Star of the pilgrim! travel-sore,

How sweet, reflected in the fountains,

He hails thy circlet gleaming o'er

The shadow of his native mountains!

N