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were brightening around her, he was growing fainter and smaller every evening, and now, he was no more. Of the rest, planets, and stars, all were unimpaired in their light, and the former only slightly varied in their positions. The whole multitude, wiser by experience, and better for their knowledge, were humble, contented, and grateful, each for his lot, whether splendid or obscure.

Next evening, to the joy and astonishment of all, the moon, with a new crescent, was descried in the west; and instantly, from every quarter of the heavens, she was congratulated on her happy resurrection. Just as she went down, while her bow was yet recumbent in the dark purple horizon, it is said that an angel appeared, standing between her horns. Turning his head, his eye glanced rapidly over the universe; the sun far sunk behind him, the moon under his feet, the earth spread in prospect before him, and the firmament all glittering with constellations above. He paused a moment, and then in that tongue, wherein, at the accomplishment of creation, « the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy,” he thus broke forth : “ Great and marvelous are thy works, Lord God Almighty! In wisdom hast thou made them all. Who would not fear thee, O Lord, and glorify thy name, for thou only art holy !” He ceased; and from that hour there has been harmony in heaven.


These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty! thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fair! thyself how wondrous, then,
Unspeakable! who sitt’st above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen
In these thy lowest works : yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.

Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and, with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye, in heaven,
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol,
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end'

Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest
With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb, that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song; resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light.

Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers ;
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship, wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls; ye birds
That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,
Bear on your wings, and in your notes, his praise.

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good : and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark ! MILTON.


The Spring—she is a blessed thing!
She is mother of the flowers !
She is the mate of birds and bees,
The partner of their revelries,
Our star of hope through wintry hours.

The merry children, when they see
Her coming, by the budding thorn,
They leap upon the cottage floor,
They shout beside the cottage door,
And run to meet her, night and morn.

They are soonest with her in the woods,
Peeping the withered leaves among,
To find the earliest, fragrant thing
That dares from the cold earth to spring,
Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song,

The little brooks run on in light,
As if they had a chase of mirth;
The skies are blue, the air is warm;
Our very hearts have caught the charm
That sheds a beauty o’er the earth.

The aged man is in the field;
The maiden ’mong her garden flowers;
The sons of sorrow and distress
Are wandering in forgetfulness
Of wants that fret, and care that lowers.

She comes with more than present good,
With joys to store for future years,
From which, in striving crowds apart,
The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart,
May glean up hope with grateful tears.
Up! let us to the fields away,
And breathe the fresh and balmy air ;
The bird is building in the tree,
The flower has opened to the bee,
And health, and love, and peace are there



BREATHINGS OF SPRING. What wak’st thou, Spring ? Sweet voices in the woods,

And reed-like echoes, that have long been mute; Thou bringest back, to fill the solitudes,

The lark's clear pipe, the cuckoo's viewless flute,
Whose tone seems breathing mournfulness or glee,

Even as our hearts may be.
And the leaves greet thee, Spring! the joyous leaves,

Whose tremblings gladden many a copse and glade,
Where each young spray a rosy flush receives,

When the south wind hath pierced the whispery shade, And happy murmurs, running through the grass,

Tell that thy footsteps pass.
And the bright waters, they, too, hear thy call ;

Spring, the awakener! thou hast burst their sleep!
Amid the hollows of the rocks their fall

Makes melody, and in the forests deep,
When sudden sparkles and blue gleams betray

Their windings to the day.
And flowers, the fairy-peopled world of flowers !

Thou from the dust hast set that glory free,
Coloring the cowslip with the sunny hours,

And penciling the wood-anemone :
Silent they seem ; yet each to thoughtful eye

Glows with mute poesy.
But what awak'st thou in the heart, 0 Spring ?

The human heart, with all its dreams and sighs ?
Thou that giv'st back so many a buried thing,

Restorer of forgotten harmonies !
Fresh songs and scents break forth where'er thou art;

What wak'st thou in the heart ?
Too much, oh! there too much !-we know not well

Wherefore it should be thus; yet, roused by thee, What fond, strange yearnings, from the soul's deep cell,

Gush for the faces we no more may see! How are we haunted, in thy wind's low tone,

By voices that are gone ! Looks of familiar love, that never more,

Never on earth, our aching eyes shall meet,

Past words of welcome to our household door,

And vanished smiles, and sounds of parted feet;
Spring !’mid the murmurs of thy flowering trees,

Why, why reviy'st thou these ?

Vain longings for the dead! Why come they back

With thy young birds, and leaves, and living blooms?
Oh! is it not, that from thine earthly track

Hope to thy world may look beyond the tombs ?
Yes, gentle Spring; no sorrow dims thine air,
Breathed by our loved ones there!



BE A UTY OF FLOWERS. Of all the minor creations of God, flowers seem to be most. completely the effusions of his love of beauty, grace, and joy. Of all the natural objects which surround us, they are the least connected with our absolute necessities. Vegetation might proceed, the earth might be clothed with a sober green; and all the processes of fructification might be perfected, without being attended by the glory with which the flower is crowned ; but beauty and fragrance are poured abroad over the earth in blossoms of endless varieties, radiant evidences of the boundless benevolence of the Deity. They are made solely to gladden the heart of man, for a light to his eyes, for a living inspiration of grace to his spirit, for a perpetual admiration. And, accordingly, they seize on our affections the first moment that we behold them.

With what eagerness do very infants grasp at flowers! As they become older they would live forever among them. They bound about in the flowery meadows like young fawns ; they gather all they come near; they collect heaps; they sit among them, and sort them, and sing over them, and caress them, till they perish in their grasp. We see them coming wearily into the towns and villages, loaded with posies half as large as themselves. We trace them in shady lanes, in the grass of far-off fields, by the treasures they have gathered and have left behind, lured on by others still brighter.

As they grow up to mature years, they assume, in their eyes,

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