From rock to rock, with giant bound,
High on their iron poles they pass;
Mute, lest the air, convulsed by sound,
Rend from above a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perched, like an eagle's nest, on high.

ROGERS.

THE UNIVERSAL LAW.

THAT very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

ROGERS.

LUKE, VIII. 19.

IF unto Jesus thou art bound,
A crowd about Him will be found,

Attending day and night;

A worldly crowd to din thine ears,
And crowds of unbelieving fears
To hide Him from thy sight.

Yet all the vain and noisy crowd
Is but a thin and lowering cloud,
A mist before thine eyes;

If thou press on, the crowds will fly ;
Or if thou faint, to Jesus cry,
And He will send supplies.

This only way can pilgrims go,
And all complain, as thou wilt do,
Of crowds that daily come;
Yet, though beset by crafty foes,
And passing through a thousand woes,
They get securely home.

And such as seem to run the race,

And meet no crowd to check their

Are only rambling still;

Not fairly entered on the list,

расе,

The gate and narrow way they missed,
Which lead to Sion's hill.

O Lord, a cheering look bestow,
Or lend a hand to help me through,
And draw me up to thee;
And when through fear I only creep,
Or dare not move a single step,

Yet thou canst come to me.

BERRIDGE.

A THOUGHT ON THE SEA-SHORE.

IN every object here I see

Something, O Lord, that leads to thee:
Firm as the rocks the promise stands,
Thy mercies countless as the sands,
Thy love a sea immensely wide,
Thy grace an overflowing tide.

In every object here I see

Something, my heart, that points at thee;
Hard as the rocks that bound the strand,
Unfruitful as the barren sand,

Deep and deceitful as the ocean,

And, like the tide, in constant motion.

NEWTON.

THE SWALLOW.

THE gorse is yellow on the heath,
The banks with simple flowers are gay,
The oaks are budding; and beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.

The welcome guest of settled spring,
The swallow, too, is come at last;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hailed her as she passed.

Come, summer visitor, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch,
At the grey dawn of day.

CHARLOTTE SMITH.

THE STORMY PETREL.

The Stormy Petrels, when seen out at sea, are dreaded as the forerunners of a tempest: invited from their lurking-places by the lowering atmosphere, which spreads a dull twilight over the deep, they spring forth, and with rapid wings leave the shore behind.

A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast;

The sails are scattered abroad like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering reeds :

Up and down! up and down!

From the base of the wave to the billow's crown,

Amidst the flashing and feathery foam,

The Stormy Petrel finds a home:

A home-if such a place can be

For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,

And only seeketh her rocky lair

To warm her young, and teach them to spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing!

Over the deep! over the deep!

Where the whale, and the shark, and the sword-fish sleep; Outflying the blast and the driving rain,

The Petrel telleth her tale, in vain:

For the mariner scorneth the warning bird,
Which bringeth him news of the storm unheard!

Ah! thus does the Prophet of good or ill
Meet hate from the creatures He serveth still;
Yet He never falters: so, Petrel, spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing!

THE PETREL.

THE Petrel floats on the stormy foam,
While all around is drowning;

So the Christian smiles in his tranquil home,
When earthly joys are frowning.

Where worldly ambition but finds a grave,
Hope rests on her downy pillow;
As the Petrel sleeps on the ocean wave,
While tosses the raging billow.

The blast is loud, and the night is dark,
And chill are the restless surges ;
Yet the Christian floats on his lowly bark,
As buoyant his spirit emerges.

He is caged on earth, yet he treads not its sod;
He spurns its confined dominions;

His soul is ethereal, he dwells with his God;

Heaven-plumed are his joyful pinions.