HYMN.

WHO IS IT, FATHER?

"Dear Father," said an artless child, As gazing on the wood-flowers wild,"Have these stems life, these buds the pow'r, T' unfold themselves in spring's bland hour? Do these plants think, dear Father, say? Do they design to be thus gay?

Or dip their leaves in beauteous dye,
To strike and please our wond'ring eye?"

"Why no, my child, they're senseless all;
By their own strength they rise nor fall;
Of theirs, no curious art or skill,
Their little cups with fragrance fill."

"But, Father, still they grow and grow;
Distend their buds, and sweetly blow;
Their fruit increases day by day,-
Whence is the wondrous power, I pray?"

"My dearest child, look ye above,

From thence is every thing we love!"

"O," said the child, " 't is now all plain, You mean the sunshine and the rain."

"Not so, sweet child, for cloud and sun, Are like the plants you gaze upon, Without a thought, without a mind,

And senseless as the passing wind!"

"But still, dear sir, these flowers have life,-
With bloom and verdure they are rife,-
They court the sun, they drink the rain,—
Dear Father, whence? I guess in vain."

"Then listen, child :- Beyond the cloud,
Wherein the Thunderer's peal is loud,-
Beyond the sun, whose bright'ning beam
Sends forth a Father's smiling gleam,-
A Power there is that 's every where,
In ocean depths, in earth and air,—
Who holds the sun, wheels round the earth,
And gives to every plant its birth,—

Shapes forth the bud and tints each flow'r,
And robes the land with harvest dow'r,-
Who moulds our frames, and gives us breath,
And keeps us safe from instant death,-

But why, my child, th' assenting nod?
Know ye the Pow'r?"

"O, yes, 't is God."