LESSON LXI.

"All Things are of God." - MOORE.
THOU art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze

Through opening vistas into heaven;
Those hues that make the sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes;
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And
every flower that Summer wreathes
Is born beneath thy kindling eye:
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.

LESSON LXII.

The Coral Grove. — J. G. PERCIVAL.

DEEP in the wave is a coral grove,

Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with the falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain's drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift

Their boughs where the tides and billows flow. The water is calm and still below,

For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air.

There, with its waving blade of green,

The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen

To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. There, with a light and easy motion,

The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending, like corn on the upland lea:

And life, in rare and beautiful forms,

Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,

Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore,

Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,

The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
And the waters murmur tranquilly

Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.

LESSON LXIII.

Sonnet, written in a Church-yard. BLACKWOOD'S MAGA

ZINE.

-

A SWEET and soothing influence breathes around
The dwellings of the dead. Here on this spot,
Where countless generations sleep forgot,
Up from the marble tomb and grassy mound
There cometh on my ear a peaceful sound,
That bids me be contented with my lot,
And suffer calmly. O! when passions hot,
When rage or envy doth my bosom wound;

Or wild designs- a fair deceiving train —
Wreathed in their flowery fetters me enslave;
Or keen misfortune's arrowy tempests roll
naked head,—O, then, again
May these still, peaceful accents of the grave,
Arise like slumbering music on my soul.

Full on my

LESSON LXIV.

The Dungeon.-LYRICAL BALLADS.

AND this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother, who offends against us
Most innocent, perhaps : And what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!

Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up;

By ignorance and parching poverty,

His energies roll back upon his heart,

And stagnate and corrupt; till, changed to poison,
They break out on him like a loathsome plague-spot:
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks
And this is their best cure! - uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour

Seen, through the steams and vapor of his dungeon,
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies,
Circled with evil, till his very soul

Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed,
By fellowship with desperate deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature,
Healest thy wandering and distempered child.
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and discordant thing,
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way;
His angry spirit healed and humanized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

LESSON LXV.

The Baptism.-J. WILSON.

Ir is a pleasant and impressive time, when, at the close of divine service, in some small country church, there take place the gentle stir and preparation for a baptism. A sudden air of cheerfulness spreads over the whole congregation; the more solemn expression of all countenances fades away; and it is at once felt, that a rite is about to be performed, which, although

of a sacred and awful kind, is yet connected with a thousand delightful associations of purity, beauty, and innocence. Then there is an eager bending of smiling faces over the humble galleries an unconscious rising up in affectionate curiosity and a slight murmuring sound, in which is no violation of the Sabbath sanctity of God's house, when in the middle passage of the church the party of women is seen, mätrons and maids, who bear in their bosoms, or in their arms, the helpless beings about to be made members of the Christian communion.

There sit, all dressed becomingly in white, the fond and happy baptismal group. The babes have been intrusted, for a precious hour, to the bosoms of young maidens, who tenderly fold them to their yearning hearts, and with en dearments taught by nature, are stilling, not always successfully, their plaintive cries. Then the proud and delighted girls rise up, one after the other, in sight of the whole congregation, and hold up the infants, arrayed in neat caps and long flowing linen, into their fathers' hands. For the poorest of the poor, if he has a heart at all, will have his infant well dressed on such a day, even although it should scant his meal for weeks to come, and force him to spare fuel to his winter fire.

And now the fathers are all standing below the pulpit, with grave and thoughtful faces. Each has tenderly taken his infant into his toil-hardened hands, and supports it in gentle and steadfast affection. They are all the children of poverty, and, if they live, are destined to a life of toil. But now poverty puts on its most pleasant aspect, for it is beheld standing before the altar of religion, with contentment and faith.

This is a time, when the better and deeper nature of every man must rise up within him; and when he must feel, more especially, that he is a spiritual and an immortal being making covenant with God. He is about to take upon himself a