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All's for the best! Then fling away terrors,
Meet all your fears and your foes in the van,
And in the midst of your dangers or errors,

Trust like a child, while you strive like a man;
All's for the best!--unbiassed, unbounded,
Providence reigns from the east to the west;
And by both wisdom and mercy surrounded,
Hope and be happy that all's for the best.

ECHO AND SILENCE.

SIR EGERTON BRYDGES.

IN eddying course when leaves began to fly,
And Autumn in her lap the store to strew,
As mid wild scenes I chanced the Muse to woo,
Through glens untrod, and woods that frowned on high,
Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy!

And, lo, she's gone!-In robe of dark green hue
'Twas Echo from her sister Silence flew,

For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky!
In shade affrighted Silence melts away.

Not so her sister.-Hark! for onward still,
With far-heard step, she takes her listening way,
Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill.
Ah, mark the merry maid in mockful play
With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest fill!

THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK.

I'LL seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells,
And if I find the charmèd leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells!
I would not waste my magic might on diamond, pearl, or gold,
For treasure tires the weary sense-such triumph is but cold;
But I would play th' enchanter's part, in casting bliss around,—
Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found.

To worth I would give honor!-I'd dry the mourner's tears,
And to the pallid lip recall the smile of happier years,

LOVER.

And hearts that had been long estranged, and friends that had grown

cold,

Should meet again-like parted streams-and mingle as of old!
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

The heart that had been mourning o'er vanished dreams of love,
Should see them all returning,-like Noah's faithful dove,
And Hope should launch her blessed bark on Sorrow's darkening sea,
And Mis'ry's children have an Ark, and saved from sinking be;
Oh! thus I'd play th' enchanter's part, thus scatter bliss around,
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found!

THE BLEST OF EARTH.
THOU shalt not call him blest,
Though born to high command,
Who sees among his slaves
The nobles of his land;
Though banners bear his name
On many a shining fold,
Though sparkling gems are his,
And ruddy piles of gold.

Thou shalt not call him blest,
In lofty wisdom sage,

Whose searching eye has read
Creation's boundless page ;-
Who gathers round his hearth
The wise of ancient days;
Whose words the learned and great
Of other times shall praise.

But thou shalt call him blest,
Though all unknown to fame,
Whose righteous works adorn
The Christian's sacred name;
Who loves the toilsome path,
That high Apostles trod ;
Who keeps with humble faith
The just decrees of God.

J. GILBORNE LYONS.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

THE stately homes of England,

How beautiful they stand!
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land.

MRS. HIEMANS.

31

The deer across their greensward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!
How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime
Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,
Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet-fanes.
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,
Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,
As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!
Long, long, in hut and hall,
May hearts of native proof be reared
To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,
And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves
Its country and its God!

THE MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH.

ALONG the smooth and slender wires,
The sleepless heralds run

Fast as the clear and living rays

Go streaming from the sun:
No peals or flashes heard or seen
Their wondrous flight betray,
And yet their words are strongly felt
In cities far away.

J. GILBORNE LYONS.

Nor summer's heat, nor winter's hail
Can check their rapid course ;-
They meet unmoved the fierce wind's rage,—
The rough wave's sweeping force :--
In the long night of rain and wrath,
As in the blaze of day,

They rush, with news of weal or woe,
To thousands far away.

But faster still than tidings borne
On that electric cord,

Rise the pure thoughts of him who loves
The Christian's life and Lord,-

Of him who, taught in smiles and tears
With fervent lips to pray,

Maintains high converse here below
With bright worlds far away.

Ay! though nor outward wish is breathed,
Nor outward answer given,

The sighing of that humble heart

:

Is known and felt in Heaven :-
Those long frail wires may bend and break,
Those viewless heralds stray,

But Faith's least word shall reach the throne
Of God, though far away.

MATIN BELLS.

THE Sun is up betimes,

And the dappled East is blushing,

A. C. COXE.

And the merry matin-chimes,

They are gushing-Christian-gushing! They are tolling in the tower, For another day begun; And to hail the rising hour

Of a brighter, brighter Sun! Rise-Christian--rise!

For a sunshine brighter far Is breaking o'er thine eyes,

Than the bonny morning star!

The lark is in the sky,

And his morning-note is pouring:

He hath a wing to fly,

So he's soaring-Christian-soaring! His nest is on the ground,

But only in the night;

For he loves the matin-sound,

And the highest heaven's height. Hark-Christian--hark!

At heaven-door he sings!

And be thou like the lark,

With thy soaring spirit-wings!

The merry matin-bells,

In their watch-tower they are swinging;

For the day is o'er the dells,

And they're singing-Christian--singing!

They have caught the morning beam
Through their ivied turret's wreath,

And the chancel-window's gleam
Is glorious beneath :
Go-Christian-go,

For the altar flameth there,
And the snowy vestments glow,
Of the presbyter at prayer!

There is morning incense flung

From the child-like lily-flowers; And their fragrant censer swung, Make it ours-Christian-ours! And hark, the morning hymn, And the organ-peals we love! They sound like cherubim

At their orisons above!

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