From time immemorial, poets have likened the beginning of life to the beginning of day, and how true and beautiful is the comparison. Morning is generally attended by sunshine, and earth rejoices in its youthfulness. So do hope and innocence bring gladness to the heart of childhood. The former is sometimes darkened by storm; and so does misfortune sometimes spread its dark shadow over the lovely and the young.

I never come forth to enjoy the bustling music of this hour, or breathe its wholesome air, and gaze upon its unnumbered beauties, without feeling most deeply the existence of a Supreme Being. The infidel pretends to disbelieve this truth, but he does not in reality. In the silent watches of the night, when he is alone and wakeful, like the lost in hell, he believes and trembles. There is a God! The flowers of the valley, and the oaks upon the mountain, bless Him. Earth, with her thousand voices, the sun, and moon, and stars, all proclaim the eternal truth,there is a God! He is infinite in holiness, in

power, and love. Man, with his boasted intellect, cannot comprehend Him. His dwelling-place is the universe, and eternity is his lifetime. Who is it that regulates the beating pulses of eight hundred millions of human beings? Who is it that holds the earth in the hollow of his hand? It is God. Go down into the cold blue halls of ocean, and you will find Him there! Go to the regions of the sun, and you will find Him there. His frown penetrates the deepest hell, and the heaven of heavens is illumined by His smile. Ask the poor lonely widow, who it is that brings gladness to her desolate hearth, and she will answer, - God. Ask the oppressed orphan, who is his best friend; or the gospel minister, who it is that crowns his labors with success ;

and they will answer, -God. Ask the nations of the earth, who it is that gives them peace, prosperity, and happiness, and you will hear the echo of God's name in every valley beneath the sun.

I have been thinking what a magnificent series of pictures might be seen by a man

standing on the highest peak of the Alleghanies, provided his vision was bounded only by the surrounding seas. Looking towards the source of the Mississippi, he might see the elk and the deer, and the bear, rise from their dewy couches, and quench their thirst in its pure waters. How sublime, too, would that Father of rivers appear, rolling onward through solitary woods, smiling valleys, and by the battlements of splendid cities, until it emptied itself in the lap of Mexico, with every tree and pinnacle upon its borders glittering in the beams of the rising sun.

Or looking to the west, he would see in some deep valley of the Rocky Mountains, the Indian on his bridleless steed, in full pursuit after the buffalo. While dashing through thicket and stream, or over the plains, the shout of the hunter would startle the eagle from his eyerie. A moment more, and they are gone, and in their path no sound is heard but the dropping dew.

Turning south his eye would rest with pleasure on the boundless fields of cotton and

rice, gleaming in the sun, like snow; or upon hills and plains waving with the palm, the magnolia, the lemon, and the orange tree. At the remotest corner of his country, he would behold, stationed at its southern threshold, a noble city, the seeming guardian of her inland

treasures.

And turning to the east, his eye would linger long on the Atlantic ocean, with the gorgeous cities, and towns, and villages on its western shore. A thousand floating palaces would meet his gaze, passing to and fro over its sleeping waves. Coming from every land under the sun, they would glide into their destined havens; those havens teeming with business and life and joy. ""Tis but a dream," he would exclaim; but the recollection of his country's greatness would banish such a thought, and he would again exclaim, "a reality indeed!"

What land, O morning, hast thou ever visited, more beautiful and glorious than America? Dear native land! I love every mountain and valley, and river, and tree, and flower, that

rest upon thy bosom, and smile beneath thy

skies.

On the sixth morning of creation, when God called into being an immortal soul, how fresh, how lovely beyond conception, must the earth have appeared to him! Was not that the hour when the birds sung their first hymn in praise of their Creator? On that morning, too, when Noah looked from the ark, and saw the waters subsiding, who can conceive the feelings with which he watched its advancement ? As the tops of the mountains rose above the water, the rising sun dried them with his beams. The long night of desolation and woe was ended; the clouds that had obscured the sky were passed away, and it was now pure and tranquil as heaven itself. But enough. As the beauties of morning soon come to an end, though destined to return again, so must my rambling essay. As a reward for the reader's kindness, however, in reading it, I would quote the following unequalled lines, describing a summer Sabbath morning in the country. They are by a dear