THE VILLAGE CHURCH. I LOVE the organ's joyous swell, Faint emblem of the call of God; And hear the "still small voice" of And as the ray of evening fades, peace. I love amidst the dead to stand, Another treads the shadowy aisle, I know him 't is my sainted sireI know his patient, angel smile, His shepherd's voice, his eye of fire: His ashes rest in yonder urn; I saw his death; I closed his eye; Bright sparks amidst those ashes burn, That death has taught me how to die. Long be our Father's temple ours, Wo to the hand by which it falls; A thousand spirits watch its bowers, IS THERE A GOD? ANSWERED BY AN APPEAL TO MORNING, NOON, AND NIGHT. Now breathes the ruddy MORN around His health-restoring gales, And from the chambers of the east A flood of light prevails. Is there a God? Yon rising sun The pendent clouds that curtain round And firmament on high, reveal A God that governs all. The warbling lark, in realms of air, The balmy breeze of morn is fled,- Is there a God? Hark! from on high I hear his voice in every wind, I read a record of his love, His wisdom and his power, Inscribed in all created thingsMan, beast, and herb and flower. The sultry sun has left the skies, Is there a God? With sacred fear, If such convictions to my mind That while I ponder on his deeds, And grace may make him mine. THE BIBLE. It is the one True Light, That, when all other lamps grow dim, Shall never burn less purely bright, Nor lead astray from HIM. It is Love's blessed band, That reaches from the eternal throne To him-whoe'er he be-whose hand Will seize it for his own! It is the Golden Key To treasures of celestial wealth, Joy to the sons of poverty, And to the sick man, health! The gently proffer'd aid Of one who knows us, and can best Supply the beings he has made With what will make them bless'd. It is the sweetest sound That infant years delight to hear, Travelling across that holy ground, With God and angels near. There rests the weary head, There age and sorrow love to go; And how it smooths the dying bed, O! let the Christian show! SONNET. THE GOD OF THE STORM AND THE WHIRLWIND. THOU thy stern robe of terrors hast put on, O mighty Ruler of the winds and waves! The greatness of thy presence. 'Tis the hour Fierce tempests! but to pass His fix'd decree, PEACE. SWEET Peace, where dost thou dwell?—I humbly crave Let me once know. I sought thee in a secret cave, And ask'd if Peace were there. A hollow sound did seem to answer, "No: |