NATURE'S HYMNS.

J. G. WHITTIER.

[By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] And to her voice the solemn ocean lent, Touching its harp of sand, a deep accompaniment.

HE harp at Nature's advent strung

Has never ceased to play;

The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.

And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;

The ocean looketh up to heaven,

And mirrors every star.

Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,

Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!

They pour their glittering treasures forth,

Their gifts of pearl they bring, And all the listening hills of earth

Take up the song they sing.

The green earth sends her incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.

The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset's purple air.

The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
Or low with sobs of pain,-

The thunder-organ of the cloud,

The dropping tears of rain.

With drooping head and branches crossed
The twilight forest grieves,

Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
From all its sunlit leaves.

The blue sky is the temple's arch,

Its transept earth and air, The music of its starry march

The chorus of a prayer.

So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.

MAJESTY OF GOD.

T. STERNHOLD.

The Lord descended from above,
And bowed the heavens most high,

And underneath his feet he cast
The darkness of the sky.

On cherubim and seraphim

Full royally he rode,

And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad.

He sat serene upon the floods,
Their fury to restrain;

And he, as sovereign Lord and King,

For evermore shall reign.

Give glory to his awful name,
And honor him alone;
Give worship to his majesty,
Upon his holy throne.

"NO, NOT MORE WELCOME."

TOM MOORE.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,Than came that voice, when all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain, Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell;
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell!

'Twas whisper'd balm-'twas sunshine spoken! I'd live years of grief and pain,

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.

BEAUTIFUL HANDS.

MRS, ELLEN H. GATES.

UCH beautiful, beautiful hands,
They're neither white nor small,
And you, I know, would scarcely think
That they were fair at all;

I've looked on hands in form and hue
A sculptor's dream might be,
Yet are these aged, wrinkled hands
Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands;

Tho' heart was weary and sad,
These patient hands kept toiling on
That the children might be glad;
I often weep, as looking back,

To childhood's distant day,

I think how these hands rested not
When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands,
They're growing feeble now,
And time and toil have left their mark
On hand, and heart, and brow;