THE VOICE OF GOD.

THE holy voice of God! 'tis heard

When awful thunder peals around,

When the huge rocks, by lightnings scarred, Fall crashing to the trembling ground;

When forests tremble at his nod,

Then do we hear the voice of God!

In the light breathing of the breeze

That stirs the quivering aspen tree,

In the low murmur of the seas,

And in the winds soft minstrelsy;

When waves the tall grass on the sod,—

In these we hear the voice of God!

H

When loudly raves the winter storm,

And snow comes on its white wings down;

When darkening clouds the heavens deform,

And leafless trees through frost-wreaths frown;

Then o'er the earth he shakes his rod,—

That tempest is the voice of God!

There is a still, small voice within

Our hearts, that speaks of crimes forgiven,

That bids us leave the paths of sin,

And tells us how to seek for heaven;

This guides us through life's thorny road,

This surely is the voice of God!

THE CLOUDS.

Clouds, now softly sailing

Along the deep blue sky, now fixed and still.

MISS MITFORD.

THE clouds! the clouds! they are beautiful,

When they sleep on the soft spring sky,

As if the sun to rest could lull

Their snowy company;

And as the wind springs up they start,

And career o'er the azure plain,

And before the course of the breezes dart,

To scatter their balmy rain.

The clouds! the clouds! how change their forms

With every passing breath;

And now a glancing sunbeam warms,

And now they look cold as death!

Oh! often and often have I escaped

From the stir of the noisy crowd,

And a thousand fanciful visions shaped
On the face of a passing cloud.

The clouds! the clouds! round the sun at night,

They come like a band of slaves,

That are only bright in their master's light,

And each in his glory laves.

Oh! they are lovely, lovely then,

When the heaven around them glows;

Now touched with a purple and amber stain,

And now with the hue of the rose.

The clouds! the clouds! in the starlit sky,

How they float on the light winds wings;

Now resting an instant, then glancing by,
In their fickle wanderings!

Now they hide the deep blue firmament,

Now it shews their folds between,

As if a silver veil were rent

From the jewelled brow of a queen.

The clouds! the clouds! they are the lid
To the lightning's flashing eye;

And in their fleecy folds is hid

The thunder's majesty !.

Oh! how their warring is proclaimed

By the shrill blast's battle song;

And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed,

From the midst of the dark cloud's throng.