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While I extol Him, holy, just, and good,
Life, beauty, light, intelligence, and love!
Eternal, uncreated, infinite!
Unsearchable Jehovah! God of truth!
Maker, Upholder, Governor of all :
Thyself unmade, ungoverned, unupheld.
Mysterious more the more displayed, where still
Upon thy glorious throne thou sitt'st alone :
Hast sat alone, and shalt forever sit
Alone ; invisible, immortal One !
Behind essential brightness unbeheld;
Incomprehensible ! what weight shall weigh,
What measure measure Thee? What know we more
Of Thee, what need to know, than Thou hast taught,
And bidd'st us still repeat at morn and even.
God ! Everlasting Father! Holy One!
Our God, our Father, our Eternal all !
Source whence we came, and whither we return;
Who made the heaven, who made the flowery land ;
Thy works all praise Thee: all thy angels praise ;
Thy saints adore, and on thy altars burn
The fragrant incense of perpetual love.
They praise Thee now: their hearts, their voices praise,
And swell the rapture of the glorious song,
Harp, lift thy voice on high! shout, angels, shout!
And loudest, ye redeemed! “Glory to God!"
And to the Lamb who bought us with his blood,
From every kindred, nation, people, tongue ;
And washed, and sanctified, and saved our souls ;
And gave us robes of linen pure, and crowns
Of life, and made us kings and priests to God.
Shout back to ancient Time! Sing loud, and wave
Your palms of triumph! sing, “Where is thy sting,
O Death? where is thy victory, O Grave ?”
Thanks be to God! eternal thanks, who gave
Us victory through Jesus Christ, our Lord.
Harp, lift thy voice on high ! shout, angels, shout!
And loudest, ye redeemed ! “Glory to God !"

PRI DE.

PRIDE, self-adoring pride, was primal cause
Of all sin past, all pain, all wo to come.
Unconquerable pride! first, eldest sin,
Great fountain-head of evil! highest source,
Whence flowed rebellion 'gainst the Omnipotent, —
Whence hate of man to man, and all else ill.
Pride at the bottom of the human heart
Lay, and gave root and nourishment to all
That
grew

above. Great ancestor of vice!
Hate, unbelief, and blasphemy of God;
Envy and slander; malice and revenge ;
And murder, and deceit, and every birth
Of hateful sort, was progeny

of pride. It was the ever-moving, acting force, The constant aim, and the most thirsty wish Of every sinner unrenewed, to be A god; in purple or in rags, to have Himself adored. Whatever shape or form His actions took, whatever phrase he threw About his thoughts, or mantle o'er his life, To be the highest was the inward cause Of all; the purpose of the heart to be Set up, admired, obeyed. But who would bow The knee to one who served, and was dependent ? Hence man's perpetual struggle, night and day, To prove he was his own proprietor, And independent of his God; that what He had might be esteemed his own, and praised As such. He labored still, and tried to stand Alone, unpropped, to be obliged to none; And, in the madness of his pride, he bade His God farewell, and turned away to be A god himself ; resolving to rely, Whatever came, upon his own right hand,

JOHN MOULTRIE.

John MOULTRIE is a clergyman of the established church, and was born in the winter of 1799. He was educated at Eton, where he was distinguished for his fine scholarship and excellent taste, and enjoyed the friendship of the late Winthrop M. Praed, Mr. Thomas Babington Macaulay, Dr. Chalmers, and many others who have since gained distinction in the world of letters. One of his earliest poetic efforts was entitled “ My Brother's Grave.” It was published when he was nineteen years old.

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I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould.
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish

years.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair,
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air :
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency:
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills

his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about

the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which

he will say.

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like

me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be : And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my

knee:
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen,
Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ;
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love re-

vealing When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the

street, Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and

sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may

prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love: And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.

I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to

dwell.
To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow.
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth

feel. Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal.

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But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever

fresh.
I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's divinest

things.
I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,)
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from erery eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease ;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may

sever,
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must

be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's

misery, When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and

pain, — Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

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TO THE REV. DR. CHALMERS.

Well hast thou reasoned, Chalmers, on the deep

And awful mystery of redeeming love ;

With argument profound intent to prove
How the Omniscient Mind doth ever keep
Protective watch on heaven's empyreal steep,

O’er suns and systems through all space that move;

While yet its sleepless eyes minutely rove
Through lowliest dwellings in which mortals sleep.

Methinks, great Teacher, of that Mind thine own
Yields a faint emblem, who hast power to soar

On wing seraphic towards the Eternal Throne,
And heaven and hell's mysterious depths explore ;

Yet on the meanest cot where poor men groan
Deignest thy wisdom's healing light to pour.

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