The Vaudois Harvest Hymn.

TERNAL Father! God of peace!
Being whose bounties never cease!
While to the Heavens, in grateful tones,

Ascend our mingled orisons,

Listen to these, the notes of praise,
Which we, a happy people, raise.
Our hamlets, shelter'd by Thy care,
Abodes of peace and plenty are;
Our tillage by Thy blessing yields
An hundred fold-the ripen'd fields
Of waving grain-the burden'd vine-
Are tokens of Thy Love Divine.

The cradled head of infancy

Oweth its tranquil rest to Thee

Youth's doubting step, and firmer tread,
In years mature, by Thee are led-
Secure may trembling age, O Lord!
Lean on its staff, Thy Holy Word.
Teach us these blessings to improve,
Teach us to serve Thee, teach to love-

Exalt our hearts that we may see
The Giver of all Good in Thee;
And be Thy Word our daily food,
Thy service, God, our greatest good.
Whether in youth, like early fruit,

Or in the sere and solemn suit

Of our autumnal age, like wheat,
Ripen'd, and for the reaper fit,
Thou cut us off, O God, may we,
Gather'd into Thy garner be!

H. HASTINGS WELD.

Mortality.

Oн, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!
Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave-
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade,
Be scatter'd around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

The child whom a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blest,
Each-all are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king who the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

MORTALITY.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,

The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,

The beggar who wander'd in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoy'd the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes-like the flower and the weed

That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes-even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same things that our fathers have been,
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think,
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink,
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling,
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved-but their story we cannot unfold,

They scorn'd-but the heart of the haughty is cold,
They grieved-but no wail from their slumbers may come,
They joy'd-but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died—ay, they died! and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

MORTALITY.

Yea; hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;

And the smile, and the tear, and the song, and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud-
Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud!

Grief was sent thee for thy good.

KNOX.

SOME there are who seem exempted
From the doom incurr'd by all;
Are they not more sorely tempted?
Are they not the first to fall?

As a mother's firm denial

Checks her infant's wayward mood,

Wisdom lurks in ev'ry trial

Grief was sent thee for thy good.

In the scenes of former pleasure,
Present anguish hast thou felt?

O'er thy fond heart's dearest treasure
As a mourner hast thou knelt?
In the hour of deep affliction,

Let no impious thought intrude,
Meekly bow with this conviction,

Grief was sent thee for thy good.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

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