a former animated world-new generations arising, and order and harmony established; and a system of life and beauty produced, as it were out of chaos and death, proving the infinite power, wisdom and goodness of the great Cause of all being.

ALWAYS HAPPY.

An Italian Bishop struggled through great difficulties without repining, and met with much opposition in discharge of his Episcopal functions, without betraying the least impatience. One of his intimate friends, who highly admired those virtues which he thought it impossible to imitate, one day asked the Prelate if he could communicate the secret of being always easy?"Yes," replied the old man, "I can teach you my secret, and with great facility: it consists of making a right use of my eyes." His friend begged of him to explain himself. "Most willingly," returned the Bishop. "In whatever state I am, I first of all look up to Heaven and remember that my principal business here is to get there; I then look down upon the earth, and call to mind how small a space I shall occupy in it when I come to he interred: I then look abroad into the world, and observe what multitudes there are who are in all respects more unhappy than myself. Thus, I learn where true happiness is placed-where all our cares must end, and what little reason I have to repine or to complain."

DR. WATTS.

Dr. Watts was remarkable for vivacity in conversation, and ready wit; though he never showed a disposition for displaying it. Being one day in a coffee-room with some friends, he overheard a gentleman say, "what, is that the great Dr. Watts?" when, turning suddenly round, and in good humor, he repeated a stanza from his lyric poems, which produced silent admiration:

Were I so tall to reach the pole,

Or mete the ocean with my span;
I must be measur'd by my soul,

The mind's the standard of the man.

Dr. Watts was short in stature, being only about five feet high.

POETRY.

A MORNING HYMN.

"Tis the rich hour, when gladsome waters leaping,
Smile in the beauty of the gorgeous sky:
When golden clouds, o'er distant summits sleeping,
Like spirit-islands, bathed in glory lie;-
When to the South, to swelling gem-buds given,
Come the bland kisses of the loving air,

Burdened with balm, and wandering forth in heaven,
While sounds of brooks and birds are mingling there.
Wake! ye that slumber! and a glorious vision,
Richer than fancy to the mind can bring,
Will on the observant eye in peace have risen,
"Till gushes from the heart, Affection's spring:
For the broad sunlight, in rich floods descending,
Each hill and vale paints deep in quivering gold,
Gay light and music in one flow are blending,

Where amber clouds their graceful skirts unfold.
And while from vale to vale, like incense given,
Sounds on the breeze of morn the Sabbath bell,
The chastened soul may lift its dream to heaven
Till the rapt heart seems kindling in the spell;
While, touched with day-beams, grove, and fount and river
In the soft beauty of Contentment sleep,

How should man conquer Passion's stormy fever
And drink of peacefulness so pure and deep?

Why, when the anthems of the streams are swelling,
And the fresh blossoms odorous tribute yield :-
When gales delicious of sweet buds are telling,
That humbly blooming, bend in every field—

Why should Man's heart no pure emotions cherish-
Why should its reverence and affection die ;-
When fragile birds and blossoms, born to perish,
Make glad the Chambers of the open sky!

Philadelphia, 1831.

W. G. C.

THE DELUGE.-BY P. M. WETMORE.

All the fountains of the great deep were broken up and the windows of heaven were opened.-Genesis.

A doom to the fallen! The earth where they trod,
Shall be laden no longer with the scotlers of God;
He speaks! and his banner of wrath is unfurled,
And the avalanche-deluge comes down on the world

A doom to the fallen! It rides on the wind-
They look back in terror, the wave is behind;
While onward, and onward, in anguish they flee,
Still darkly sweeps onward the flash of the sea.

They trust not the valleys, hope perishes there-
But they rush to the hills with the strength of despair;
The palm trees are bended by myriads of forms,
As forests are bowed by the spirit of storms!

There's a hush of the weak, and a cry from the stronger,
And the rock and the tree are a refuge no longer;
The waters have closed in a midnight of gloom,
And sullenly roll o'er a world-peopled tomb.
"Tis morn on the wave-like a bird on its breast,
Floats the ark of the godly-a haven of rest;
A sign and a pledge to the wanderers are given,
And the promise-bow arches the blue vault of heaven.

THE SWAN.

I've seen the swan, with snow-white breast,
Sitting upon the troubled wave

Seeming as fearlessly to rest,

As though there were no storms to brave.

Her long white neck was lifted high
Above the troubled element,

While with her look of majesty,

Still on her gentle course she went.

The rude wave could not penetrate
Her shielded breast, and if a spray,
A moment on her white back sate,

It seemed a diamond in the ray
Of light, which loved to glisten there,
Making the fair bird still more fair.
So rests the Christian, when the tide
Of life is surged by sorrow's blast,
Its fiercest rage he can abide,

And calmly wait till all be past.

No storm nor angry wind he fears,
His eye is set on "things above,"
While his unwavering course he steers,
Scorning whate'er that course would move.

And if, for this world's grief, there spring
A tear into his hope-fixed eye,

Tis but to show the visiting

Of His bright smile that tear can dry,
And serves to lend a moment's grace
Of radiance from his Father's face.

JOHN HOWARD.

A spirit of unwearied zeal,

Patience, which nothing could subduc,
A heart, the woes of man to feel,

In every varied form and hue;
An open hand, and eye, and ear,
For all in Prisons doom'd to pine;
A voice the Captive's hopes to cheer ;-
These, noble Howard! these were thine.

In cells by Mercy's feet untrod,

"Twas thine the mourner's lot to scan; Thy polar star, the love of God,

Thy chart and compass, love to man

To mitigate the Law's stern wrath,

Thou trod'st, with steadfast heart and eye,

"An open, unfrequented path,

To fame and immortality!"

What was thy meed?-A stranger's grave,
Divided from thy native land
By many a white and stormy wave,
By many a weary waste of sand
Yet to that lone and distant tomb
Thy name its memory may intrust,
Till cloudless glory burst its gloom,
And thou shalt rise to meet the just.

THE CALM SEA.

The gentle breeze that curl'd the sea had slowly died away,
And stretch'd in glassy stillness now, the wide blue waters lay,
The sea bird's cry was heard no more, and soft as infant's sleep
Was the holy calm that lay upon the bosom of the deep.

But yesterday the storm had raged, and shook the mighty ocean,
That dash'd aloft its foamy waves, and heaved in wild commotion;
To-day you might have thought no storm had ever touch'd its breast
As it lay a mighty emblem of mild majesty and rest.

Is there such calm for mortal breasts when storms have once been there,

When passion wild has swept along, and heart corroding care?
When guilt has once disturbed the soul, and mark'd it with its stain,
Can tranquil softness of the heart be ever ours again?

Yes-But it is not of this world, the peace that must be sought,
And with the soul's repentant tears it can alone be bought;
Then, as it meekly bows to kiss affliction's chastening rod.
The broken and the contrite heart shall feel the peace of God