In its sublime research, philosophy

May measure out the ocean-deep; may count The sands, or the sun's rays; but, God! for thee There is no weight nor measure:-none can mount Up to thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark,

Though kindled by thy light, in vain would try To trace thy counsels, infinite and dark;

And thought is lost, ere thought can soar so high.. Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call

First chaos, then existence. Lord, on thee Eternity had its foundation: all

Sprung forth from thee-of light, joy, harmony, Sole origin;-all life, all beauty thine.

Thy word created all, and doth create ;

Thy splendor fills áll space with rays divine.

Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious! great! Light-giving, life-sustaining Potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround;
Upheld by thee, by thee inspired with breath.
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death.

As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze,

So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from theo ; And, as the spangles in the sunny rays

Shine round the silver snow, the păgeantry Of heaven's bright army glitters in thy praise.

A million torches, lighted by thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss:
They own thy power, accomplish thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light?
A glorious company of golden streams?
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright?

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes; as a drop of water in the sea,

All this magnificence in thee is lost:

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee?
And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumbered host,—
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed

In all the glory of sublimest thought,—
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed
Against thy greatness; is a cipher brought
Against infinity! Oh! what am I then ?-Nought!

Nought! But the effluence of thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;
Yes; in my spirit doth thy spirit shine,

As shines the sun-beam in a drop of dew.
Nought! But I live, and on hope's pinions fly,
Eager, towards thy presence; for in thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of thy divinity.

I am, O God; and surely thou must be!

Thou art! directing, guiding all, thou art!
Direct my understanding, then, to thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart:
Though but an atom midst immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by thy hand!
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth,
On the last verge of mortal being stand,

Close to the realms where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

The chain of being is complete in me;

In me is matter's last gradation lost,

And the next step is spirit-Deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!

A monarch, and a slave; a worm, a god!

Whence came I here, and how so marvellously
Constructed and conceived? unknown! This clod
Lives surely through some higher energy;
For, from itself alone, it could not be !

Creator, yes; thy wisdom and thy word

Created me! Thou Source of life and good! Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!

Thy light, thy love, in their bright plenitude,
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing

Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its Source-to thee-its Author, there.

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blessed!

Though worthless our conceptions all of thee,
Yet shall thy shadowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to thy Deity.

God, thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar;
Thus seek thy presence, Being wise and good;
Midst thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And, when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

LESSON CLXXXI.

Scene from "The Vespers of Palermo:"-Eribert and Constance.-MRS. HEMANS.

Constance. WILL you not hear me?-Oh! that they who need

Hourly forgiveness, they who do but live,

While Mercy's voice, beyond the eternal stars,
Wins the great Judge to listen, should be thus,
In their vain exercise of pageant power,
Hard and relentless !-Gentle brother, yet
"Tis in your choice to imitate that Heaven,
Whose noblest joy is pardon.

Eribert. 'Tis too late.

You have a soft and moving voice, which pleads

With eloquent melody;-but they must die.

Constance. What, die!-for words?-for breath, which leaves no trace

To sully the pure air, wherewith it blends,

And is, being uttered, gone?—Why, 'twere enough,
For such a venial fault, to be deprived

One little day of man's free heritage,

Heaven's warm and sunny light!-Oh! if you deem
That evil harbors in their souls, at least
Delay the stroke, till guilt, made manifest,
Shall bid stern Justice wake.

Eribert. I am not one

Of those weak spirits, that timorously keep watch
For fair occasions, thence to borrow hues

Of virtue for their deeds. My school hath been

Where power sits crowned and armed.—And mark me, sister, To a distrustful nature, it might seem

Strange, that your lips thus earnestly should plead

For these Sicilian rebels. O'er my being

Suspicion holds no power.-And yet take note.

-I have said, and they must die.
Constance. Have you no fear?

Eribert. Of what?-that heaven should fall?
Constance. No; but that earth

Should arm in madness. Brother, I have seen
Dark eyes bent on you, e'en midst festal throngs,
With such deep hatred settled in their glance,
My heart hath died within me.

Eribert. Am I then

To pause, and doubt, and shrink, because a girl,
A dreaming girl, hath trembled at a look?

Constance. Oh! looks are no illusions, when the soul,
Which may not speak in words, can find no way

But theirs, to liberty! Have not these men

Brave sons, or noble brothers?

Eribert. Yes; whose name

It rests with me to make a word of fear,

A sound forbidden midst the haunts of men.

Constance. But not forgotten!-Ah! beware, beware!-

Nay, look not sternly on me.-There is one
Of that devoted band, who yet will need
Years to be ripe for death. He is a youth,
A very boy, on whose unshaded cheek

The spring-time glow is lingering. 'Twas but now
His mother left me, with a timid hope

Just dawning in her breast;-and I-I dared

To foster its faint spark.-You smile!-Oh! then
He will be saved!

Eribert. Nay, I but smiled to think

What a fond fool is hope! She may be taught
To deem that the great sun will change his course
To work her pleasure, or the tomb give pack
Its inmates to her arms. In sooth, 'tis strange!
Yet, with your pitying heart, you should not thus
Have mocked the boy's sad mother—I have said,
You should not thus have mocked her !-Now, farewell.
Constance. Oh, brother! hard of heart! for deeds like
these

There must be fearful chastening, if, on high,

Justice doth hold her state. And I must tell
Yon desolate mother, that her fair young son
Is thus to perish!-Haply the dread tale
May slay her too; for Heaven is merciful.-
"Twill be a bitter task!

LESSON CLXXXII.

Address to Light.-MILTON.

HAIL, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first born,
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam,

May I express thee unblamed? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light

Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee,
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or nearest thou rather, pure ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tell?

before the sun,

Before the heavens thou wert, and, at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.