BELMONT. C. M.

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WHEN all thy mercies, O my God, When worn with sickness, oft hast thou

My rising soul surveys,

Transported with the view, I'm lost
In wonder, love, and praise.

With health renewed my face,
And, when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Revived my soul with grace.

Unnumbered comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestowed,
Before my infant heart conceived

From whom those comforts flowed.

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Ten thousand, thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ,
Nor is the least a cheerful heart
That tastes those gifts with joy.
JOSEPH ADDISON, 1672-1719.

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The green earth sends her incense up
From many a mountain shrine,
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine;

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And prayer is made, and praise is given The blue sky is the temple's arch,
By all things near and far:
The ocean looketh up to heaven
And mirrors every star;

Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer :

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So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, 1807-1892.