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Nations, therefore, have fittingly rejoiced in every century since the creation in the joyfulness of harvest. It has been a time of activity and of songs.
Never was there a generation that had more cause to put forth their reaping and rejoicing hands and sing so heartily as ours. The coming month will see the Pharaoh of monstrous monopoly, and all his wretched selfish hosts, drowned in the Red Sea of abundance. The corn dealers will be smothered in the showering-down heaps of their own commodity; the speculator who has so long sought his own fattening at the cost of a nation's starvation and misery, shall find that there is a greater speculator in the blue serene above him, whose hand can whelm him in the gulf of his own schemes, and craze all the chariot wheels of his cunning. Praise to God—the God of harvests—and to Him whose cattle are on a thousand hills. Let us go out and rejoice amid the sunshine, and the wheat stooping to the sickle, and the barley to the scythe, and in the certain assurance that the loaf never was cheaper than it shall be within the next six months, never the heart of labor more strengthened with abundance.
There is no month more beautiful than August. It has a serene splendor and maturity about it that is delightful. The soil is dry, the sky is bright and beautiful, with scattered and silvery clouds. The foliage is full and luxuriant—the grass
fields mown in June and July are now full of the richest green, and cattle wander in finest condition through them, or lie in groups around worthy of a painter's hand. There is a sort of second spring in trees, the oak and the elm, especially, putting forth new shoots of a lighter tint. The hedges put on the same vernal looking hue, and the heather on the moors, and sweet scabiuses, blue chicory, the large white convolvulus, hawkweeds, honeysuckles, and the small blue campanula, make the fields gay. The nuts, still green, hang in prodigal clusters on the tall old hedges of old woodland lanes. Young frogs in thousands are issuing from the waters, and traversing the roads; and birds having terminated their spring cares, are out enjoying their families in the sunny and plentiful fields.
I 10 provest mals, with his half dozen children, toils, and often 4,67,',5, 116 sais atour of winning bread for them. God feeds boom 'n sons of (D":1,730.my Myriuls -warining over the surface of all tin culian w 1980s, and none know need but through the folluce or the cruelty of their feilow». God pours his light from innumrable, suns on innumerable rejoicing planets; he waters then everywhere in the fitting moment; he ripens the food of globon and of nations, and gives them fair weather to garner it; and froin age to ago, ainid his creatures of endless forms and power, in the beauty, and the sunshine, and the magnificence of Nature, he seems to sing throughout creation the glorious song of his own divine joy in the immortality of his youth, i:. the omnipotence of his nature, in the eternity of his patiene. and the abounding boundlessness of his love.
What a family hangs on his sustaining arm! The life a roulx of infinite ages and of uncounted worlds! Let a i ment's failure of his power, of his watchfulness, or of his wi do good, occur, and what a sweep of death and annihil.. through the universe! How stars would reel, planets e and nations perish! But from age to age no such catastri occurs, even in the midst of national crimes, and of at that denies the hand that made and feeds it: life sprin." a power ever new, food springs up as plentifully to sus and sunshine and joy are poured over all from the i throne of God, is the poetry of the existence he has gi there come seasons of dearth or of failure, they con warnings to proud and tyrannic man. The potato is that a nation may not be oppressed for ever; and the diminished, that the laws of man's unnatural avarii rent asunder. And then again the sun shines, the and the earth rejoices in a renewed beauty, and in a plenty
It is amid one of these crises that we at this m and hail the month of harvests with unmingler did the tinger of God demonstrate his beneficent w spicuously than at this moment. The nations have bee and rebuked, and in the bounty of heaven overflow in golden billows of the ocean of abundance. God wi the arts of man to check his bounty, to create scareita lish derness to enfeeble the hand of the laborer, an table of the poor, shall be put to shamatli shall eat and be glad, whether cornor die
Natio Since I
THE VIRGIN MARTYR.-MASSINGER AND DECKER.
Angelo, an angel, attends Dorothea as a page.
Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never
Ang. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars,
Dor. Be nigh me still, then.
Ang. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye
Dor. I have offer'd
Ang. I am not: I did never
If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand
Dor. A bless'd day!
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE.—GEORGE P. MORRIS.
This book is all that's left me now!
Tears will unbidden start-
press it to my heart.
Here is our family tree;
She, dying, gave it me.
Ah! well do I remember those
Whose names these records bear:
After the evening prayer,
In tones my heart would thrill !
Here are they living still!
My father read this holy book
To brothers, sisters dear;
Who lean'd God's word to hear.
What thronging memories come!
Within the halls of home!
Thou truest friend man ever knew,
Thy constancy I've tried;
My counsellor and guide.
That could this volume buy :
It taught me how to die.