Then holding the Spectacles up to the Court

"Your lordship observes they are mad with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

"Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear Spectacles then?

"On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the Court will never condemn,
That the Spectacles plainly were made for the Noce,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.”

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows hov),
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,

For the Court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave, solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but
"That, whenever the Nose put his Spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight - Eyes should be shut!"

LIGHT SHINING IN DARKNESS.

GOD moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines,
With never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

THE PIOUS COTTAGER AND VOLTAIRE.

YON Cottager, who weaves at her own door-
Pillow and bobbins all her little store
Content, though mean, and cheerful if not gay,
Shuffling her threads about the livelong day,
Just earns scanty pittance, and at night
Lies down secure, her heart and pocket light;
She, for her humble sphere by nature fit,
Had little understanding and no wit;

Receives no praise, but though her lot be such-
Toilsome and indigent — she renders much;
Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true
A truth the witty Frenchman never knew;
And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes,
Her title to a treasure in the skies.
Oh happy peasant! Oh unhappy bard 1
His the mere tinsel, hers the rich reward;
He, praised perhaps for ages yet to come,
She, never heard of half a mile from home;
He, lost in errors his vain heart prefers,
She, safe in the simplicity of hers.