When on some balmy-breathing night of spring The happy child to whom the world is new, Pursues the evening moth of mealy wing, Or from the heath-bell shakes the sparkling dew, He sees before his inexperienced eyes, The brilliant glow-worm like a meteor shine On the turf-bank, surprised, and pleased, he cries “Star of the dewy grass! I make thee mine.” Then, ere he sleeps, collects the moistened flower, And bids soft leaves his glittering prize unfold, And dreams that fairy lamps illume his bower; But in the morning shudders to behold His shining treasure viewless as the dust; So fade the world’s bright _joys_ to cold and blank disgust. _Charlotte Smith._ I see a forest, dark, dim, deep, and dread, Whose solemn shades no human foot or eye Can penetrate; but now, oh see! a veil Falls from my strengthened eyes; and now Even in its deepest centre I behold A spot more beautiful than human heart Can comprehend; it is the home of _Joy_, And there the blessed spirit broods for ever, Making her dwelling-place a heaven: there The skies are pure as crystal, and the eye Looks through their clear expanse direct to God. No sun is there; the air itself is light And life; a rainbow spans it like a crown Of tearless glory, and the forest trees Sweep round it in a belt of living green. Colour, that wayward sprite of changeful mien, Is here subdued to an intensity Of burning lustre. Sound has but one voice, And that _joyous_ song; sight but one object, And that is happiness; mine eyes are strained To catch the lineaments of the bright queen, Whose dwelling-place I see; but ’tis in vain; Nowhere distinct, yet felt in all, she glides, A shape of light and colour through the air, Making its pure transparency to thrill With the soft music of her viewless step. _C. L. Reddel._ Christ had His _joys_--but they were not The _joys_ the son of pleasure boasts-- O, no! ’twas when His Spirit sought Thy will, Thy glory, God of hosts! Christ had His _joys_--and so hath he, Who feels His Spirit in his heart; Who yields, O God, his all to Thee, And loves Thy name, for what thou art! _Anon._ _Joy_ dwells not in external things, It hath an inner birth; The sweetest bird in darkness sings, And fairest flowers oft nurture stings,-- Such is our life on earth. Then measure not by outward show The depth of real _joy_; The heart can o’er the darkest woe A stream of sunlight softly throw, Or purest bliss destroy. _W. J. Brock._ JUDAH. When Israel went out of Egypt, the house of Jacob from a people of strange language;