THE AUTOGRAPH OF GOD. BY GEORGE W. BUNGAY. The thirsty earth, with lips apart, Looked up where rolled an orb of flame As though a prayer came from its heart For rain to come; and lo! it came. The Indian corn, with silken plume, And flowers with tiny pitchers filled, Send up their praise of sweet perfume, For silver drops the clouds distilled. The modest grass is fresh and green— The fountain swells its song again; An angel’s radiant wing is seen In every cloud that brings us rain. There is a rainbow in the sky, It spans the arch where tempests trod; God wrote it ere the world was dry— It is the Autograph of God. Up where the heavy thunders rolled, Where clouds on fire were swept along, The sun rides in a car of gold, And soaring larks dissolve in song. The rills that gush from mountains rude, Flow trickling to the verdant base— Just like the tears of gratitude That often steal adown the face. Great King of peace, deign now to bless— The windows of the sky unbar; Shower down the rain of righteousness, And wash away the stain of war; Though we deserve the reeking rod, Smile from thy throne of light on high— That we may read the name of God, In lines of beauty on the sky. * * * * * IF I WERE A SMILE. BY RICHARD COE. If I were a smile, a beautiful smile, I would play o’er the infant’s face, And stamp such an heavenly impress there That never a tinge of sorrow or care Should ever its beauty efface, To appear the while, If I were a smile, a beautiful smile. If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh, In the breast of a maiden fair; I would speed me on angel wings above, And lie like a beautiful wounded dove At the feet of my Saviour there, Till he heard my cry, If I were a sigh, a sorrowing sigh. If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear, In the eye of a Christian mild; I would flow at the sight of keen distress, As the dew-drop falls on the earth to bless, To calm the heart from tumult wild Were my task so dear, If I were a tear, a bright, pearly tear. But as I am neither a smile nor sigh, Nor even a tear pearly bright; But an humble poet singing the while, The world of its sorrows and to beguile, I’ll scatter my songs with delight To the passer-by, Till smiles take the place of the tear and sigh. * * * * * A TRUE IRISH STORY. BY REDWOOD FISHER.