"Sir, I have felt, of late, a growing fondness for this place and this scene; and last Sunday, when returning from the afternoon service, I stood here almost wrapt in the pleasure which the place afforded to the departed one, and I have since come to believe that there is something more than book-knowledge necessary to the relish of natural scenery." "May I ask what that _something_ is, which you think assists us to appreciate the beauty of a landscape?" "Why, sir--perhaps I am wrong, you certainly know better than I--but, it appears to me, my growing sense of enjoyment in this scene is due to the memory of the virtues of her whom I constantly connect with this place, and that enjoyment is fixed and augmented by the frame of mind in which I go to, or come from the place of worship." "If I understand you correctly, you have come to the conclusion that to enjoy nature, our hearts must be touched, and our affections mellowed by earthly sympathies, and our views expanded and elevated by a sense of religious duties." "Something like that, sir." "And is not that what is understood by 'LOVE TO GOD, AND LOVE TO MAN?'" POETRY.--A SONG. BY GEORGE P. MORRIS. To me the world's an open book Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running brook That sings its way toward the sea: It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass. And in the cool fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass. The flowers below--the stars above-- In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry. THE MOURNER. BY THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN. Why is thy visage o'ershadowed by gloom, Are Nature's enchantments not scattered around, Has the rose lost her fragrance, the tulip her bloom, Has the streamlet no longer its mild, soothing sound? Say what are thy pleasures--or whence is thy bliss, In thy breast can no movements of sympathy rise? Canst thou glance o'er a region so lovely as this, And no bright ray of pleasure enliven thine eyes? Where are there fields more delightfully drest, In a verdure still fresh'ning with every shower? Here are oak-covered mountains, with valleys of rest, Richly clothed in the blossoming sweet scented flower. Why lingerest thou ever to gaze on that star, Sinking low in the west e'er the twilight is o'er? While the shadows of evening extending afar Bid the warbler's blithe carol be poured forth no more, Oh why when the Sabbath bell's pleasantest tone Wakes the soul of devotion in song to rejoice, Are thy features with sorrow o'erclouded alone, While no sounds but of sadness are heard from thy voice?