Eve, my angel, always with me, leads my spirit by the hand Tenderly from its painful memories toward the Better—Happier Land. And like ghosts, when, clarion-tongued, proud Chanticleer salutes the dawn, All my ghastly recollections flit, like shadows, and are gone. * * * * * THE OMNIPRESENCE OF GOD. BY RICHARD COE, JR. Come! Come! Come! Nature, teacher sweet, will tell Where the Lord of all doth dwell, He who doeth all things well, And in glory reigns! In the mountain—in the stream— In the hushed and charmed air— In the working of a dream— God is everywhere! In the star that decks the sky, Shining through the silent air; In the cloud that saileth by— God is everywhere! In the lily of the field— Or in floweret more rare— In the perfume roses yield— God is everywhere! In the sunbeam clear and bright— In the rainbow wondrous fair— In the darkness of the night— God is everywhere! In the gentle summer breeze— In the rushing winter air— In the rustling of the trees— God is everywhere! In the organ’s solemn sound— Or in music’s lighter air— All above—beneath—around— God is everywhere! * * * * * THE NEGLECTED GRAVE-YARD. BY PROFESSOR ALDEN. “Uncle, have you a fowling-piece to lend me?” said Henry Deforest, on the morning after his arrival at Beech Grove, whither he had come to enjoy a brief interval of rest from his professional studies. “Yes,” replied Mr. Woolcott, “as fine a one as you ever handled.” “What do you want to do with it, pray?” said Aunt Martha, Mr. Woolcott’s maiden sister and housekeeper, who, like a sensible woman, believed that guns and gunpowder were infernal inventions, and dangerous in every possible shape and shade of combination. “I have some thoughts of taking a gunning excursion,” said Henry. “Are you a good shot?” said Mr. Woolcott. “About equal to Mr. Winkle.” “I don’t know him—where does he live?” Henry was happily relieved from the necessity of replying to the question of his matter-of-fact uncle, by Aunt Martha, who declared her somewhat exulting belief that the gun was lent. “No, it is at home—it came home last night. Here it is,” said Mr. W., bringing it forth from a secure hiding-place constructed under Aunt Martha’s sole direction and authority. “Is it loaded?” said Henry. “No, I guess not,” said his uncle. “I’ll warrant it is,” said Aunt Martha. “What is there to shoot in these parts?” said Henry. “Boys,” replied Aunt M., rather sharply. “Mr. Johns shot one last week.” “Boys are not good to eat, my dear aunt, and I cannot in conscience shoot any thing not good to eat.”