"Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people, who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them."--_Spectator_ of May 14, 1803. "Praise God from whom all blessings flow," Praise him who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, O, praise him, all that dies, and lives. He opens and he shuts his hand, But why we cannot understand: Pours and dries up his mercies' flood, And yet is still All-perfect Good. We fathom not the mighty plan, The mystery of God and man; We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb. And when, the tempest passing by, He gleams out, sunlike through our sky, We look up, and through black clouds riven We recognize the smile of Heaven. Ours is no wisdom of the wise, We have no deep philosophies; Childlike we take both kiss and rod, For he who loveth knoweth God. DINAH M. MULOCK CRAIK. * * * * * REBECCA'S HYMN. FROM "IVANHOE." When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide, in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow: By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen, And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And Thou hast left them to their own. But, present still, though now unseen! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And O, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But Thou hast said, "The blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice." SIR WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * THE BOOK OF GOD. Thy thoughts are here, my God, Expressed in words divine, The utterance of heavenly lips In every sacred line. Across the ages they Have reached us from afar, Than the bright gold more golden they, Purer than purest star. More durable they stand Than the eternal hills; Far sweeter and more musical Than music of earth's rills.