spray, as hardly able to be still, in their fulness of delight. There, from the meadow's bosom, the morning lark is seen to rise, pouring forth a stream of melody, as he mounts, by short quick flights, into the sky. Higher and higher he soars, singing as he goes, in the joy of his little heart, seeming to make still softer and sweeter music the higher he ascends. And now he is no longer visible, but his song is still heard, as if truly it were music from the happy heavens.
And what, now, is the impression made upon our hearts? In these sweet notes and movements of the pretty birds, is there not the expression of innocence and joy? And does not the thought at once occur, who made these innocents? who gave them power to sing so? who taught them these strains? Does not the construction of those fine instruments, their little throats, prove exquisite skill—skill, beyond the art of man? But if the formation of the instrument shews wisdom and power in their Creator, so the life which fills that instrument,—the joyful nature of which gives, all the sweetness to their song,—displays, in a still more striking manner, His love and goodness.
The bleating of the sportive lambs, and the affectionate answer of the mother, calling them to her side—these sounds are also heard in the distant fields, and they tell the same tale, bespeaking the wisdom and goodness of the Creator. But here the latter quality, goodness, seems to be more directly and manifestly expressed. The notes of the birds told of their joy, and, from the perception of this, we argued love in the mind of their Creator; for love alone delights to infuse into others a state of joy, and to see them happy. So, moreover, from the beauty of the flowers, and the
