inite knowledge, and is, as it were, an
organ to omniscience.

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of thought
should start beyond the bounds of the creation, should it millions of
years continue its progress through infinite space with the same
activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator,
and encompassed round with the immensity of the Godhead. While we are in
the body, He is not less present with us, because He is concealed from
us. "Oh, that I knew where I might find Him!" says Job. "Behold I go
forward, but He is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive Him;
on the left hand, where He does work, but I cannot behold Him; He
hideth himself on the right hand, that I cannot see Him." In short,
reason as well as revelation assures us that He cannot be absent from
us, notwithstanding He is undiscovered by us.

In this consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience,
every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard everything
that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not
regarded by Him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety
of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion;
for, as it is impossible He should overlook any of his creatures, so we
may be confident that He regards, with an eye of mercy, those who
endeavour to recommend themselves to his notice, and in unfeigned
humility of heart think themselves unworthy that He should be mindful of
them.

_Spectator_.

* * * * *

THE MILL STREAM.

[Illustration]

Long trails of cistus flowers
Creep on the rocky hill,
And beds of strong spearmint
Grow round about the mill;
And from a mountain tarn above,
As peaceful as a dream,
Like to a child unruly,
Though school'd and counsell'd truly,
Roams down the wild mill stream!
The wild mill stream it dasheth
In merriment away,
And keeps the miller and his son
So busy all the day.

Into the mad mill stream
The mountain roses fall;
And fern and adder's-tongue
Grow on the old mill wall.
The tarn is on the upland moor,
Where not a leaf doth grow;
And through the mountain gashes,
The merry mill stream dashes
Down to the sea below.
But in the quiet hollows
The red trout groweth prime,
For the miller and the miller's son