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he obeys him. His whole soul is wrapped up in his god; all the powers and 
faculties of his nature are devoted to his service; and these powers and faculties 
are ennobled by the intercourse. Divines tell us that it ought just to be so with 
the Christian; but the Dog puts the Christian to shame.’ The truth of these 
remarks, which forcibly struck me at the time, have since been verified by expe¬ 
rience ; and often have events occurred which, while they reminded me that ‘ Man 
is the god of the Dog,’ have forced from me the humiliating confession that ( the 
Dog puts the Christian to shame.’ p. 308. 
When the author shall have treated of the respective seasons which complete 
the cycle of the year, he may appropriately sum up his arguments and case in the 
words of a young, but most promising, poet:— 
“ Cyril had learned to worship and obey 
The God whose mercy gave each passing day : 
Nature beamed forth in smiles and happy glee; 
All else rejoiced, and wherefore should not he ? 
Earth was his temple, and the boundless sky, 
Glitt’ring with gem-like stars, its canopy; 
His books the hills and valleys ; and his prayers 
A hush of holy peace, as eloquent as theirs. 
u Who that hath wandered in the beauteous hour 
When dusky twilight shares with night her power.,— 
When weeping dews the thirsty valleys fill— 
And mists are rolling down each darkened hill— 
When birds are hushed—when toil and labour cease— 
When heaven and earth are universal peace— 
And, though no sound pervade the solemn air, 
The very silence is replete with prayer; 
Breathing from flood, and field, and mountains rude, 
The voiceless orisons of gratitude;— 
Who that hath felt this hour’s deep eloquence— 
Who that hath life’s most ordinary sense— 
Who that can move, think, feel, or understand— 
Can doubt the power of an Almighty Hand ? 
Go, read the stones upon the rugged hill; 
Go, list the music of the singing rill; 
Go, learn from ocean, forest, field, and flower, 
The infinite wisdom of Eternal Power. 
All have their language and alike upraise, 
In one continual round, Jehovah’s praise.* 
Cyril; a Poem. By George Wilson, Leeds. 1835. 
