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THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.

I have had by me some time. He calls it—I suppose, for his professional friends—The Anatomist's Hymn; but I shall name it—]

THE LIVING TEMPLE.
Not in the world of light alone,Where God has built his blazing throne,Nor yet alone in earth below,With belted seas that come and go,And endless isles of sunlit green,Is all thy Maker's glory seen:Look in upon thy wondrous frame,—Eternal wisdom still the same!
The smooth, soft air with pulse-like wavesFlows murmuring through its hidden caves,Whose streams of brightening purple rushFired with a new and livelier blush,While all their burden of decayThe ebbing current steals away,And red with Nature's flame they startFrom the warm fountains of the heart.
No rest that throbbing slave may ask,Forever quivering o'er his task,While far and wide a crimson jetLeaps forth to fill the woven netWhich in unnumbered crossing tidesThe flood of burning life divides,Then kindling each decaying partCreeps back to find the throbbing heart.
But warmed with that unchanging flameBehold the outward moving frame,
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