Repress the word, the glance, that wakes
That trembling nerve to woe.

And be it ftill your joy to raise
The trembler from the fhade,
To bind the broken, and to heal
The wound you never made.

Whene'er you see the feeling mind,
Oh, let this care begin;

And though the cell be ne'er so low,
Respect the guest within.

Lydia Huntley.

BR

CHARITY.

REATHE thoughts of pity o'er a brother's fall,
But dwell not with ftern anger on his fault:

The grace of God alone holds thee, holds all;

Were that withdrawn, thou too would'ft swerve and halt.

Send back the wanderer to the Saviour's fold,

That were an action worthy of a saint;

But not in malice let the crime be told,
Nor publish to the world the evil taint.

The Saviour suffers when his children flide ;
Then is his holy name by men blasphemed!
And he afresh is mocked and crucified,

Even by those his bitter death redeemed.

Rebuke the fin, and yet in love rebuke ;

Feel as one member in another's pain; Win back the soul that his fair path forsook, And mighty and eternal is thy gain.

Edmefton.

A

ANGELIC MINISTRY.

ND is there care in Heaven? And is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,

That may compaffion of their evils move?

There is, — else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beafts: but O! the exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves His creatures so,
And all His works with mercy doth embrace,
That blefféd angels He sends to and fro,

To serve to wicked man, to serve His wicked foe!

How oft do they their filver bowers leave,
To come to succor us that succor want!
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting fkies, like flying pursuivant,

Against foul fiends to aid us militant!

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward,

And their bright squadrons round about us plant;

And all for love and nothing for reward;

Oh, why should heavenly God to men have such regard?

3

Edmund Spenser.

LARVÆ.

Y little maiden of four years old

ΜΥ

(No myth, but a genuine child is fhe,

With her bronze-brown eyes, and her curls of gold) Came, quite in disguft, one day, to me.

Rubbing her shoulder with rosy palm,

As the loathsome touch seemed yet to thrill her,
She cried, "Oh, mother, I found on my arm
A horrible, crawling caterpillar!
!"

And with mischievous smile fhe could scarcely smother, Yet a glance, in its daring, half-awed and shy,

She added, "While they were about it, mother,

I wish they'd just finished the butterfly!"

They were words to the thought of the soul that turns
From the coarser form of a partial growth,

Reproaching the Infinite Patience that yearns
With an unknown glory to crown them both.

Ah, look thou largely, with lenient eyes,
On whatso befide thee may creep and cling,

For the poffible beauty that underlies
The paffing phase of the meaneft thing!

What if God's great angels, whose waiting love

Beholdeth our pitiful life below,

From the holy height of their heaven above,

Couldn't bear with the worm till the wings should grow?

Atlantic Monthly.

SHE

THE GATE OF HEAVEN.

HE ftood outside the gate of heaven, and saw them
entering in,

A world-long train of fhining ones, all washed in blood
from fin.

The hero-martyr in that blaze uplifted his ftrong eye,
And trod firm the reconquered soil of his nativity!

And he who had despised his life, and laid it down in pain,

Now triumphed in its worthinefs, and took it up again.

The holy one, who had met God in desert cave alone, Feared not to ftand with brethren around the Father's throne.

They who had done, in darkest night, the deeds of light and flame,

Circled with them about as with a glowing halo came.