SPEAK HER NOT HARSHLY.

O! SPEAK not harshly the stricken one,
Though in silence oft she pine;

She weeps for friends that are long, long gone,
And like grief may soon be thine.

Her youth bore the rosy bloom of morn-
Her heart knew nor guile nor care;

But Fate from that heart fond hope hath torn,
And planted the rue-leaf there.

Tears hallow the sad and lonely hours,

When mem'ry, refreshened, bleeds,

Like frostwork wreathing the frail spring flowers,

That no fost'ring kind hand heeds;

And holy thoughts, round the deep-drawn sigh,
Have woven a golden zone,

That purest sparkles when, no one nigh,

The heart speaks with grief alone.

Call it not weakness to weep away,

In the depths of calm midnight,

The saddened thoughts round the heart that play, And brook not the glad daylight;

For darkness and silence, twin-born aid, To the changeless heart have charms"T was 'mid such the holy vow was made, And its breach alone alarms.

Then speak not harshly the stricken one,
But kindliest words impart

Preach hope in the gentlest, softest tone,
To her throbbing, breaking heart;
Nor chide thou the big, fast-falling tears,
Or sigh, in the breast that heaves-
Time hath impressed, on her coming years,
The die that such false love leaves.

LONDON, ITS LIFE AND LITERATURE.

A RHAPSODY, SPOKEN FROM ST. PAUL'S.

It is a plain truth, and yet how little understood, that the greatest thing in a city is man himself. You talk of the prosperity of your city. I know but one true prosperity. Does the human soul grow and prosper here. *** * The glory and happiness of a community consist in vigorous efforts, springing from love, sustained by faith, for the diffusion, through all classes, of intelligence, of self-respect, of self-control, of thirst for knowledge, and for moral and religious growth.-DR. CHANNING.

WE are reminded that, looking from its highest eminence on the greatest city in the world, our thoughts may assume a somewhat flighty character, but, while so ruminating, a few truths, worthy of greater development, may arrest the reader's attention.

The World of London may be well viewed as affording a well delineated picture of the social and personal character of man, in almost every country on which the sun rises and sets. London!-what associations the very name conjures up. London! with its thousand tongues, speaks of by-gone times and nations far remote, for within it flock the turbaned Turk, the dark Moor, John Chinaman, the black-eyed native of Italy, the trading Hebrew, the hardy Highlander,

the calculating Lowlander-all, indeed, of every tongue, and from every clime, in intercommunion with beef-eating John Bull. He who has stood within the sound of Bow Bells, or listened to the deep booming of the great bell of St. Paul's as it told the midnight hour, and marked the bustle of cabs, and the hurrying to and fro, even at that comparatively silent hour for London life, of all description of passengers, from the coroneted peer to the heart-broken pauper, whose only heraldry is arms without a coat-a crest without a covering-must have had his mind struck with wonder and awe.

London, seen at midnight, is as a mighty volume read in the depths of a torch-illumined pit. But let the visiter to London await daylight, and ascend, as we have done, the gigantic dome of St. Paul's, and what was wonder before becomes transports of amazement. London, with its myriad outlets, teeming with human beings-"Old Father Thames," like "Behemoth biggest born of earth," rolling himself towards the ocean, bearing on his bosom, as it were, the merchandise of Europe-are all before him. London! at once the city of palaces and cathedrals, and the congregation of everything that is vile and abominable, is stretched out as on canvas. There is spread before him a panorama, painted on purple, of THE WORLD in miniature. But let the visiter in London mix in the crowds that hurry along the streets a million streams outburst from a mighty

lake and he participates at once in the affairs of Europe. Here is the ermined judge—there the chariot of the haughty millionaire. Anon rattle along the streets carriages with glittering equipages, and spirited steeds that prance and neigh as if conscious that they carried something of importance; and their riders, the spectator need not be told, are on good terms with themselves. This, however, is but the foreground of the picture. Behind the scenes the drama of life is literally being enacted. The "Mysteries of London" are not brought to the fresh morning light of the Parks, to the daylight of Piccadilly or Pall Mall, nor to the twilight of Holborn; but far in the depths and darkness of the numerous lanes, and in the Gin Palaces, into which pour the work-a-day world, will be found the actual revelations of the horrible-the real characteristics of Life in London. In these, the Devil's Workshops, may be perceived, with palsied hand, and emaciated look, and seedy coat, the man who will tell you he has seen better days, and who has had his share in the artificial life of London. Associated with such an one will be found the returned convict, the common pickpocket, and the woman of easy virtue, who has "loved, not wisely, but too well," some flippant lord or squire, who, abandoning her to the cold pity of the world, she sacrifices her character at the shrine of profligacy and prostitution. But in the attempt to depict such scenes the heart shudders, and we withdraw from the

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