Thy neighbor? 'Tis the heart bereft Widow and orphan, helpless left:— Thy neighbor? Yonder toiling slave, Whene'er thou meet'st a human form Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by; Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 6—13.-CHRISTIAN MIRROR. SHE loved her Savior, and to him To crown his head, or grace his name, And though the prudent worldling frowned, Christ's humble friend sweet comfort found, So let the Savior be adored, And not the poor despised; Give to the hungry from your hoard, But all, give all to Christ. The poor are always with us here. That mutual wants and mutual care Go, clothe the naked, lead the blind, For Sorrow's children comfort find, But give to Christ alone thy heart, Broken-hearted, weep no more.-EPISCOPAL WATCHMAN. BROKEN-HEARTED, weep no more! Come, with grief, with sin oppressed, Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock, Broken-hearted, weep no more! The Sweet Brier.-BRAINARD. OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind As that the sweet brier yields it; and the shower The poor girl's path-way, by the poor man's door. I love it, for it takes its untouched stand You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest? Mother, what is Death?-MRS. GILMAN. "MOTHER, how still the baby lies! I cannot hear his breath; I cannot see his laughing eyes- My little work I thought to bring, They say that he again will rise, That God will bless him in the skies- And laid upon the casement here,- I told you that Almighty power Look at the chrysalis, my love,— Now raise your wondering glance above, "O, yes, mamma! how very gay Its wings of starry gold! And see! it lightly flies away O, mother, now I know full well, How beautiful will brother be, And live with heavenly things!" Last Prayers.-MARY ANN BROWNE. "O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe Forth from a lip that fades with coming death." I AM not what I was: My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted; They sprung too early, like the tender grass That by spring-frost is blasted. But THOU wilt not believe How very soon my heart-task will be o'er My heart, whose feelings never can deceive, Is withered at its core. I know the blight is there, And slowly it is spreading in my youth; And trembles every limb, As never trembled they in happier years, Thou dost not know, when pale O, from the laughing earth, And all its glorious things, I could depart, Yet come not when the drear But come when I am dead: And come thou to my grave: Ay, promise that come on some beauteous morn, When lightly in the breeze the willows wave, And spring's first flowers are born; Or on a summer's eve, When the rich snowy wreaths of clouds are turned Or in the solemn night, When there's a hush upon the heavens and deep, And when the earth is bathed in starry light, O, come thou there, and weep. |