Round a younger sister who deserves no blame; As though like innocence she now would claim, Absolved by a pure God! And, near her, sighs The father who refused to speak her name: Her penitence is written in her eyes — Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her ere she rise? THE MARTYR. Carlyle. NOT yet, not yet the martyr dies. He sees And dim, through tears of blood, he sees it dash His dwelling and its idols. Joy to him! The Lord-the Lord hath spoken from the sky! The loftier glories on his eyeballs swim! He hears the trumpet of Eternity Calling his spirit home- -a clarion voice on high! Yet, yet one moment linger! Who are they Shadows with golden crowns and sounding lyres, He sees, he hears! upon his dying gaze, Forth from the throng one bright-haired angel near Stoops his red pinion through the mantling blaze: His ashes eddy on the sinking day, and dies! While through the roaring oak his spirit wings its way! Grenville Mellen. A CHRISTIAN IS THE HIGHEST STYLE OF MAN. "Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto !" A NOBLE thought! and worthy to awake, "I am a man! and therefore to my heart Think nothing human alien e'er can b; That sense of union can enough impart Of weal or woe to make it dear to me!" And, truly, in such bond of brotherhood, But while I pay my homage to his soul, I can but feel—a Christian, by his faith, In a still dearer brotherhood fast bound! Is he a follower of The Crucified The Nazarene who died that all might live? In that one bond of union is implied More than the Roman creed could ever give. That would but link, by human sympathy, There needs no more to knit in closest thrall, This, of itself, has a more hallowing leaven Than human sympathy can e'er confer, Because its loftier hopes are linked with heaven, And God's own word is its interpreter! Then chide me not, if, yielding homage due Higher as opening up a loftier line; Holieras springing from a deeper root; For LOVE TO GOD may be pronounced divine, When LOVE OF MAN becomes its genuine fruit ! Barton. ON A LATE LOSS. "He shall not float upon his watery bier THE breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string, form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun, Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on, Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster when the might Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite. So Science whispered in thy charméd ear, Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee.— But there is a shore Where storms are hushed-where tempests never rage Where angry skies and blackening seas no more |