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There is a star in the untroubled sky,

That caught the first light which its Maker madeIt led the hymn of other orbs on high;

"Twill shine when all the fires of heaven shall fade Pilgrims at Salem's porch, be that your aid! For it has kept its watch on Palestine!

Look to its holy light, nor be dismayed,

Though broken is each consecrated shrine,

Though crushed and ruined all—which men have called divine.

NOTE.-Godfrey and Baldwin were the first Christian kings at Jerusalem. The empress Helena, mother of Constantine the Great, built the church of the sepulchre on Mount Calvary. The walls are of stone, and the roof of cedar. The four lamps which light it are very costly. It is kept in repair by the offerings of pilgrims who resort to it. The mosque was originally a Jewish temple. The emperor Julian undertook to rebuild the temple of Jerusalem at very great expense, to disprove the prophecy of our Savior, as it was understood by the Jews; but the work and the workmen were destroyed by an earthquake. The pools of Bethesda and Gihon-the tomb of the Virgin Mary, and of king Jehoshaphat-the pillar of Absalom-the tomb of Zachariah-and the campo santo, or holy field, which is supposed to have been purchased with the price of Judas' treason-are, or were lately, the most interesting parts of Jerusalem.

The Angler's Song.-I. McLellan, Jun.

"There is no life more pleasant than the life of the well-governed angler."-Isaac Walton.

WHEN first the flame of day
Crimsons the sea-like mist,

And from the valley rolls away

The haze, by the sunbeam kissed,

Then to the lonely woods I pass,

With angling rod and line,

While yet the dew-drops, in the grass,

Like flashing diamonds shine.

How vast the mossy forest-halls,

Silent, and full of gloom!

Through the high roof the daybeam falls,

Like torch-light in a tomb.

The old trunks of trees rise round

Like pillars in a church of old,

And the wind fills them with a sound

As if a bell were tolled.

Where falls the noisy stream,

In many a bubble bright,

Along whose grassy margin gleam

Flowers gaudy to the sight,

There silently I stand,

Watching my angle play,
And eagerly draw to the land
My speckled prey.

Oft, ere the carrion bird has left
His eyrie, the dead tree,

Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft
The cloud in heaven's blue sea,

Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds
To meet the misty day,

My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,
My rod sought out its prey.

And when the Twilight, with a blush
Upon her cheek, goes by,

And Evening's universal hush

Fills all the darkened sky,

And steadily the tapers burn

In villages far away,

Then from the lonely stream I turn

And from the forests gray.

Who is my Neighbor ?-ANONYMOUS.

THY neighbor? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door,-
Go thou, and succor him.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares and pain:-
Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;

Widow and orphan, helpless left:-
Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbor? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave,-
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favored than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery:-
Go, share thy lot with him.

Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 6—13.-CHRISTIAN MIRROR.

SHE loved her Savior, and to him
Her costliest present brought;

To crown his head, or grace his name,
No gift too rare she thought.

And though the prudent worldling frowned,
And thought the poor bereft,

Christ's humble friend sweet comfort found,
For he approved the gift.

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.
'Tis our great Father's plan,

That mutual wants and mutual care
May bind us, man to man.

Go. clothe the naked, lead the blind,
Give to the weary rest;

For Sorrow's children comfort find,
And help for all distressed ;-

But give to Christ alone thy heart,
Thy faith, thy love supreme;
Then for his sake thine alms impart,
And so give all to Him.

Broken-hearted, weep no more.-EPISCOPAL WATCHMAN

BROKEN-HEARTED, weep no more!

Hear what comfort He hath spoken,
Smoking flax who ne'er hath quenched,
Bruised reed who ne'er hath broken:-
"Ye who wander here below,
Heavy laden as you go,

Come, with grief, with sin oppressed,
Come to me, and be at rest!"

Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock,
Brought again from sin and straying,
Hear the Shepherd's gentle voice-
"Tis a true and faithful saying:-
"Greater love how can there be
Than to yield up life for thee?
Bought with pang, and tear, and sigh,
Turn and live!-why will ye die !"

Broken-hearted, weep no more!
Far from consolation flying;

He who calls hath felt thy wound,

Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing:

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Bring thy broken heart to me;

Welcome offering it shall be ;
Streaming tears and bursting sighs,
Mine accepted sacrifice."

The Sweet Brier.-BRAINARD.

OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,

In all the blooming waste it left behind,

As that the sweet brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely; yet it grows along

The poor girl's path-way, by the poor man's door.
Such are the simple folks it dwells among;

And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;
Its sweetness all is of my native land;
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Buy from the odors of the spicy East.

You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate

The little four-leaved rose that I love best,

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-
They tell me this is death.

My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing-
They hushed me-he is dead.

They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now;

That God will bless him in the skies-
O, mother, tell me how!"

"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,

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