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Thy neighboro 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.

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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.

-oBroken-hearted, weep no more.—EPIscopa L WATCH MAN

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 igh,
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:—
“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 É. 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?

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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,

And laid upon the casement here.-
A withered worm, you thought?

I told you that Almighty power
Could break that withered shell,

And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

look at the chrysalis, my love,
An empty shell it lies;–

Now raise your wondering glance above,
To where yon insect flies!”

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“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 ever and anon some silver hair
Proclaims that this is truth.

And trembles every limb,
As never trembled they in happier years,
And with a mist my eyes are ofttimes dim,

Yet not a mist of tears.

Thou dost not know, when pale
My cheek appears, that to my heart the blood
Hath rushed like lava, when a sudden gale

Of terror sweeps its flood.

O, from the laughing earth,
And all its glorious things, I could depart,
Nor wish to call one lasting impress forth,

Save in thy precious heart.

Yet come not when the drear
Last hour of life is passing over me;
I cannot yield my breath if thou art near,

To bid me live for thee.

But come when I am dead:
No terror shall be pictured on my face;
I shall lie calm on my last mortal bed,

Without one passion's trace.

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 To crimson in the west, when waters heave

As if they lived and burned,

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.

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