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The lowly lot of peasant folk,

Their humblest hopes and fears; The pale cheek of a woman,

And even children's tears :

All circumstance of mortal life,

The lowly though it be;

And pure thought garnered in the soul, The wealth of poesy

Have made me, high-born Madeline,

Not quite unworthy thee!

Anything which excites the tenderness of the human heart, and directs it toward heartless customs and cruel prejudices, is doing the work of a missionary in the world's redemption, though it be in the form of a little child-like poem. Who can estimate the blessed influence of Mary Howitt, on future generations? The small seed she plants with such loving diligence, will grow into spreading trees, and nations rest in their shade. Hear her plead for the persecuted Hedge-Hog.

Thou poor little English porcupine,

What a harassed and weary life is thine!
And thou art a creature meek and mild,
And wouldst not harm a sleeping child.

Thou scarce can stir from thy tree-root
But thy foes are up in hot pursuit ;
Thou might'st be an asp, or horned snake,
Thou poor little martyr of the brake!

Thou scarce canst put out that nose of thine;
Thou canst not show a single spine,
But the urchin rabble are in a rout,
With terrier curs to hunt thee out.

The poor Hedge hog! one would think he knew
His foes so many, his friends so few ;
For when he comes out, he's in a fright,
And hurries again to be out of sight.

How unkind the world must seem to him,
Living under the thicket dusk and dim,
And getting his living among the roots,
Of the insects small, and dry hedge-fruits.

How hard it must be to be kicked about
If by chance his prickly back peep out;
To be all his days misunderstood,
When he could not harm us if he would!

He's an innocent thing, living under the blame
That he merits not, of an evil name;
He is weak and small,-and all he needs
Lies under the hedge among the weeds.

He robs not man of rest nor food,
And all that he asks is quietude;
To be left by him as a worthless stone,
Under the dry hedge bank alone!

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THE CYPRESS TREE OF CEYLON.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a Cypress tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them, was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.

They sat in silent watchfulness

The sacred cypress tree about,
And, from beneath old wrinkled brows,
Their failing eyes looked out.

Grey Age and Sickness waiting there

Through weary night and lingering day-
Grim as the idols at their side

And motionless as they.

Unheeded in the boughs above

The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; Unseen of them the island flowers

Bloomed brightly at their feet.

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill; The cloud-fire on their eye-balls blazed, Yet there they waited still!

What was the world without to them?

The Moslem's sunset-call-the dance Of Ceylon's maids-the passing gleam Of battle-flag, and lance?

They waited for that falling leaf,

Of which the wandering Jogees sing:
Which lends once more to wintry Age
The greenness of its spring.
Oh-if these poor and blinded ones
In trustful patience wait to feel
O'er torpid pulse and failing limb
A youthful freshness steal;

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree,
Whose healing leaves of life are shed
In answer to the breath of prayer
Upon the waiting head:

Not to restore our failing forms,

And build the spirit's broken shrine, But, on the fainting soUL to shed

A light and life divine:

Shall we grow weary in our watch
And murmur at the long delay?
Impatient of our Father's time
And His appointed way?

Or, shall the stir of outward things
Allure and claim the Christian's eye,
When on the heathen watcher's ear
Their powerless murmurs die?
Alas! a deeper test of faith
Than prison cell or martyr's stake,
The self-abasing watchfulness
Of silent prayer may make.

We gird us bravely to rebuke

Our erring brother in the wrong: And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is stroug.

Easier to smite with Peter's sword,

Than watch one hour" in humbling prayer: Life's great things," like the Syrian lord Our hearts can do and dare.

But Oh! we shrink from Jordan's side, From waters which alone can save: And murmur for Abana's banks

And Pharpar's brighter wave.

Oh Thou, who in the garden's shade Didst wake Thy weary ones again, Who slumbered at that fearful hour, Forgetful of Thy pain;

Bend o'er us now, as over them,

And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee!

It is little :

But in these sharp extremities of fortune,
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
Have their own season? 'Tis a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fever'd lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort, which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned, 'twill fall
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.

T. N. TALFOurd.

A Jew entered a Parsee temple, and beheld the sacred fire; what, said he to the priest, do ye worship the fire? Not the fire, answered the priest; it is to us an emblem of the sun, and of his genial heat. Do you then worship the sun as your God? asked the Jew. Know ye not this luminary also, is but a work of that Almighty Creator?

We know it, replied the priest, but the uncultivated man requires a sensible sign, in order to form a conception of the Most High. And is not the sun, the incomprehensible source of light, an image of that invisible Being who blesses and preserves all things?

The Israelite thereupon rejoined. Do your people then distinguish the type from the original? They call the sun their God, and descending, even from this, to a baser object, they kneel before an earthly flame. Ye amuse the outward but blind the inward eye, and while ye hold to them the earthly, ye withdraw from them the heavenly light.-Thou shalt not make unto thee any image or any likeness.

How then do you designate the Supreme Being? asked the Parsee.

We call him Jehovah, Adonia, that is, the Lord who is, who was, and who will be; answered the Jew.

Your appellation is grand and sublime, said the Parsee, but it is awful too!

A Christian then drew nigh and said-We call him FATHER.

The Pagan and the Jew looked at each other, and said-Here is at once an image and reality; it is a word of the heart, said they.

Therefore they raised their eyes to heaven, and said with reverence and love-OUR FATHER! And they took each other by the hand, and all three called one another brothers.-F. A. Krummecher.

TO MY BOOKS.

BY CAROLINE E. S. NORTON.

Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take-
Let me return to you; this turmoil ending,

Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought; And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,

Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought,
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time,
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime

My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings told so well.

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