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Send Bibles to the heathen,

Their famish'd spirits feed! Oh! haste, and join your efforts, The priceless gift to speed! Then flog the trembling bondman, If he shall learn to read! Let love of filthy lucre

Not in your bosoms dwell; Your money, on your mission, Will be expended well;— And then to fill your coffers, Husbands and fathers sell!

Have even little children

All they can gain to save, For teachers of the heathen, Beyond the ocean wave; Then give to fire and faggot, Him who would teach

your

slave!

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Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary ;— Glad of all weathers,

Still seeming best, Upward or downward, Motion thy rest;— Full of a nature

Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same ;Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward, like thee!

MAIDENHOOD.

BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies,
Like the dusk in evening skies!

Thou, whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!
Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet !
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse !

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.

Then, why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafen'd by the cataract's roar?

O, thou child of many prayers!

Life hath quicksands-Life hath snares!
Care and age come unawares!

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;-
Age, that bough with snow encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear, through sorrow, wrong and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,

On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that Jew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds, that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart

Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

VOICES OF THE TRUE HEARTED.

No. 11.

THE HYMN OF THE DEW.

I know what the dew sang as down to the folds Of the silken rose it fell;

'Twas not for the ear, but the musing heart,

In the twilight, heard it well.

There came no words-you might listen long
And say that you only heard

The trill of the harp in the waving grass,
And the tune of the evening bird.

But a song it sang, and I caught it well
As it shone in the white moon's rays:
It was sweet as the breast whereon it lay,
And the burden aye was praise.

It was not meant for the perfumed rose,

The belle of the summer bower; 'Twas not for the star that, silver bright, Looked into the heart of the flower:

The praise was all for the Holiest―

And the garden knew the tone,
When the earth was one full cup of bliss,

And the Lord was God alone.

Not such are the passionate words of song
That men to their idol speak,
Thrilling the nerves and bringing the tears
And leaving the strong one weak.

It stirred not even the pollen-dust

As it gently floated through,

And it lay on my heart like peace all night,
That hymn of the holy dew!

SONGS BY "BARRY CORNWALL."

HERMIONE.

Thou hast beauty bright and fair,

Manner noble, aspect free,

Eyes that are untouched by care:

What then do we ask from thee?
Hermione, Hermione ?

Thou hast reason quick and strong,
Wit that envious men admire,

And a voice, itself a song!
What then can we still desire ?
Hermione, Hermione?

Something thou dost want, O queen!
(As the gold doth ask alloy),
Tears, amid thy laughter seen,

Pity mingling with thy joy.

This is all we ask from thee,
Hermione, Hermione!

SONG SHOULD BREATHE.
Song should breathe of scents and flowers;
Song should like a river flow;
Song should bring back scenes and hours
That we loved-ah, long ago!

Song from baser thoughts should win us;
Song should charm us out of wo;
Song should stir the heart within us,
Like a patriot's friendly blow.

Pains and pleasures, all men doeth,
War and peace, and right and wrong-
All things that the soul subdueth

Should be vanquished, too, by Song.

Song should spur the mind to duty;
Nerve the weak, and stir the strong:
Every deed of truth and beauty

Should be crowned by starry Song!

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THE SONG OF A FELON'S WIFE. The brand is on thy brow,

A dark and guilty spot; 'Tis ne'er to be erased!

'Tis ne'er to be forgot! The brand is on thy brow!

Yet I must shade the spot :
For who will love thee now,
If I love thee not?

Thy soul is dark-is stained-
From out the bright world thrown;
By God and man disdained,
But not by me-thy own!

Oh! even the tiger slain

Hath one who ne'er doth flee, Who soothes his dying pain! -That one am I to thee!

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty, but no perfume

Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;

The violet, deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.

Sing-sing, brothers! weave and sing!
'Tis good both to sing and to weave;
'Tis better to work than live idle;

'Tis better to sing than grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid
The colors of sunset glow!

Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!

Let beauty about ye blow!

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,

And time nor chance shall your work untwine;
But all-like a truth-endure.
So-sing, brothers, &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!-Toil is ours;

But toil is the lot of men ;

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king,
To the peasant that delves the soil,

That knows half the pleasures the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil!
So-sing, brothers, &c.

SABBATH IN LOWELL.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

To a population like that of Lowell, the weekly respite from monotonous in-door toil, afforded by the first day of the week, is particularly grateful. Sabbath comes to the weary and over-worked operative emphatically as a day of rest. It opens upon him, somewhat as it did upon George Herbert, as he describes it in his exquisite little poem:

"Sweet day, so pure, so cool and bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!"

thus put to flight the azure demons of his unfortunate temperament. There is, somehow, a close affinity between moral purity and clean linen; and the sprites of our daily temptation, who seem to find easy access to us through a broken hat, or a rent in the elbow, are manifestly baffled by the "complete mail" of a clean and decent dress. I recollect on one occasion hearing my mother tell our family' physician, that a woman in the neighborhood, not remarkable for her tidiness, had become a church member. "6 Humph!" said the Doctor, in his quick, sarcastic way, what of that? Don't you know that no unclean thing can enter the kingdom of Heaven!"

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"If you would see" Lowell aright," as Walter Scott says of Melrose Abbey, one must be here of a pleasant First Day, at the close of what is called the "afternoon service." The streets are then blossoming like a peripatetic flower garden,-as if the tulips, and lilies, and roses of my friend Warren's nursery, in the vale of Nonantum, should take it into their heads to promenade for exercise. Thousands swarm forth, who during week days are confined to the mills. Gay colors alternate with snowy whiteness; extremest fashion elbows the plain demureness of oldfashioned Methodism. Fair pale faces catch a warmer tint from the free sunshine and fresh air. The languid step becomes elastic with that "springy motion in the gait," which Charles Lamb admired. Yet the general appearance of the city is that of quietude; the youthful multitude passses on calmly; its voices subdued to a lower and softened tone, as if fearful of breaking the repose of the Day of Rest. A stranger, fresh from the gaily-spent Sabbaths of the Continent of Europe, would be undoubtedly amazed at the decorum and sobriety of these crowded streets.

I am no Puritan, but I nevertheless welcome with joy unfeigned this First Day of the Week--sweetest pause in our hard life-march, greenest resting place in the hot desert we are treading! The errors of those who mistake its benignant rest for the iron rule of the Jewish Sabbath, and who consequently hedge it about with penalties, and bow down before it in slavish terror, should not render us less grate. ful for the real blessing it brings us. As a day wrested in some degree from the god of this world, as an opportunity afforded for thoughtful self-communing, let us receive it as a good gift of our Heaven. ly Parent, in love rather than fear.

Apart from its soothing religious associations, it brings with it the assurance of physical comfort and freedom. It is something, to be able to doze out the morning from day break to breakfast in that luxurious state between sleeping and waking, in which the mind eddies slowly and peacefully round and round, instead of rushing onward, the future a blank, the past annihilated, the present but a dim consciousness of pleasurable existence. Then, too, the satisfaction is by no means inconsiderable of throwing aside the worn and soiled habiliments of labor, and appearing in neat and comfortable attire. The moral influence of dress has not been overrated even by Carlyle's Professor in his Sartor Resartus." William Penn In passing along Central street this morning, my says, that cleanliness is akin to godliness. A well attention was directed, by the friend who accompadressed man, all other things being equal, is not half nied me, to a group of laborers, with coats off and as likely to compromise his character, as one who sleeves rolled up, heaving at levers--smiting with approximates to shabbiness. Lawrence Sterne used sledge-hammers, -in full view of the street, on the to say, that when he felt himself giving way to low margin of the canal, just above Central street bridgespirits, and a sense of depression and worthlessness- I rubbed my eyes, half expecting that I was the suba sort of predisposition for all sorts of little mean-ject of mere optical illusion; but a second look only nesses-he forthwith shaved himself, brushed his confirmed the first. Around me were solemn, go-towig, donned his best dress and his gold rings, and meeting faces-smileless and awful; and close at hand

were the delving, toiling, mud-begrimmed laborers., the horror and clothes-rending astonishment of blind Nobody seemed surprised at it. Nobody noticed Pharisees, He uttered the significaut truth, that

the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath." From the close air of crowded cities, from thronged temples and synagogues, — where priest and Levite kept up a show of worship, drumming upon hollow ceremonials the more loudly for their emptiness of life, as the husk rustles the more when the grain is gone-He led His disciples out into the country stillness, under clear Eastern heavens, on the breezy tops of mountains, in the shade of fruit trees, by the side of fountains and through yellow harvest fields, enforcing the lessons of His divine morality by comparisons and parables sug. gested by the objects around Him, or the cheerful incidents of social humanity, the vineyard, the field

it as a thing out of the common course of events. And this, too, in a city where the Sabbath proprieties are sternly insisted upon; where some twenty pulpits deal out anathemas upon all who "desecrate the Lord's day;" where notices of meetings, for moral purposes even, can scarcely be read o' Sundays; where many count it wrong to speak on that day for the slave, who knows no Sabbath of rest, or for the drunkard, who, embruted by his appetites, cannot enjoy it!-Verily, there are strange contradictions in our conventional morality. Eyes, which, looking across the Atlantic on the gay Sabbath dances of French peasants, are turned upward with horror, are somehow blind to matters close at home. What would be sin past repentance, in an individual, belily, the sparrow in the air, the sower in the seedcomes quite proper in a corporation. True, the Sabbath is holy-but the canals must be repaired. Every body ought to go to meeting-but the dividends must not be diminished. Church Indulgences are not, after all, confined to Rome.

To a close observer of human nature, there is nothing surprising in the fact, that a class of persons, who wink at this sacrifice of Sabbath sanctities to the demon of Gain, look at the same time with stern disapprobation upon every thing partaking of the character of amusement, however innocent and healthful, on this day. But, for myself, looking down through the light of a golden evening upon these quietly passing groups, I cannot find it in my heart to condemn them for seeking on this, their sole day of leisure, the needful influences of social enjoyment, unrestrained exercise, and fresh air. I cannot think any essential service to religion or humanity would result from the conversion of their day of rest into a Jewish Sabbath, and their consequent confinement, like so many pining prisoners, in close and crowded boarding houses. Is not cheerfulness a duty-a better expression of our gratitude for God's blessings than mere words? And even under the old law of rituals, what answer had the Pharisees to the question, "Is it not lawful to do good on the Sabbath-day?"

I am naturally of a sober temperament, and am, besides, a member of that sect which Dr. More has called, mistakingly indeed, "the most melancholy of all;" but I confess a special dislike of disfigured faces ostentatious displays of piety-pride aping humility. Asceticism, moroseness, self-tortureingratitude in view of down-showering blessings, and painful restraint of the better feelings of our nature, may befit a Hindoo fakir, or a Mandan medicine-man with buffalo skulls strung to his lacerated muscles, but they look to me sadly out of place in a believer of the Glad Evangel of the New Testament. The life of the Divine Teacher affords no countenance to this sullen and gloomy saintliness, shutting up the heart against the sweet influences of human sympathy and the blessed ministrations of Nature. To

He

field, the feast and the marriage. Thus gently, thus sweetly kind and cheerful, fell from His lips the GOSPEL OF HUMANITY: Love the fulfilling of every law; our love for one another measuring and manifesting our love of Him. The baptism wherewith He was baptized was that of Divine Fulness in the wants of our humanity; the deep waters of our sorrows went over him; Ineffable Purity sounding for our sakes the dark abysm of sin,-yet how like a river of light runs that serene and beautiful life through the narratives of the Evangelists! broke bread with the poor, despised publican; He sat down with the fishermen by the sea of Galilee; He spoke compassionate words to sin-sick Magdalen; He sanctified by his presence the social enjoyments of home and friendship in the family of Bethany; He laid his hand of blessing on the sunny brows of children; He had regard even to the merely animal wants of the multitude in the wilderness; He frowned upon none of life's simple and natural pleasures. The burden of His Gospel was Love; and in life and word He taught evermore the divided and scattered children of one great family, that only as they drew near each other could they approach Him who was their common centre; and that while no ostentation of prayer nor rigid observance of ceremonies could elevate man to Heaven, the simple exercise of Love, in thought and action, could bring Heaven down to man. To weary and restless spirits He taught the great truth, that happiness consists in making others happy. No cloister for idle genuflex. ions and bead-counting, no hair-cloth for the loins nor scourge for the limbs, but works of love and usefulness under the cheerful sunshine, making the waste places of humanity glad, and causing the heart's desert to blossom. Why then should we go searching after the cast-off sackcloth of the Pharisee? Are we Jews or Christians? Must even our gratitule for "glad tidings of great joy" be desponding? Must the hymn of our thanksgiving for countless mercies, and the unspeakable gift of His life, have evermore an undertone of funeral dirges? What! shall we

go murmuring and lamenting, looking coldly on one another, seeing no beauty nor light nor gladness in this world, wherein we have the glorious privilege of laboring in God's harvest-field, with angels for our task-companions, blessing and being blessed?

LINES,

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on re-
visiting the Banks of the Wye during a tour. July
13, 1798.

Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a sweet inland murmur.-Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

To him, who, neglecting the revelations of immediate duty, looks regretfully behind and fearfully before him, Life is a solemn mystery, for whichever way he turns, a wall of darkness rises before him; but down upon the Present as through a skylight between the shadows, falls a clear still radiance, like beams from an eye of blessing; and within the circle of that divine illumination, Beauty and Goodness, Truth and Love, Purity and Cheerfulness, blend like primal colors into the clear harmony of light. The author of "Proverbial Philosophy," upon whom, more than upon any living writer, has fallen the mantle of the Son of Sirach, has a pas-These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, sage not unworthy of note in this connection, when he speaks of the train which attends the Just in Heaven: "Also in the lengthening troop see I some clad in The wild green landscape. Once again I see robes of triumph, These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Whose fair and sunny faces I have known and loved Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms, on earth, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Welcome, ye glorified Loves, Graces, Sciences, and Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! Muses, With some uncertain notice, as might seem That, like Sisters of Charity, tended in this world's Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, hospital. Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire Welcome, for verily I knew ye could not but be chil- The Hermit sits alone.

dren of the light.

Welcome, chiefly welcome, for I find I have friends in Heaven,

And some I have scarcely looked for, as thou, hearted Mirth,

Thou also, star-robed Urania; and thou with the curious glass,

That rejoicest in tracking beauty where the eye was too dull to note it.

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb

These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
light-As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:-feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
As have no slight or trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
To them I may have owed another gift,

And art thou too among the blessed, mild, muchinjured Poetry?

That quickenest with light and beauty the leaden

face of matter,

That not unheard, though silent, fillest earth's gardens with music;

And not unseen, though a spirit, dost look down upon Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

us from the stars."

TO LIFE.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

Life! we've been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part, when friends are dear,

Perhaps 'twill cause a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time,

Say not good night, but in some higher clime
Bid me good morning.

In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened that serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on.-
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.

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