condemned him. He doth daily judge the world; and in judging saves it, for the world's Saviour is Honesty. What a fool's bedlam it were else! Honesty is the truth of the heart and the truth of the lips. It is true heart-feeling poured forth in true utterance, whether of word or deed. The life of an honest man is harmonious. The honest, integral heart is a strong and sound rock, on which men may build securely, out of which great monumental deeds are sculptured. Yet again! It is not honest to feel one thing and to say another, or to say one thing and do another. Alas, for our daily custom! Do we not continually, bribed with the hope of some paltry money gain, or fearful of offence-giving, put on a pleasant smirk, and grasp with friendly zeal the hand which we despise? This is not honest. Do we not lie daily for the sake of half-pence, and so pick men's pockets; and look lies for the sake of empty smiles and compliments? This is not honest. Do not some of us go about with cold sneering lips, as if we were of custom's frost-work, when our hearts are burning within us; making conventional grimaces, and repeating formal catechisms, when our inmost thoughts are struggling for utterance? But we should displease this friend, give advantage to some foe, be laughed at by some fool, be "deemed rude by the world: and so we sell cur hearts for the rewards of worldliness, and live, not like true men made in God's image, but rather like automatons manufactured by custom's patent. O, Truth, Truth! where are thy honest children? To lie is not honest. There are men who look lies, though they speak none; there are smooth-faced, honest-looking men, with truth ever on their lips, whose deeds are liesblasphemies against the Holy Spirit. - Lend us thy lantern, cynic, that we may find an honest man. It is not honest, in any time or place, by deed, or word, or look, to prefer expediency to right, to rob the Eternal for Time's sake. LESSON CXXII. Flowers.- HORACE SMITH. DAY-STARS that ope your eyes with morn, to twinkle Ye matin worshipers, who, bending lowly Ye bright mosaics, that with storied beauty In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly Artist, Of love to all! Not useless are ye, Flowers, though made for pleasure, "Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth Not to the dome where crumbling arch and column But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, To the cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or, stretched along the sod Your voiceless lips (O, flowers are living preachers, Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Posthumous glories, angel-like collection, And second birth. Floral apostles, that in dewy splendor Weep without woe and blush without a crime, Were I, O God! in churchless lands remaining, LESSON CXXIII. The Bells on Sunday Morning.* UP, up, the day is broad awake, The glorious sun is spreading fast His banner o'er our head; And, hark, from the heights the merry bells ring, The morning breeze wafts the chimes along, The mother wakes her little one, And teaches him to pray And praise the Lord, who has begun Another blessed day. The night has gone with its chilling fears, And the bells ring merrily; She bends with a pious heart to hear The voice which the chimes are wafting near, The sick man tosses to and fro, Trying in vain to pray ; The cheerful sun but comes to show A sad and suffering day. "Who cares for a friendless soul like me, Who cares for the sick in their misery; Alas! there is none to hear." * Translated for the Protestant Churchman, from the German of Agnes Franz. Then suddenly burst from their heights above, The chimes of the bells with their voice of love, "Rest on the Lord, - rest on the Lord, Who treasures up every tear." The rich man on his bed of down, The merry chimes, alas! they fall Unheeded on the ear. Thou idler, awake- each moment of thine Be ready the bond to pay! Then hark to the chimes as they're floating past, O, holy, blessed Sunday bells, Ye bring us from above, The tidings, which each bosom swells, Of God, the Father's love; Long may your echoing chimes rebound, And over the heathen land resound, Till all in one harmony blend. Then arouse to the voice when the matin bells ring, LESSON CXXIV. To Dr. King, at Athens. - NEW YORK EVENING MIRROR. STAND fast, lone sentinel of God, On proud Athena's noblest hill! Hark! comes there not from every sod, |