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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,

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!"

"O, yes, mamma! how very gay
Its wings of starry_gold!
And see! it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold.

O, mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,
On golden wings to range,―

How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,

And live with heavenly things!"

Last Prayers.-MARY ANN BROWNE.

"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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