A PICTURE.

JULIA A. FLETCHER.

I saw a man of fearful crime
With hurrid step pass by,
As if from guilt's enslaving power
He vainly sought to fly:

It dwelt upon his haggard brow,
And in his gleaming eye.

And then I asked, can he be saved
From passion's fearful sway?
Can his dark pathway be illumed
By virtue's pleasant ray?

But then with bounding step flew past,
A merry child at play.

Thus met they then-that man of guilt

That child who knew no wrong

And with a cry of glad surprise

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He hushed his bird-like song;

Oh, father! I am glad you're come,

You have been gone so long."

Tears! holy tears! From guilt-scaled founts

Gushed many a cleansing rill,

And then I knew that dark browed man

Might yet be won from ill.

He still had one whom he could love,

Had one to love him still.

LOVE TO THE CRIMINAL.

WHITTIER.

Thank God! that I have lived to see the time
When the great truth begins at last to find
An utterance from the deep heart of mankind,
Earnest and clear, that ALL REVENGE IS CRIME!

That man is holier than a creed,-that all
Restraint upon him must consult his good,
Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall,
And Love look in upon his solitude.

The beautiful lesson which our Savior taught
Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought
Into the common mind and popular thought;
And words, to. which by Galilee's lake shore
The humble fishers listened with hushed oar,
Have found an echo in the general heart
And of the public faith become a living part.

IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER.

HEMANS.

If thou hast crushed a flower,

The root may not be blighted;
If thou hast quenched a lamp,
Once more it may be lighted;
But on thy harp or on thy lute,

The string which thou hast broken,

Shall never in sweet sound again

Give to thy touch a token.

If thou hast loosed a bird,

Whose voice of song could cheer thee, Still, still he may be won

From the skies to warble near thee:

But if upon a troubled sea

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, Hope not that wind or wave will bring The treasure back when needed.

If thou hast bruised a vine,

The summer's breath is healing, And its clusters yet may glow,

Through the leaves their bloom revealing :

But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown

With a bright draught filled-oh! never Shall earth give back that lavished wealth To cool thy parched lip's fever!

The HEART is like that cup,

If thou waste the love it bore thee; And like that jewel gone,

Which the deep will not restore thee; And like the strain of harp or lute

Whence the sweet sound is scattered:

Gently, oh! gently touch the chords;
So soon forever shattered!

SPEAK gently!-'tis a little thing

Dropped in the heart's deep well; The good, the joy that it may bring, Eternity shall tell!

GENTLE WORDS

C. D. STUART.

A young rose in the summer time
Is beautiful to me,

And glorious the many stars

That glimmer on the sea;

But Gentle words and loving hearts,
And hands to clasp my own,

Are better than the brightest flowers
Or stars that ever shone !

The Sun may warm the Grass to life,
The Dew the drooping Flower,
And eyes grow bright and watch the light
Of Autumn's opening hour-

But words that breathe of tenderness,
And smiles we know are true,
Are warmer than the Summer time,
And brighter than the Dew.

It is not much the world can give,
With all its subtle art,

And Gold or Gems are not the things
To satisfy the Heart;

But oh! If those who cluster 'round
The altar and the hearth,

Have gentle words and loving smiles,
How beautiful is earth!

Young poet! if thy dreams have not such hope To purify, refine, exalt, subdue,

To touch the selfish and to shame the vain Out of themselves, by gentle mournfulness, Or chords that rouse some aim of enterprise, Lofty and pure, and meant for general good;

If thou hast not some power that may direct
The mind from the mean round of daily life,
Waking affections that might else have slept,
Or high resolves, the petrified before,
Or rousing in that mind a finer sense
Of inward and external loveliness,
Making imagination serve as guide

To all of heaven that yet remains on earth,
Thine is a useless lute: break it and die.

FORGET AND FORGIVE.

When streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung,-

In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair
While the anguish is festering yet,

None, none but an angel of God can declare,
"I now can forgive and forget."

But if the bad spirit is chased from the heart
And the lips are in penitence steeped,

With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heaped;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,

And every one feels it is possible still,
At once to forgive and forget.

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,
However his heart may forgive,

To blot out all perils and dangers behind,
And but for the future to live;