Then how shall it be? for at every turn
Recollection the spirit will fret,

And the ashes of injury smoulder and burr,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.

O hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
And mind shall be partner with heart,
While to thyself I bid conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art:
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and—thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!

Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times
Been swift to forgive and forget!

Brood not on insults or injuries old,

For thou art injurious too,

Count not their sum till the total is told,
For thou art unkind and untrue :

And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,
Now Mercy and Justice are met;

O who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,
Nor learn to forgive and forget!

Yes, yes, let a man, when his enemy weeps,
Be quick to receive him a friend;

For thus on his head in kindness he heaps

Hot coals, to refine and amend ;

And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,

As a nurse on her innocent pet,

Over lips that once bitter. to penitence turn,
And whisper "Forgive and forget."

SPURN NOT THE GUILTY.

MRS. C. M. SAWYER.

Spurn not the man whose spirit feels
The curse of guilt upon him rest—
Upon whose brow the hideous seals
Of crime and infamy are prest!
Spurn not the lost one, nor, in speech
More cold and withering than despair,
Of stearn, relentless vengeance preach—
For he thy lesson will not bear !

"Twill rouse a demon in his heart

Which vainly thou wouldst strive to chain,

And bid a thousand furies start

To life, which ne'er may sleep again

No! better from her forest-lair

The famished lioness to goad,

Than, in his guilt-remorse--despair

With wrathful threats the sinner load!

But if a soul thou wouldst redeem,
And lead a lost one back to God,
Wouldst thou a guardian angel seem

To one who long in guilt hath trod-

Go kindly to him-take his hand,

With gentlest words, within thine own,

And by his side, a brother, stand

Till all the demon thou dethrone.

He is a man, and he will yield,

Like snows beneath the torrid ray, And his strong heart, though fiercely steeled, Before the breath of love give way.

He had a mother once, and felt
A mother's kiss upon his cheek,
And at her knee at evening knelt
The prayer of innocence to speak!

A mother! ay!—and who shall say,
Tho' sunk, debased, he now may be,
That spirit may not wake to-day

Which filled him at that mother's knee? No guilt so utter e'er became,

But 'mid it we SOME good might find; And virtue, through the deepest shame, Still feebly lights the darkest mind.

Spurn not the guilty, then, but plead
With him, in kindest, gentlest mood,
And back the lost-one thou mayst lead
To God, humanity and good!
Thou art thyself but man, and thou

Art week, perchance, to fall, as he ;

Then mercy to the fallen show,

That mercy may be shown to thee!

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

MOORE.

Angel of Charity, who from above
Comest to dwell a pilgrim here,
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,
And pity's soul is in thy tear!
When on the shrine of God were laid

First-fruits of all most good and fair, That ever grew in Eden's shade,

Thine was the holiest offering there.

Hope, and her sister, Faith, were given
But as our guides to yonder sky;
Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,
Lost in that blaze of bliss, they die.
But long as Love, almighty Love,

Shall on his throne of thrones abide,
Thou shalt, Oh! Charity, dwell above,
Smiling forever by his side!

SONNET.

ANNA C. LYNCH.

The honey-bee that wanders all day long
The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er
To gather in his fragrant winter store,
Humming in calm content his quiet song,
Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast,
The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips,
But from all rank and noisome weeds he sips
The single drop of sweetness ever placed
Within the poison-chalice. Thus if we
Seek only to draw forth the hidden sweet
In all the varied human flowers we meet
In the wide garden of Humanity,

And like the bee, if home the spoil we bear,
Hived in our hearts, it turns to nectar there.

SONNET.

ANONYMOUS.

Sweet as the cry of joy, or as the song

Of tender birds--like the beloved tone

· Of one who loves us, loved by us alone-Such are the honied accents of thy tongue; Like Orpheus' lyre, so eloquent, so strong:

Such sounds the muse herself might not disown,
So speaks harmonious her most favored son,
And pours the rapturous tide of verse along.
Oh! if fond love should once that voice inspire,
And breathe the mingling harmony of sighs,

The soul of such rare music ne'er could tire,
It speaks the ecstacy of Paradise,
Sure then the sweetness might a mortal move,
And win at once to more than mortal love.

RECIPROCAL KINDNESS.

THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE.

FROM THE LATIN, BY COWPER.

Androcles, from his injur'd Lord in dread

Of instant death, to Lybia's desert fled.

Tir'd with his toilsome flight, and parch'd with heat,

He spied, at length, a cavern's cool retreat.

But scarce had given to rest his weary frame,

When hugest of his kind a lion came;

He oar'd approaching; but the savage din