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Round a younger sister who deserves no blame;

As though like innocence she now would claim, Absolved by a pure God! And, near her, sighs

The father who refused to speak her name : Her penitence is written in her eyes — Will he not, too, forgive, and bless her ere she rise ?

Carlyle.

THE MARTYR.

Not yet, not yet the martyr dies. He sees

His triumph on its way. He hears the crash Of the loud thunder round his enemies,

And dim, through tears of blood, he sees it dash His dwelling and its idols. Joy to him !

The Lord — the Lord hath spoken from the sky! The loftier glories on his eyeballs swim! He hears the trumpet of Eternity Calling his spirit home - a clarion voice on

high!

Yet, yet one moment linger! Who are they

That sweep far off along the quivering air? It is God's bright, immortal company

The martyr pilgrim and his band are there!

Shadows with golden crowns and sounding lyres,

And the white royal robes, are issuing out,
And beckon upwards through the wreathing fires,

The blazing pathway compassing about,
With radiant heads unveiled, and anthems joy-

ful shout!

He sees, he hears! upon his dying gaze,

Forth from the throng one bright-haired angel

near

Stoops his red pinion through the mantling blaze :

It is the heaven-triumphing wanderer! “I come - we meet again !– the martyr cries,

And smiles of deathless glory round him play: Then on that flaming cross he bows — and dies !

His ashes eddy on the sinking day, While through the roaring oak his spirit wings its way!

Grenville Mellen.

A CHRISTIAN IS THE HIGHEST STYLE

OF MAN.

“ Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto ! " A NOBLE thought! and worthy to awake,

From Rome's proud senate, in her palmy days, Both for the orator's and nature's sake,

O’erwhelming echoes of accordant praise.

I am a man! and therefore to my heart

Think nothing human alien e'er can bu; That sense of union can enough impart

Of weal or woe to make it dear to me!"

And, truly, in such bond of brotherhood,

To those who estimate its hidden might, Enough is seen, and felt, and understood,

For human hearts to own its hallowed right.

But while I pay my homage to his soul,

Who thus humanity could broadly scan; And, looking only at their mighty whole,

Do honor to the natural rights of man ;

I can but feel – a Christian, by his faith,

May humbly stand upon yet higher ground; And feel to all who live by vital breath

In a still dearer brotherhood fast bound :

Is he a follower of The Crucified

The Nazarene - who died that all might live? In that one bond of union is implied

More than the Roman creed could ever give.

That would but link, by human sympathy,

The noble speaker to his fellow-man; But this makes known a closer unity

Than proud philosophy had power to scan.

There needs no more to knit in closest thrall,

Beyond what Greek or Roman ever knew, Than this “ One common Saviour died for all!

And rose again - to prove his mission true!”

This, of itself, has a more hallowing leaven

Than human sympathy can e'er confer, Because its loftier hopes are linked with heaven,

And God's own word is its interpreter:

Then chide me not, if, yielding homage due

Unto the noble Roman's noble thought,
I hold the humblest Christian's happier view

As with a higher, holier union fraught.

Higher — as opening up a loftier line;

Holier - as springing from a deeper root ; For LOVE TO God may be pronounced divine, When LOVE OF MAN becomes its genuine fruit :

Barton.

ON A LATE LOSS.

“He shall not float upon his watery bier

Unwept." The breath of air that stirs the harp's soft string,

Floats on to join the whirlwind and the storm ; The drops of dew exhaled from flowers of spring, Rise and assume the tempest's threatening

form; The first mild beam of morning's glorious sun,

Ere night, is sporting in the lightning's flash ; And the smooth stream, that flows in quiet on,

Moves but to aid the overwhelming dash That wave and wind can muster when the might Of earth, and air, and sea, and sky unite.

So Science whispered in thy charméd ear,

And radiant Learning beckoned thee away. The breeze was music to thee, and the clear

Beam of thy morning promised a bright day. And they have wrecked thee. – But there is a

shore Where storms are hushed — where tempests

never rage Where angry skies and blackening seas no more

With gusty strength their roaring warfare wage. By thee its peaceful margent shall be trod – Thy home is Heaven, and thy friend is God.

John G. C. Brainard.

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