LADY FRANKLIN. 
[ It is seldom that two such poets lire underone roof, 
as some of our readers may have visited in a cottage on 
the Merrimac, in Amesbury, Mass. The following 
graceful tribute to Lady Franklin is from the pen of 
Elizabeth H. Whittier, sister of John G. Whittier:] 
Fold thy bands, thy work is over! 
Cool thy watching eyes with tears, 
Let thy poor heart, overwearied, 
Best alike from hopes and fears. 
Hopes that saw with sleepless vision, 
One sad picture facing slow; 
Fears that followed, vague and nameless, 
Lifting back the veils of snow. 
For thy brave one, for thy lost one, 
Truest heart of woman, weep; 
Owning still the love that granted 
Unto thy beloved sleep. 
Not for him that hour of terror, 
When—the long ice-battle o’er— 
In the sunless day his comrades, 
Deathward trod the Polar shore. 
Spared the cruel cold and famine, 
Spared tho fainting heart’s despair — 
What but that could mercy grant him ? 
What but that has been thy prayer. 
Dear to thee that last memorial, 
From the cairn beside the sea; 
Evermore the month of roses 
Shall be sacred time to thee I 
Sad it is the mournful yew tree 
O’er his slumbers may not wave; 
Sad it is the English daisy 
May not blossom on Ins grave. 
But his tomb shall storm and winter 
Shape and fashion year by year— 
Pile his mighty mausoleum 
Block by block, and tier and tier. 
Guardian of its gleaming portal 
Shall his stainiees honor be, 
While thy love, a sweet immortal, 
Hovers o’er the winter sea! 
which I shall never more behold but in memory. 
How natural—ho w life-like they look. They speak 
to me of departed joys, and gently whisper of 
those which never die. My spirit seems entranced 
as I listen to their strains of melody, and I forget 
for awhile eaith’s cares and griefs in the contem¬ 
plation of all that is pure and lovely. Though 
absent in body, yet, metbinks, on angel’s wings 
they hover near me, whispering of their better 
home on high. 
As I take a retrospective view and dwell for 
a moment upon the many changes marking the 
past—bringing to mind the children who are now 
men and women—I am lost amid its field of 
thought. How great the contrast. Where is the 
youthful band which oDce mingled together? Ah, 
Time, that insatiable destroyer, has separated 
them by land and sea. To-night I sit wondering 
where they all are. In memory’s hall they flock 
around me, and I seem to hear again their merry 
laugh as in days of yore. Some are instructing 
the young immortal mind. Nellie is teaching 
where she and I oft have sported. There stands the 
old shade tree (only its shadow has a little broader 
grown,) where happy children with me have gath¬ 
ered, but are now far from the rural retreat. I 
cannot enumerate the memories of those who are 
far away, yet are bgund to my heart by a thousand 
ties and recollections which strengthen with each 
fleeting year. How oft some old familiar lay brings 
the absent back again,—they loved and sang the 
same in the days of “auld lang syne.” Their 
parting token, how dearly we prize it. Oft we 
bathe it in tears to keep remembrance sweeter and 
purer. I love to think of absent loved ones, and 
when we’ve crossed the ocean billows of life, may 
those who have long been severed here meet, no 
more to part, around the Throne of the Great 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ON THE RIVER. 
BY I, M. BEEBBB. 
Eternal. 
Marcellus, Onon. Co., N. Y., 1859. 
Rosa. 
GROW BEAUTIFUL. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
‘WEDDED TO GOLD.” 
No wonder she was so strangely sad as they 
bound the orange blossoms amid her golden curls 
— no wonder that her brow was pale as marble, 
as they threw the long snowy veil back from her 
lovely face; and as a joyful child went past her 
tripping lightly on its way, no wonder that in her 
heart arose the prayer, “Gon save thee, little 
prattler, from a like fate!” They looked upon her 
as the hollow laugh rang from her lips, when the 
fitful jest passed round, and they thought she was 
happy. Oh, human nature ! how many there are 
who part with every noble affection,— with every 
feeling of the heart, for paltry gold. He whom 
they had chosen for her was rich, and why should 
she not be happy ? 
As she spoke the words which bound her to an 
other, her face was illumined by a smile, and she 
was classed amoDg those enjoying fortune’s favors 
but they could not look into her heart,—could not 
see the affection which had long ago brightened 
her way,— the childish love which she had once 
possessed. The mournful spectre which haunted 
her by day and night was unseen, unknown by all 
others. None could open the secret doors of her 
heart, and go far back through all the silent halls, 
and gaze upon a little mound with the inscription: 
“ Buried /lopes." None witnessed the throbbings 
cf the young heait which beat so wildly, and none 
knew the constant prayer to God, “ that He would 
send her rest,— rest, though it came with the bier, 
the pall, and all that mortals dread. Gladly 
would she have wrapped a shroud of withered 
hopes around the heart which had so often been 
swayed to and fro in the tempest of grief—like a 
willow by the water’s edge, ever bending to drink 
the bitter waters, yet not breaking—gladly would 
she have done this, and found rest beneath the 
coffin lid ; but no, she must live on, smile on, and 
be happy, though her heart were breaking. 
Was she not rich ?—then, why not happy? Aye, 
why? No wonder that, as time passed on, she 
changed. They called her cold, proud, haughty,— 
but they knew not how long and earnestly she had 
struggled to cloak her inner life, that those gazing 
on the calm and placid exterior should never dream 
of what was passing beneath—well had she ac¬ 
complished her object. 
At length her prayers were answered,—the rest 
so long sought was found. They laid the form, 
which had moved so sadiy through the halls of 
pleasure, in the silent coffin, and she was free. No 
longer must she carry on the work of deceit — no 
longer need she endure the crushing weight — 
they put back the hair from the fair white brow, 
folded the hands over her pulseless breast, and 
laid her where the spring flowers blossomed, and 
the autumn soDg-birds carolled above her. That 
life of weariness had closed — she was happy. 
Hillsdale, Mich., 1S59. L. L. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ABSENT. 
There is a hallowed pleasure in the memory of 
absent loved ones who have long wandered from 
our side, and who we may never behold again on 
earth. As we revert to the gladsome hours we 
spent in their society, we seem to feel the warm 
pressure of their hands, and to hear again their 
well known voices utter werds of hope and cheer 
which strengthen us anew for life’s great con¬ 
flict. To-night I am thinking of a dear, absent 
brother who, one year ago, was amid our household 
circle, but now is far away in a western land,—far 
from the home that gave him birth, and the many 
loved friends and companions of earlier years. As 
memory her vigils keep, a fervent prayer ascends 
to God to guide and protect him through the many 
snares and temptations of life. 
There come to me to-night many fair forms 
A oniLD stood by a river; 
He spied a poor old man 
Whose form was bent and 6hmnkoB, 
His features old and wan ; 
Floating down the current,— 
’Twas smooth and easy now. 
Clear and unobstructed 
As the youth’s unclouded brow. 
The old man moored his bark 
By the still and silent suore, 
Never to guide Us rudder, 
Never to ply its oar, 
Never to breast the current, 
Never to face the gale, 
Never, in ad his future, 
To trim the laboring sail; 
But to rest lor a single moment 
Beneath the spreading trees, 
To breathe the fragrant odors 
That float upon tho breeze; 
To feel a shade of sadness, 
A lingering ’mid the toil 
Of the endless river running 
O’er Time’s absorbing soil. 
The child unmoored the vessel, 
And launched upon the tide; 
Hope, Courage, in his bosom. 
And angels at his side; 
He gave no look behind him, 
As he plied the tiny oar, 
His gaze was to that future 
Which he must now explore. 
The old man’s labor finished— 
The iofant’s just began— 
And this is but a picture 
Of the life of child and man; 
For each must breast the currents 
That beneath their vessels glide, 
And each must steer his journey 
On a deep and dangerous tide. 
The old man’s course is ended— 
He finds his fated grave; 
The child embarks his fortune* 
Upon life’s troubled wave. 
Thus pass ihe generations — 
Thus do our moment’s go— 
Like the gladness of a wedding, 
Like the sadDess of a woo! 
Watertown, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
CULTIVATE THE BEAUTIFUL. 
Persons may outgrow disease and become 
healthy, by proper attention to the laws of their 
physical constitution. By moderate and daily 
exercise, men have become active and strong in 
limb and muscle. But to grow beautiful, how?— 
Age dims the lustre of the eye, and pales the roses 
on beauty’s cheek; while crow-feet and furrows, 
and wrinkles, and lost teeth, and gray hairs, and 
bald head, and tottering limbs, and limping leet, 
most sadly mar the human form divine. But dim 
as the eye is, as pallid and sunken as may be the 
face of beauty, and frail and feeble that once 
strong, erect, and manly body, the immortal soul, 
just fledging its wingsfor its home in heaven, may 
look out through those faded windows as beautiful 
as the dew-drops of a summer’s morning, as melt¬ 
ing as the tear that glistens in affection's eye—by 
growing kindly, by cultivating sympathy with all 
human kind, by cherishing forbearance towards 
the follies and foibles of our race, and feeding day 
by day on that love of God and man which lifts us 
i rotn the brute and makes us al[in to angels. 
* "We are many “which, bav- 
loi t hie Education or 1 Oung Ladies. —Lady ing eyes see not,” and (fj^HP^ves of much of 
organ, the gifted Dish authoress, whose novels the enjoyment Heaven 1 •' jntifully spread for 
delighted the higher circles in former years, when us. We become buried >L self, forgetful that we 
conversing with a friend about some young ladies live more, enjoy more, are better and nobler by 
who had lost their fortune, made the following very living in the world around us. The larger the 
sensible remarks concerning the proper education draughts made upon the fountains of the human 
°. young women: In the tele a-tete conversa- soul, the more copious they become. There is a 
tion with Mrs. Hall, on the subject of some young taste for the beautiful implanted in our natures 
a les, w o a been bereft ol fortune, Lady Mor- and God has spread around us ample means for 
gansaUjUri an emphatic wave of her green fan, its gratification. Shall we not cultivate it? They 
ey o e\erj>thing that is fashionable— imper- are but sorry philosophers who would teach us to 
fcctly, their singing, and drawing, and danciDg, be simply utilitarians. They err (if I mistake 
and language, amount to nothing. They are edu- not,) not only in education, but in morals and re- 
cated to marry, and had there been time they ligioD, who fail to make them attractive and beau- 
might have gone off with, and hereafcer/m», hus- tiful. God has not made them so, why should we 
bands. They cannot earn tbeir own salt; they do deform them? Why desecrate and despoil what 
not even know how to dress themselves. I desire he has beautified? 
Acute observers tell us that the surroundings of 
a people has to do, not only with the formation of 
their characters, but that the lineaments of the 
face are moulded by them. And does not our own 
observation confirm it? You find the rugged 
mountaineer a counterpart of his home. Why is 
Italy the foster-mother of the arts? Is it not that 
her beautiful landscapes, and soft and sunny skies 
tend to develop the beautiful in the soul? The 
atmosphere we breath, joyful or sad, thankful or 
complaining, slowly but surely stamps itself upon 
us. If our homes and our school-rooms are sur¬ 
rounded with lovely objects —if only the good, 
the true, and the beautiful are inculcated, will 
they not gleam from the countenance, and sparkle 
in the eye ? 
Aside from the service of our Creator there is 
no pleasure deeper or purer than the cultivation of 
the beautiful in nature and in art. It may serve 
not only as an agreeable pastime to fill up the in¬ 
tervals occurring amid severe studies, but may be 
combined with them. Unlike other enjoyments it 
does not satiate, but elevates and ennobles the 
other faculties. It would seem as though beauty 
begat beauty in its tendency upon the human 
heart, for, ever softening and purifying, it unfolds 
a higher life,—engenders a new existence—creates 
a new sense the enjoyment of which renders life 
more blissful. Cau that individual be truly said 
to live who sees in an external world, with all 
its nice dependencies and adaptations, nothing 
beautiful ? 
It is true, literally and proverbially, that Ameri¬ 
cans who have bidden defiance to everything where 
intellectual or mechanical skill is concerned, have 
forgotten one great item, viz , tbe art of rendering 
existence pleasant. Tbe child, instead of being 
permitted to give expression to the natural emo¬ 
tions of its heart, is taught to repress and cloak in 
stoical indifference the fines-, feeliDgs which 
Heaven has implanted. It is but a little thiDg for 
a parent or a teacher to mould the plastic mind of 
a child in such a manner that it may seek its own 
enjoyment within itself. A timely word, an allu¬ 
sion, a thought, may enable it to discover beauty 
in an act, in a landscape, in a blossom; or, per¬ 
haps, in the embodied conception of some more 
fertile mind. Nature, ever prodigal in her gifts, 
has surrounded us with inexhaustible sources of 
delight; but neglecting these we chose phantoms 
and dreams that end in disappointment and dis- 
to give every girl, no matter what her rank, a 
trade —a profession, if the word pleases you bet¬ 
ter; cultivate what is necessary in the position 
she is born to ; cultivate all things in moderation, 
but one thing to perfection , no matter what it is, 
for which she has a talent — drawing, music, em¬ 
broidery, housekeeping, even; give her a staff to 
lay hold of, let her feel this will carry me through 
life without dependence. I was independent at 
fourteen, and never went in debt.’” 
Simplicity of Dress.— Prentice of the Louis¬ 
ville Journal, speaks thus to his readers:—“ Those 
who think that, in order to dress well, it is neces¬ 
sary to dress extravagantly and gaudily, make a 
great mistake. Nothing so well becomes true 
feminine beauty as simplicity. We have seen 
many a remarkably fine person robbed of its fine 
effect by being over-dressed. Nothing is more 
unbecoming than over-loaded beauty. The sim¬ 
plicity of the classic taste is seen in the old 
statues and pictures, painted by men of very 
superior artistic genius. In Athens tbe ladies 
were not gaudily, but simply arrayed, and we 
doubt whether any ladies excited more admira¬ 
tion. So also the noble old Roman matrons, 
whose superb forms were worthy of them, were 
always very plainly dressed. Fashion often pre¬ 
sents the lines of the butterfly, but fashion is not 
classic godjdess.” 
gust, and delude ourselves in the vain effort tode 
lude the world. 
There is beauty everywhere, yes, and joy, if we 
will. Experience and observation every day 
demonstrate that they are not confined to cond 
tion. They exist in the soul, and will respond 
when called upon. We are seldom unhappy from 
reflecting too much, but often from reflecting too 
little. We never repine at the dispensations of 
Providence, except when we undervalue the bless 
ings which we receive, and then we cheat ourselves 
instead of the Giver. Nohere is the wisdom 
and benevolence of Divine care more beautifully 
shown than in this,— our highest enjoyments are 
universal. All the charms of the outer world are 
a common feast. Air and water, dew and sun 
shiDe, are without money and without price. The 
luxuries of life, are tbe bane of our existence.— 
They enfeeble our bodies, weaken our minds, blear 
our eyes, benumb our faculties and warp our 
judgments. It is well for us as a nation that they 
are confined to the few. It is the mechanic, and 
the farmer’s son that steps into tbe halls of legis¬ 
lation. Their children in turn become pampered, 
and again the poor boy steps up to fill the post of 
honor and emolument. 
The Englishman, in the quiet of his home, con¬ 
tenting hunself in the adornment of his grounds, 
or the pleasures of the chase, forms a striking 
contrast to the bustliog money-making American 
So long as we pay a premium for rogues to sit in 
Legis’ative Halls, and lend our devotions to 
wealth, while artists, the literary, and the scien¬ 
tific, starve, just so long shall we have of these, 
second-rate individuals. It is no wonder that we 
have not painters like the old Italian school; or 
poets such as England has produced. The talent 
which might have generated these have been 
drawn to another channel — statesmanship,—and 
is, too often, perverted to unholy purposes. If 
this ambition to rule were at an end, and merit, 
only received preferment, we might hope for a 
revolution in society. But it is possible to awaken 
a love for the truly beautiful, which shall grow 
with coming years. 
“There’s beauty all around our paths, if but our 
watchful eyes, 
Can trace it ’mid familiar things, and in their lowly 
guise. B. A. M’N. 
Lockport, N. Y., 1859. 
POVERTY NOT SO GREAT A CURSE. 
Babyhood.— We are profoundly convinced that 
the first year of a child’s life is the most tremen¬ 
dously important of any succeeding twelve-month, 
though the creature shall number three-score and 
ten. Consider the blank sheet of paper with which 
the head of every baby, according to the philoso¬ 
pher, is lined. Think of it and shudder, when 
you see nurses and nurse-maids writing their pot¬ 
hooks and bangers upon it, as though they -wrote 
with rolling-pins, or, at best, wooden skewers!— 
Poor human papyrus! How many after-scratch- 
iDgs and cuttlefish-rubbings it will take to rub out 
the marks—that, after all, may never wholly be 
effaced, but remain dingy and dark under snow 
white hairs.— Jerrold. 
Happiness in part is imaginary, and its posses¬ 
sion depends almost entirely upon ourselves; con¬ 
tentment is the key which unlocks the treasure 
house, and with “ godliness is great gain.” 
If there is anything in the world that a young 
man should be more grateful for than another, 
it is the poverty which necessitates his starting 
in life under very great disadvantages. Poverty 
is one of the best tests of human quality in 
existence. A triumph over it is like graduating 
with honor from West Point. It demonstrates 
stuff and stamina. It is a certificate of worthy 
labor creditably performed. A young man who 
cannot stand this test is not good for anything. 
He can ne\ler rise above a drudge or i» pauper. 
A young ni^in who riannot feel his will’hsiPden as 
the yoke oftpoverty presses upon him, ’and his 
pluck rise with every diffiulty that poverty throws 
in his way, may as well retire into some corner 
and hide himself. Poverty saves a thousand times 
more men than it rums; for it only ruins those 
who are not particularly worth saving, while it 
saves multitudes of those whom wealth would 
have ruined. If any young man who reads this 
letter is so unfortunate as to be rich, I give him 
my pity. I pity you, my rich young friend, be¬ 
cause you are in daDger. You lack one great 
stimulus to effort and excellence, which your poor 
companion possesses. You will be very apt, if 
you have a soft spot in your head, to think your¬ 
self above him, and that sort of thiDg makes you 
mean, and injures you. With full pockets and 
full stomach, and good linen and broadcloth on 
your back, your heart and soul plethoric, in the 
race of life you will find yourself surpassed by 
all the poor boys around you, before you know it. 
No, my boy, if you are poor, thank God and 
take courage; for he intends to give you a chance 
to make something of yourself. If you had 
plenty of money, ten chances to one it would 
spoil you for all useful purposes. Do you lack 
education? Have you been cut short in the text 
books? Remember that education, like some 
other things, does not consist in the multitude of 
things a man possesses. What can you do? 
That is the question that settles the business for 
you. Do you know your business? Do you 
know men and how to deal with them ? Has your 
mind, by any means whatsoever, received that 
discipline which gives to it action, power and 
facility? If so, then you are more a maD, and a 
thousand times better educated than the fellow 
who graduates from a college with his brains full 
of stuff that he cannot apply to the practical 
business of life—stuff, the acquisition of which 
has been in no sense a disciplinary process so far 
as he is concerned. There are very few men in 
this world less than thirty years, of age, and 
unmarried, who can afford to be rich. One of the 
greatest benefits to be reaped from great financial 
disasters is the saving of a large crop of young 
men .—Timothy Titcomb. 
November. — The following lines by Hartley 
Coleridge are beautiful: 
TnE mellow year Is basting to its close; 
The little birds have almost sung their last, 
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast 
That, shrill piped, harbinger early snows. 
The patient beauty of the scentless rose, 
Oft with the morn’s hoar crystal quaintly glassed; 
Hangs a pale mourner for the summer past, 
And makes a little summer where it grows. 
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day, 
The dusky waters shudder as they shine; 
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way 
Of oozy brooks which no deep hanks define; 
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, 
Wrapt their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE RAINY DAY. 
BY ELLEN LEB. 
The mist is on yon mountain’s brow, 
A cloud hangs o’er the vale — 
The sunset leaves no cheering glow 
Upon Night’s darksome veil; 
But all Is dark, and lone, and drear, 
For deeply groans the dying year. 
Its race is almost run— 
Its spring of light and joy Is gone, 
Its summer vanished all too soon, 
And autumn now, with shortening daya, 
Bathes in the light of golden rajs, 
And sighs upon the listening ear, 
Tbe grave is cold, and damp, and drear, 
Its portal knows no sun. 
’I et through this cloudy, dreary day, 
And through the darkvr drearier night, 
We see the light of Hope’s bright ray,_ 
How glad it beams upon our sight; 
No clouds can dim its coeering rays,— 
’Mid darkest storms it brightly plays. 
Dispelling all their gloom. 
Its gentle light foretells the day 
When wintry skies shall pass away, 
When siDglng birds and fragrant flowers 
Shall gladden fairj-shaded bowers,— 
E’en “ Death shall lose iis vonomed sting,” 
And the cold grave merge into spring,— 
A spring of Heavenly bloom. 
Scipio, N. Y., 1850. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
VOICES. 
The voice was tbe crowning gift of God to man. 
By means of it we can most readily convey our 
thoughts to our fellow-creatures, and through this 
medium the most of us can exercise the greatest 
influence. The different tones of the voice have 
great power over the emotions of the soul,—if they 
are gentle and kind, a kindred feeliDg will be 
awakened within our own breasts; if harsh and 
unfriendly, like emotions will be aroused. How 
carefully then should we guard this delica*e instru¬ 
ment, so that its keys, when touched, shall ever 
send forth sweet, harmonious music. 
But there are voices, myriads of voices, breath¬ 
ing everywhere. ’Tis not alone to man that Gon 
has granted this great gift. Ah, no. Who has 
not heard another voice—even the voice of Nature, 
either amid the loud roarmg of tbe cataract, tbe 
howling of the storm, or in the musical plash of 
the mimic wateifall. There may be much in her 
sublime tones to stir the quick perceptions of the 
soul, but her gentle whisperings have so much of 
beauty anil sweetness they cavmot fail awakening 
ileep emotion. Glad songs havj the little babbling- 
brooks sung to us in our childhood, and now we 
can never watch their silvery waters, murmuring 
so peacefully along, without having our thoughts 
wafted back to happy by-goDe days. 
But the human voice and the voice of Nature 
are not the only ones we may hear; for there are 
voices, sweet spirit voices, that thrill through the 
soul, and echo there long afier the tones that 
awakened them have died away. When the heart 
is sad and weary, soothmg whispers are heard 
telliDg of a Land of Rest where the cares and sor¬ 
rows of earth have no entrance. They speak of 
unfading flowers,— of trees that always are green, 
— of bright, beautiful waters, ever flowing peace¬ 
fully,—of angel bands with snowy wings and 
golden harps,—of music more melodious than e’er 
was 8truck from earthly lyres,—of a starry crown 
to be exchanged for the burdensome cross, and we 
loDg to say to the fettered soul, “Plume thy 
pinions for thine everlasting flight,—leave far 
behind the sin and sorrow of earth, and find an 
eternal rest amidst the glories of the Better Land.” 
At such moments, when we feel an impatient res¬ 
tiveness of soul, and find it well nigh impossible 
to exclaim, “ Thy will be done,” one spirit voice, 
superior to all others, will speak to the heart, and 
if we but listen it will teach us the difficult les¬ 
sons of heroic endurance aDd patient waiting, till 
we be called to inherit our eternal reward. 
Louise Linden. 
Gainesville, Wyoming Co., N. Y., 1859. 
Old Age.— Beautiful is the old age of the right¬ 
eous, beautiful as the slow, drooping, mellow 
autumn of a rich, glorious summer. In the old 
man, nature has fulfilled her work; she loads him 
with the fruits of a well spent life, and surrounded 
by his well trained, obedient children, and his 
children’s children, she rocks him away softly to 
the grave, to which he is followed by blessings. 
True Contentment.— In this age of restlessness 
and wild speculation, when so many are searching 
eagerly for happiness, and sighing, after numer¬ 
ous disappointments, “ Who will show us any 
good?” it is refreshing to meet with a contented 
Christian heart, which has found true peace by 
liviDg in constant communion with God. In one 
of our exchanges we find the following:—Said a 
venerable farmer, some eighty years old, to a rela¬ 
tive who had lately visited him,—“ I have lived on 
this farm for more than half a century. I have no 
desire to change my residence as long as I live on 
earth. I have no desire to be any richer than I 
now am. I have worshiped the God of my fath¬ 
er’s with the same people for more than forty 
years. During this time I have rarely been absent 
from the sanctuary on the Sabbath, and have never 
lost one communion season. I have never been 
confined to my bed by sickness for a single day. 
The blessings of God have been richly spread 
around me, and I made up raymind long ago, that 
if I wished to' be happier, I must have more re¬ 
ligion.” 
-*-♦-*--— 
SrEAK LOW TO ME. 
Speak low to me, my Savior, low and sweet 
From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, 
Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so, 
Who art not missed by any that entreat. 
Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet— 
And if no precious gems my hand bestow, 
Let my tears drop like amber, while I go 
In reach of Tby divinest voice, complete 
In humanest aflection—thus, in sooth, 
To lose the sense of losing ! As a child 
Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermere 
Is sung to, in its stead, by mother’s mouth, 
Till sinking on her breast, Jove reconciled, 
Ho sleeps tho faster that he wept before. 
[Jfrs. Browning. 
