I treasur'd up the lesson, and when eve

Call'd home the labouring ox, and to its bed
Warn'd the young bird, and shut the lily's cup,
I took my little boy upon my knee,

And told him of the basket-bearer's toil,
And of the friend who help'd him.

When his eye

Swell'd full, and round, and fix'd upon my face,
Taking the story to his inmost soul;

I said, "My son, be pitiful to all,

And aid them when thou canst.

For God hath sown

Sweet seeds within us, seeds of sympathy

Whose buds are virtues, such as bloom for heaven."

If thy young sister weepeth, kiss the tear
From her smooth cheek, and sooth with tender words
Her swelling breast; or if a secret thorn
Is in thy brother's bosom; draw it thence:
Or if thy playmate sorroweth, lend an ear,
And share with sympathy his weight of woe.
And when thou art a man, my little one,
Still keep thy spirit open to the ills
Of foreigner and stranger, of the race
Whom Afric's sun hath darken'd, and of those,
Poor red-brow'd exiles, from our forest-shades,
Where once they ruled supreme.

Thus shalt thou shun

That selfishness, which wrapp'd in its own gifts,

Forgets alike the Giver, and the grief

Of those who mourn.

So may'st thou ever find Pity and love, in thine own time of need, If on thy young heart, as a signet-ring, Thou gav'st that motto from a Book Divine, "Bear one another's burdens, and fulfil The law of Christ."

THE PRISONER'S QUESTION.

The Chaplain of one of the penitentiaries in the United States, mentions that a prisoner once earnestly inquired of him, if happy spirits ever looked from heaven, upon the friends they had left behind, and at his reply, exclaimed in agony, "My mother! oh, my mother!"

He stood within his prison-gate,

That lonely man of crime,
Upon whose brow, an early guilt
Had done the work of time.

For where the baleful passions boil,
Though form and cheek are fair,
Their-poison fumes distain the charms,
That beauty lavish'd there.

Then reaching through those iron bars,
The chaplain's hand he wrung,
Who warned him of his Maker's wrath,
With an unflattering tongue.

One question more!"—the holy man

Turn'd at his eager cry,

And bent him toward that darken'd cell,

With pity in his eye.

"Think'st thou, that those who lov'd us here, Who now do reign in bliss,

E'er from that glorious sphere look down,
To note the deeds of this?"

"We know not,-said his reverend guide
God's volume doth not say,
But nature speaking in our hearts,
Makes answer that they may."

Then sorrow seiz'd that erring man,
The struggle shook him sore,
Till unaccustom'd tears fell down,
Upon his dungeon-floor;

"Oh mother! mother! if thine eye
Must see thy darling son,

Here, 'mid the vilest of the vile,
Would that my life were done."

And long those strain'd and burning orbs,
Pour'd forth the bitter rain,

But Thou, who hear'st the sinner's cry,
Say, was this anguish vain!

Perchance, even then, that mother's prayer,
Which blest his cradle-bed,

Did win its answer for his soul,

And snatch it from the dead.