SELECTIONS FROM SEVERAL AUTHORS.

A REMONSTRANCE.

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND WHO COMPLAINED OF BEING ALONE IN THE WORLD

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

Oн, say not thou art all alone,
Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth.
Sigh not o'er joys for ever flown,

The vacant chair,-the silent hearth:
Why should the world's unholy mirth
Upon thy quiet dreams intrude,
To scare those shapes of heavenly birth,
That people oft thy solitude!

Though many a fervent hope of youth
Hath passed, and scarcely left a trace;
Though earth-born love, its tears and truth,
No longer in thy heart have place;
Nor time nor grief can e'er efface

The brighter hopes that now are thine,-
The fadeless love,-all-pitying grace,
That makes thy darkest hour divine!

Not all alone; for thou canst hold
Communion sweet with saint and sage,
And gather gems, of price untold,

From many a pure, untravelled page:
Youth's dreams, the golden lights of age,
The poet's love,—are still thine own;
Then, while such themes thy thoughts engage,
Oh, how canst thou be all alone!

Not all alone; the lark's rich note,
As mounting up to Heaven, she sings;
The thousand silvery sounds that float
Above-below-on morning's wings;
The softer murmurs twilight brings,-
The cricket's chirp, cicala's glee;
All earth, that lyre of myriad strings,
Is jubilant with life for thee!

Not all alone, the whispering trees,
The rippling brook, the starry sky,-
Have each peculiar harmonies,

To soothe, subdue, and sanctify:
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh,
For thee hath oft a friendly tone,
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,—
To say-thou art not all alone!

Not all alone; a watchful eye,

That notes the wandering sparrow's fall;

A saving hand is ever nigh,

A gracious Power attends thy call;

When sadness holds thy heart in thrall,
Is oft his tenderest mercy shown;
Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all,
And thou canst never be ALONE!

THE POOR.

BY JANE T. WORTHINGTON.

HAVE pity on them! for their life
Is full of grief and care;

Ye do not know one half the woes
The very poor must bear :
You do not see the silent tears
By many a mother shed,
As childhood offers up the prayer,
"Give us our daily bread."

And sick at heart, she turns away
From the small face, wan with pain,
And feels that prayer has long been said
By those young lips in vain.
You do not see the pallid cheeks
Of those whose years are few,
But who are old in all the griefs

The poor must struggle through.

Deal gently with these wretched ones,
Whatever wrought their wo,

For the poor have much to tempt and test
That you can never know.

Then judge them not, for hard indeed
Is their dark lot of care;

Let Heaven condemn, but human hearts
With human faults should bear.

And when within your happy homes
You hear the voice of mirth,
When smiling faces brighten round
The warm and cheerful hearth,
Let charitable thoughts go forth
For the sad and homeless one,
And your own lot more blest will be
For every kind deed done.
Now is the time the very poor

Most often meet your gaze,—

Have mercy on them, in these cold

And melancholy days.

THE COMMON BRAMBLE.

WHAT dost thou here, pale flower?
Thou that afore wert never seen to shine
In gay parterre, or gentle lady's bower,
In lover's wreath or poet's gifted line.

Why from the lowly haunts

Art thou now called, to have a place and name 'Mid buds whose beauty fancy's eye enchants, Whose fragrance puts thy scentless leaves to

shame.

'Tis that, though suffering ill,

Yea, spurned and trodden by each passer-by, Blossom and berry dost thou proffer still, As all unmindful of the injury.

Hardest of lessons this,

To suffer wrong with meekness-few, how few, The hand which smites unjustly stoop to kiss, Or blessings on their foeman's pathway strew.

Then welcome, lowly flower,

Welcome amid the fragrant and the gay; For which of all the buds in summer bower Can fitter lesson to proud man convey?