There in the pastoral homes whose hearths
Are smiled upon by the sun?

What taint is alive in that free, clear air,
Which comes not hither to woo us,
That it sends these pitiful shadows forth
To mock us and to undo us?
What blight is upon it that it gives

These wandering daughters to us?

Ah, me! to see the faces that haunt
The streets with their ghastly mirth,
To watch the vacant delight and see
The woman so gross with earth;
To find the sinner sweet'ning sin,
Mad with a wild unrest-

And then to think of the mother's hope,

As she smiles on the babe on her breast?
They load the girl with their homely gifts,
They rear her in wifely arts;

They dream of the girl in her bridal dress,
While she sins and breaks their hearts.

O City, rich in money and men,

And richer in work divine!

Whose is the sorrow and whose the sin ?
And how much of the sin is thine?
Enough to know that the sin was born
Of a bitter delight or sorrow;

That the sorrow and sin can be cleansed away
Neither to-day nor to-morrow.

Enough to know that the broken heart

Needs the beauty of Christ to mend it;

That ere we labor to kill the sin,

We must labor to comprehend it.

We men are narrow, and harsh, and vain,
We are petty amid our scorn!

But oh! to gaze on the crowded street

Where the sinners wander forlorn ;

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

And then to kiss our daughters and wives

And our little babes new-born!

To see the sin and sorrow flaunt

When the beautiful day is done,

And then to think of the homeless heart
Which mourns for the absent one-
Of the free blue air and the country dales,
Where the bright fresh rivers run-
Of the girl who sings in her mother's house,
And the children that laugh in the sun.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.-F. M. FINCH.

BY the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,
Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,
Asleep are the ranks of the dead:-
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day;

Under the one, the Blue,

Under the other, the Gray.

These in the robings of glory,
Those in the gloom of defeat,
All with the battle-blood gory,
In the dusk of eternity meet:-
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Under the laurel, the Blue,
Under the willow, the Gray.

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THE BLUE AND THE GRAY.

So, with an equal splendor,

The morning sun-rays fall,
With a touch impartially tender,
On the blossoms blooming for all:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Broidered with gold, the Blue;
Mellowed with gold, the Gray.

So, when the Summer calleth,
On forest and field of grain,
With an equal murmur falleth
The cooling drip of the rain:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day;
Wet with the rain, the Blue,
Wet with the rain, the Gray.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done;
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won:
Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment-day ;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war-cry sever,
Or the winding rivers be red;

They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment-day;
Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

NOBODY'S CHILD.

NOBODY'S CHILD.-PHILO H. CHILD.

ALONE, in the dreary, pitiless street,

With my torn old dress and bare cold feet,
All day I've wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go;
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head;
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I'm nobody's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light,
And warmth and beauty, and all things bright;
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,

Are caroling songs in rapture there,
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat.

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down
In its terrible blackness all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,

On the cold, hard pavements alone to die,

When the beautiful children their prayers have said,
And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?
No dear mother ever upon me smiled—

Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child?

No father, no mother, no sister, not one

In all the world loves me; e'en the little dogs run
When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see,
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!
Perhaps 'tis a dream; but, sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,
Watching for hours some large bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed, nameless things, .
Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings;

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MEN ALWAYS FIT FOR FREEDOM.

A hand that is strangely soft and fair
Caresses gently my tangled hair,

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird

The sweetest voice that ever was heard

Calls me many a dear pet name,

Till my heart and spirits are all aflame;

And tells me of such unbounded love,
And bids me come up to their home above,
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes;
And it seems to me out of the dreary night,

I am going up to the world of light,

And away from the hunger and storms so wild-
I am sure I shall then be Somebody's child.

MEN ALWAYS FIT FOR FREEDOM.-T. B. MACAULAY.

THER

HERE is only one cure for the evils which newly-acquired freedom produces, and that cure is freedom! When a prisoner leaves his cell, he cannot bear the light of day; he is unable to discriminate colors or recognize faces; but the remedy is not to remand him into his dungeon, but to accustom him to the rays of the sun. The blaze of truth and liberty may at first dazzle and bewilder nations which have become half blind in the house of bondage; but let them gaze on and they will soon be able to bear it. In a few years men learn to reason; the extreme violence of opinion subsides; hostile theories correct each other; the scattered elements of truth cease to conflict, and begin to coalesce; and, at length, a system of justice and order is educed out of the chaos. Many politicians of our time are in the habit of laying it down as a self-evident proposition, that no people ought to be free till they are fit to use their freedom. The maxim is worthy of the fool in the old story, who resolved not to go into the water till he had learned to swim! If men are to wait for liberty till they become wise and good in slavery, they may, indeed, wait forever!