Only scorn from women,
Only hate from men,
Only remorse to whisper

Of a life that might have been.

Once they were little children,
And perhaps their unstained feet
Were led by a gentle mother
Toward the golden street;

Therefore, if in life's forest

They since have lost their way, For the sake of her who loved them, God pity them! still I say.

O mothers gone to heaven!

With earnest heart I ask

That your eyes may not look earthward On the failure of your task.

For even in those mansions

The choking tears would rise, Though the fairest hand in heaven Would wipe them from your eyes!

And you, who judge so harshly,

Are you sure the stumbling-stone

That tripped the feet of others

Might not have bruised your own?

Are you sure the sad-faced angel

Who writes our errors down

Will ascribe to you more honor
Than him on whom you frown?

Or, if a steadier purpose
Unto your life is given;
A stronger will to conquer,
A smoother path to heaven;

If, when temptations meet you,
You crush them with a smile;

If you can chain pale passion

And keep your lips from guile;

Then bless the hand that crowned you, Remembering, as you go,

'T was not your own endeavor That shaped your nature so ;

And sneer not at the weakness
Which made a brother fall,
For the hand that lifts the fallen,
God loves the best of all!

And pray for the wretched prisoners
All over the land to-day,

That a holy hand in pity

May wipe their guilt away.

HIS NAME SHALL BE IN THEIR FOREHEADS.

When I shall go where my Redeemer is,
In the far city on the other side,
And at the threshold of His palaces

Shall loose my sandals, ever to abide ;
I know my Heavenly King will smiling wait
To give me welcome as I touch the gate.

Oh, joy! oh, bliss! for I shall see His face,

And wear His blessed name upon my brow! The name that stands for pardon, love, and grace, That name before which every knee shall bow. No music half so sweet can ever be

As that dear name which He shall write for me!

Crowned with this royal signet, I shall walk With lifted forehead through the eternal street ; And with a holier mien, and gentler talk,

Will tell my story to the friends I meet— Of how the King did stoop His name to write Upon my brow, in characters of light!

Then, till I go to meet my Father's smile,

I'll keep my forehead smooth from passion's

scars,

From angry frowns that trample and defile,

And every sin that desecrates or mars ; That I may lift a face unflushed with shame, Whereon my Lord may write His holy name.

Rebecca S. Palfrey Utter.

THE KING'S DAUGHTER.

Her Father sent her in His land to dwell,
Giving to her a work that must be done;
And, since the King loves all His people well,
Therefore, she, too, cares for them, every one.
And when she stoops to lift from want and sin,
The brighter shines her royalty therein.

She walks erect through dangers manifold,
While many sink and fail on either hand;
She dreads not Summer's heat nor Winter's cold,
For both are subject to the King's command;
She need not be afraid of anything,

Because she is the daughter of a King.

F'en when the angel comes that men call Death,
And name with terror, it appalls not her;
She turns to welcome him with quickened breath,
Thinking it is the Royal Messenger;

Her heart rejoices that her Father calls
Her back to dwell within His palace walls.

For though the land she dwells in is most fair, Set round with streams, a picture in its frame,

Yet often in her heart deep longings are

For that Imperial Palace whence she came. Not perfect quite seems any earthly thing, Because she is the daughter of a King.

Annie Douglas Robinson.

(MARIAN DOUGLAS.)

1842.

TWO PICTURES.

An old farm-house with meadows wide
And sweet with clover on each side;
A bright-eyed boy, who looks from out
The door with woodbine wreathed about,
And wishes his one thought all day :
"Oh, if I could but fly away

From this dull spot, the world to see,
How happy, happy, happy,

How happy I should be!"

Amid the city's constant din,

A man who round the world has been,
Who, mid the tumult and the throng,
Is thinking, thinking, all day long :
"Oh, could I only tread once more
The field-path to the farm-house door,
The old green meadow could I see,
How happy, happy, happy,
How happy I should be!"