Only scorn from women, Of a life that might have been. Once they were little children, 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 Or, if a steadier purpose If, when temptations meet you, 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 And pray for the wretched prisoners 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, Shall loose my sandals, ever to abide ; 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, She walks erect through dangers manifold, Because she is the daughter of a King. F'en when the angel comes that men call Death, Her heart rejoices that her Father calls 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 From this dull spot, the world to see, How happy I should be!" Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, |