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WHO IS THY NEIGHBOUR.

Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,

Whose thoughts are all beyond the grave,
Go thou and ransom him.

Where'ere thou meet'st a human form,
Less favored than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother or thy son.

Oh pass not, pass not heedless by:
Perhaps thou can'st redeem
The breaking heart from misery,
Go share thy lot with him.

Methinks if you would know,

How visitations of calamity

Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown you there!
Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky
Sailing along, doth cross in her career

The rolling moon! I watched it as it came,

And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams.
But melting, like a wreath of snow, it hangs
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes
The orb with richer beauties than her own:
Then passing leaves her in her light serene.

SOUTHEY.

333

Where is the Enemy?

L. M. CHILD says "I have somewhere read of a regiment ordered to march into a small town, and take it. I think it was in the Tyrol but wherever it was, it chanced that the place was settled by a colony who believed the Gospel of Christ, and proved their faith by works. A courier from a neighbouring village informed them that troops were advancing to take the town. They quietly answered" If they will take it, they must." Soldiers soon came riding in, with colours flying, and fifes piping their shrill defiance. They looked round for an enemy, and saw the farmer at his plough, the blacksmith at his anvil, and the women at their churns and spinning-wheels. Babies crowed to hear the music, and boys ran out to see the pretty trainers, with feathers and bright buttons, "the harlequins of the nineteenth century." Of course none of these were in a proper position to be shot at. "Where are your soldiers?" they asked, "we have none," was the brief reply.—" But we have come to take the town." -"Well friends it lies before you."-" But is there nobody here to fight?"-No, we are all Christians."

Here was an emergency altogether unprovided for a sort of resistance which no bullet could hit a fortress perfectly bomb-proof. The commander was perplexed. "If there is nobody to fight with, of course we cannot fight," said he, "It is impossible to take such a town as this." So he ordered the horses heads to be turned about, and they carried the human animals out of the village as guiltless as they entered, and perchance somewhat wiser.

This experiment on a small scale, indicates how easy it would be to dispense with armies and navies if men only had faith in the religion they profess to believe.

Clarkson at Wadesmill.

LUCY BARTON.

A WANDERER by the road-way side,
Where leafy tall trees grow,
Casting their branching shadows wide,
Sits on the turf below.

Though rich the landscape, hill and plain
Before him there outspread,

One hand holds fast his bridle rein,
One props his thoughtful head.

All is forgotten or unknown,
For, o'er the troubled main,
His ear has caught the captive's groan,
Has heard his clanking chain.

Near half a century hath flown;
That way-side wanderer now
A venerable sage hath grown,
With years traced on his brow.

More bent in form, more dim of eye,
More faltering in his pace:
But time has stamped in dignity,
More than it reft of grace.

And joy in his age cannot chill,—
Memories it need not shun!

The lone, enthusiast of Wadesmill
His glorious goal hath won!

36

THE WORTH OF HOURS.

Not vainly has he watched the ark,
Wherein his hopes were shrined,
Nor vainly fanned fair freedom's spark,
In many a kindling mind.

The Worth of Bours.

BELIEVE not that your inner eye

Can ever in just measure try
The worth of hours as they go by:

For every man's weak self, alas!

Makes him to see them, while they pass,

As through a dim or tinted glass.

But if in earnest care you would

Mete out to each its part of good,
Trust rather to your after-mood.

Those surely are not fairly spent,

That leave your spirit bowed and bent,

In sad unrest and ill-content:

And more though, free from seeming harm,
You rest from toil of mind or arm,
Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm:

If then a painful sense comes on

Of something wholly lost and gone,
Vainly enjoyed or vainly done;

Of something from your being's chain
Broke off, nor to be linked again

By all mere memory can retain,

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THE path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Though four sweet years, arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:

And we with singing cheered the way,
And crowned with all the season lent,
From April on to April went,

And glad at heart from May to May:

But where the path we walked, began
To slant the fifth autumnal slope,

As we descended, following Hope,
There sat the Shadow feared of man.

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