Would that we could learn to be kind—always and everywhere kind! Every jealous thought I cherish, every angry word I utter, every repulsive tone, is helping to build penitentiaries and prisons, and to fill them with those who merely carry the same passions and feelings farther than I do. It is an awful thought; and the more it is impressed upon me, the more earnestly do I pray to live in a state of perpetual benediction.

And rescue universal man from the hunting hell-hounds of his
Love hath a longing and a power to save the gathered world,

And so I return, as the old preachers used to say, to my first proposition; that we should think gently

Carlyle, in his French Revolution, speaking of one of the three bloodiest judges of the Reign of Terror, says: Marat too had a brother, and natural affec-of all, and claim kindred with all, and include all, tions; and was wrapt once in swaddling-clothes, and slept safe in a cradle, like the rest of us.' We are too apt to forget these gentle considerations when talking of public criminals.

without exception, in the circle of our kindly sympathies. I would not thrust out even the hangman, though methinks if I were dying of thirst, I would rather wait to receive water from another hand than

Yet what is the hangman but a servant of the law? And what is the law but an expression of public opinion? And if public opinion be brutal, and thou a component part thereof, art thou not the hangman's accomplice? In the name of our common Father, sing thy part of the great chorus in the truest time, and thus bring this crashing discord into harmony!

If we looked into our souls with a more wise hu-his. mility, we should discover, in our own ungoverned anger the germ of murder; and meekly thank God that we, too, had not been brought into temptations too fiery for our strength. It is sad to think how the records of a few evil days may blot out from the memory of our fellow-men whole years of generous thoughts and deeds of kindness; and this, too, when each one has before him the volume of his own broken resolutions, and oft-repeated sins. The temptation which most easily besets you, needed, perhaps, to be only a little stronger; you needed only

And if at times, the discord proves too strong for thee, go out into the great temple of Nature, and drink in freshness from her never-failing fountain. The devices of men pass away as a vapour; but

VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

UNIV 178

she changes never. Above all fluctuations of opi- | Nay, verily; for it often humbles me to tears, to nion, and all the tumult of the passions, she smiles think how much I am loved more than I deserve;

ever, in various but unchanging beauty. I have gone to her with tears in my eyes, with a heart full of the saddest forebodings, for myself and all the human race; and lo, she has shown me a babe plucking a white clover, with busy, uncertain little fingers, and the child walked straight into my heart, and prophesied as hopefully as an angel; and I believed her, and went on my way rejoicing. The language of nature, like that of music, is universal; it speaks to the heart, and is understood by all. Dialects belong to clans and sects; tones to the universe. High above all language, floats music on its amber cloud. It is not the exponent of opinion, but of feeling. The heart made it; therefore it is infinite. It reveals more than language can ever utter, or thoughts conceive. And high as music is above mere dialects—winging its godlike way, while verbs and nouns go creeping-even so sounds the voice of Love, that clear, treble-note of the universe, into the heart of man, and the ear of Jehovah.

while thousands, far nearer to God, pass on their thorny path, comparatively uncheered by love and blessing. But it came into my heart to tell you how much these things helped me to be good; how they were like roses dropped by unseen hands, guiding me through a wilderness-path unto our Father's mansion. And the love that helps me to be good, I would have you bestow upon all, that all may become good. To love others is greater happiness than to be beloved by them; to do good is more blessed than to receive. The heart of Jesus was so full of love, that he called little children to his arms, and folded John upon his bosom; and this love made him capable of such divine self-renunciation, that he could offer up even his life for the good of the world. The desire to be beloved is ever restless and unsatisfied; but the love that flows out upon others is a perpetual well-spring from on high. This source of happiness is within the reach of all; here, if not elsewhere, may the stranger and the friendless satisfy the infinite yearnings of the human heart, and find therein refreshment and joy.

Believe me, the great panacea for all the disorders in the universe, is Love. For thousands of years the world has gone on perversely, trying to overcome evil with evil; with the worst results, as the condition of things plainly testifies. Nearly two thousand years ago, the prophet of the Highest proclaim

when the Son of Man cometh, shall he find faith on the earth?' If we have faith in this holy principle, where is it written on our laws or our customs? Write it on thine own life and men reading it

here; a power mightier than coercion. And thus the individual faith shall become a social faith; and to the mountains of crime around us, it will say, Be thou removed, and cast into the depths of the sea!' and they will be removed; and the places that knew them shall know them no more.

In sincere humility do I acknowledge that if I am less guilty than some of my human brothers, it is mainly because I have been beloved. Kind emotions and impulses have not been sent back to me, like dreary echoes, through empty rooms. All round me at this moment are tokens of a friendly heart-warmth. A sheaf of dried grasses brings near the gentle image of one who gathered them for love; a varied group of the graceful lady-fern tells me of summered that evil could be overcome only with good. But rambles in the woods, by one who mingled thoughts of me with all her glimpses of nature's beauty. A rose-bush, from a poor Irish woman, speaks to me of her blessings. A bird of paradise, sent by friendship to warm the wintry hours with thoughts of sun-shall say, lo, something greater than vengeance is ny Eastern climes, cheers me with its floating beauty, like a fairy fancy. Flower-tokens from the best of neighbors, have come all summer long, to bid me a blithe good morning, and tell me news of sunshine and fresh air. A piece of sponge, graceful as if it grew on the arms of the wave, reminds me of Grecian seas, and of Hylas borne away by water- This hope is coming toward us, with a halo of nymphs. It was given me for its uncommon beau-sunshine round its head; in the light it casts before, ty; and who will not try harder to be good, for being deemed a fit recipient of the beautiful? A root, which promises to bloom into fragrance, is sent by an old Quaker lady, whom I know not, but who says, I would fain minister to thy love of flowers.' Affection sends childhood to peep lovingly at me from engravings, or stand in classic grace, embodied in the little plaster cast. The far-off and the near, the past and the future, are with me in my humble apartment. True, the mementoes cost little of the world's wealth; for they are of the simplest kind; but they express the universe-because they are thoughts of love, clothed in forms of beauty.

Why do I mention these things? From vanity?

let us do works of zeal with the spirit of love. Man may be redeemed from his thraldom! He will be redeemed. For the mouth of the Most High hath spoken it. It is inscribed in written prophecy, and He utters it to our hearts in perpetual revelation. To you, and me, and each of us, He says, Go, bring my people out of Egypt, into the promised land.'

6

To perform this mission, we must love both the evil and the good, and shower blessings on the just as well as the unjust. Thanks to our Heavenly Father, I have had much friendly aid on my own spiritual pilgrimage; through many a cloud has pierced a sunbeam, and over many a pitfall have I been guided by a garland. In gratitude for this, fain would

I help others to be good, according to the small mea- | Afar in the desert I love to ride,
sure of my ability. My spiritual adventures are
like those of the little boy that run away from Pro-
vidence.' When troubled or discouraged, my soul
seats itself on some door-step-there is ever some
one to welcome me in, and make a nice little bed'
for my weary heart. It may be a young friend,
who gathers for me flowers in summer, and grasses,
ferns, and red berries in the autumn; or it may
be sweet Mary Howitt, whose mission it is to turn
the sunny side of things to human eyes;' or Charles
Dickens, who looks with such deep and friendly | Afar in the desert alone to ride!
glance into the human heart, whether it beats be-
neath embroidered vest, or tattered jacket; or the
serene and gentle Fenelon; or the devout Thomas
á Kempis; or the meek-spirited John Woolman; or
the eloquent hopefulness of Channing; or the cathe-
dral tones of Keble, or the saintly beauty of Raphael,
or the clear melody of Handel. All speak to me
with friendly greeting, and have somewhat to give
my thirsty soul. Fain would I do the same, for
all who come to my door-step, hungry, and cold,
spiritually or naturally. To the erring and the
guilty, above all others, the door of my heart shall |
never open outward. I have too much need of mercy.
Are we not all children of the same Father? and
shall we not pity those who among pit-falls lose
their way home?

With the silent Bush.boy alone by my side:
When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,
With its scenes of oppression, corruption and strife;
The proud man's frown and the base man's fear,
The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear,
And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,
Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;
When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,
And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-
O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

BY THOMAS PRINGLE.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,
And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;
When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,
From the fond recollections of former years;
And shadows of things that have long since fled
Flit over the brain, like ghosts of the dead :
Bright visions of glory, that vanished too soon,
Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;
Attachments, by fate or by falsehood reft;
Companions of early days, lost or left;
And my native land, whose magical name
Thrills to the heart like electric flame;
The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;
All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time
When the feelings were young and the world was new,
Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;
All, all now forsaken, forgotten, forgone;
And I, a lone exile, remembered by none;
My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,
Aweary of all that is under the sun;-

There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,
And to bound away with the eagle's speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,—
The only law of the desert land!

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away, away from the dwellings of men,
By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;
By the valleys remote where the oribi plays,
Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze,
And the kudu and eland unhunted recline
By the skirts of gray forests o'erhung with wild-vine;
Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,
And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,
And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will
In the fen where the wild ass is dinking his fill.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
O'er the brown karroo, where the fleeting cry
Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively,
And the timorous quagga's shrill-whistling neigh
Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;
Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane,
With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;
And the fleet footed ostrich over the waste
Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,
Hieing away to the home of her rest,
Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,
Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view
In the pathless depths of the parched karroo.

Afar in the desert I love to ride,
With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:
Away, away, in the wilderness vast,
Where the white man's foot hath never passed,
And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan
Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan;
A region of emptiness, howling and drear,
Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;
Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,
With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;
Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,

With that sadness of heart which no stranger may Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;

scan,

I fly to the desert afar from man!

And the bitter melon, for food and drink,

s the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink;

Beautiful the sleep that she has watched untiring,
Lighted up with visions from yonder radiant sky,
Full of an immortal's glorious inspiring,
Softened by a woman's meek and loving sigh.
When will he awaken?

He has been dreaming of old heroic stories,
And the poet's world has entered in his soul;
He has grown conscious of life's ancestral glories,
When sages and when kings first upheld the mind's
.control.

Lo, the appointed midnight! the present hour is
fated;

It is Endymion's planet that rises on the air;
How long, how tenderly his goddess love has waited;
Waited with a love too mighty for despair!
Soon he will awaken!

Soft amid the pines is a sound as if of singing,
Tones that seem the lute's from the breathing