THE HASTY WORD.

We are too swift to judge the hasty word
Called forth, may be, by jarring some fine chord
We have too roughly handled. Swifter we speak
Our scornful, bitter thoughts; the bloodless cheek
May fail to tell how keen the shaft hath been :
No quivering of the tutored lip is seen

To tell how sure the vengeance. But the heart,-
Could we but raise its veil, then should we start
As if a charnel-vault revealed its store

Of lifeless forms, in trappings that they wore,

Ere Death's cold care had claimed them. We should hear

Wailings of smothered anguish, though no tear

May tell it to the world, sounding amid

The forms of mournful memories that lie hid

In Time's dark treasure-house. The world,—it hath
Too little joy upon its thorny path,

That we should scorn to heed another's pain.
Like sunshine breaking through the summer-rain
Is the sweet bond of kindness, brightly thrown
On life's dark clouds, forming a heavenly zone;
And fairest in the stormiest sky appears,
Weaving a web of beauty, e'en from tears.

ANNA SAVAGE.

A PRAYER*.

O God! whose ear, in mercy bending,
Catchest each utterance, faint and low,
From human hearts oppressed with woe,
To thy great throne of love ascending :-
In lordly hall, or cottage lowly;

Where'er a sufferer, touched with grief,
Rests on thy love, he finds relief;
The Lord of all who trust Thee wholly.

Each wild flower, 'mid the tempest raging,
Blooms through thy providential care :-
Shall man, then, yield to dark despair,
Nor recognise thy word, engaging

Pardon for all, the weak, the erring

To sooth each sorrow, heal each wound?
Before thy throne let all be found,

To thee their prayers in faith preferring!

Oh God! let one united chorus

For men made brothers rise to Thee! Let men be just! Let man be free! With Charity's sweet mantle o'er us.

*From the French of Ernest Lacan,

E. FRY.

THE NEW ARISTOCRACY.

"I do see, and I say it advisedly, a new and noble aristocracy appearing in shops and warehouses, at the desk and behind the counter-the aristocracy of mind, and ready to take the shine' out of the great aristocracy that has preceded them."-Rev. Dr. Cumming, before the Young Men's Christian Association, Feb. 8th, 1848.

A title once could only show
The signs of noble birth,

And men of rank were, years ago,

The great ones of the earth;

They deemed it just the crowd should shrink
Before a cap and gown;

They thought it wrong the poor should think,
And right to keep them down.

These were the days when books were things
"The People" could not touch;
Made for the use of lords and kings,

And only meant for such.

To work the loom, to till the soil,
To cut the costly gem-

To tread the round of daily toil

Was quite enough for them.

Time was, when just to read and write Were thought a wondrous deal

For those who wake with morning light
To earn their daily meal.

The man a more submissive slave
The less his head-piece knew ;
And so the mass, from habit, gave
Their birthright to the few.

Now look abroad! the light of Truth
Is spreading far and wide,

And that which fills our English youth
Must shame our ancient pride,

'Tis Mind alone can wield the sword In spite of wealth and rank;

The artizan may face a lord

With thousands in the bank.

We scorn not those of high degree,
For so 'twere wrong to do,
But poorer men as rich can be,
And quite as noble too.

The prince may act a gayer part,

But he who works for bread

May have, perchance, a warmer heart,

And p'rhaps a clearer head.

Then grieve not for the "good old times,"

Behold a brighter day!

The causes of our fathers' crimes

Are wearing fast away.

Before the Pen, the Press, and Rail,

Must old opinions fall;

The mighty project cannot fail

Then aid it, one and all!

TEMPERANCE HYMN.

Ruler of earth, and God of heaven,
By the blessings thou hast given,
Richly to these favoured lands,
Turned to curses in our hands;
By the desolating arts,

Ruined souls and broken hearts,
Pleasures turned to pains, and smiles
To tears, in these our native isles,
With thy strength, and by thy aid
To support the effort made-
We renounce the bowl-and never

Taste the drunkard's draught—for ever.

J. B.