The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;

The wail of famine in beleaguered towns.

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder;
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,
The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals nor forts.

The warrior's name would be a name abhorred !
And every nation that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for ever more the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear, once more, the voice of Christ say

"Peace!"

Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,

The holy melodies of love arise.

W. H. LONGFELLOW.

GENTLE WORDS.

A young rose in the summer time

Is beautiful to me,

And glorious the many stars

That glimmer on the sea;

But gentle words, and loving hearts,
And hands to clasp my own,
Are better than the brightest flowers,

Or stars that ever shone.

The sun may warm the grass to life,
The dew the drooping flower;

And eyes grow bright, and watch the light
Of Autumn's opening hour;

But words that breathe of tenderness,

And smiles we know are true,

Are warmer than the summer-time,
And brighter than the dew.

It is not much the world can give,
With all its subtle art,

And gold and gems are not the things

To satisfy the heart;

But, oh! if those who cluster round

The altar and the hearth,

Have gentle words, and loving smiles,
How beautiful is earth.

C. D. STEWART.

ANGRY WORDS.

Angry words are lightly spoken,
In a rash and thoughtless hour;
Brightest links of life are broken
By their deep insidious power.
Hearts inspired by warmest feeling,
Ne'er before by anger stirred,
Oft are rent past human healing,
By a single angry word.

Poison-drops of care and sorrow,
Bitter poison-drops are they,
Weaving for the coming morrow,
Saddest memories of to-day.

Angry words! oh, let them never
From the tongue unbridled slip;
May the heart's best impulse ever
Check them, ere they soil the lip.

Love is much too pure and holy;
Friendship is too sacred far,
For a moment's reckless folly
Thus to desolate and mar.
Angry words are lightly spoken ;
Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred;
Brightest links of life are broken,
By a single angry word.

J. MIDDLETON.

MRS. FRY'S FAREWELL VISIT TO THE FEMALE CONVICT SHIP, "MARIA," OFF DEPTFORD.

"She stood at the door of the cabin, attended by her friends and the captain; the women on the quarter-deck facing them. The sailors, anxious to see what was going on, clambered into the rigging, on to the capstan, or mingled in the outskirts of the group. The silence was profound,-when Mrs. Fry opened her Bible, and, in a clear, audible voice, read a portion from it. The crews of the other vessels in the tiers, attracted by the novelty of the scene, leant over the ships on either side, and listened apparently with great attention. She closed the Bible, and, after a short pause, knelt down on the deck and implored a blessing on this work of Christian charity. Many

of the women wept bitterly-all seemed touched: when she left the ship, they followed her with their eyes and their blessings, until her boat having passed within another tier of vessels, they could see her no more."-Life of Mrs. Fry, vol. ii. p. 321.

HARK! it is the voice of prayer,

From a bark of sin and woe;
Who is she that kneeleth there?
Who is she, so meek and fair?
Ah! yon weeping women know.

They, a dark, degraded band,
Yielding to the tempter, fell;
They are stamped with felon's brand,
Outcasts from their fatherland,

Dwellers long in convict-cell.

Man despised-but Jesus bent
Yearning o'er the prisoner's groan;
Mercy to their aid He sent,
At His word His servant went,
Breathing love on hearts of stone.

Delicate, and soft, and fair,

From her lovely home she fled-
Dying souls' distress to share,
And the dwelling of despair

Thrilled as at an angel's tread.