Which now afar o'er many a vale and mountain, Bids welcome to thy bright and sunny fountain, Thou, from whose garments, dyed in blood for ages, Thou, whose dark story traced on history's pages, Through the dim light of half-forgotten story, Flinging a shadow on thy wreath of glory, From the dark days of priestly pomp and When the stern Guise held sway, power, And the dark brand which stained the midnight hour, Dared not the light of day; From the sad tale of murdered Huguenot, When the fierce purple flood Through thy dark streets still flowed, and ceasing not, Trace we the links which slowly still unwinding, In one wide ruin peer and peasant binding, Sweet are those murmurs through the calm air ringing; Bright earth, rejoice! Even from blood-steeped Paris hope is springingHail, cheering voice! For glad words, once with angel music blending, “Peace through all regions of the world extending, Good will to men!" LOVE YOUR ENEMIES. ANGRY looks can do no good, And blows are dealt in blindness; If spoken but in kindness. Simple love far more hath wrought Or oaths that men have uttered. Friendship oft would longer last, LYDIA. Foolish things are frowns and sneers, Than let another feel them. WHAT MIGHT BE DONE? WHAT might be done, if men were wise, In love and right, And cease their scorn of one another? Oppression's heart might be imbued From shore to shore, Light on the eyes of mental blindness. All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, To each man born, Be free as warmth in summer weather. J. B. The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, In self-respect, And share the teeming world to-morrow. What might be done? This might be done, And more than this, my suffering brotherMore than the tongue E'er said or sung, If men were wise, and loved each other. C. MACKAY. THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. To weary hearts, to mourning homes, There's quiet in that angel's glance- Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; He kindly learns us to endure. Angel of patience! sent to calm Oh, thou who mournest on thy way, J. G. WHITTIER. THE WORKERS. WHо blushes for labour-for honest toil? It is nobler far to till the soil, Than simply to own the land. Uncultur'd by man, only briers and thorns But blest with his labour the wilderness blooms, |