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VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

entered a house occupied by fifteen families. In the corner of one room, on a heap of rags, lay a woman with a babe, three days old, without food or fire. In another very small apartment, was an aged, weather-beaten woman. She pointed to an old basket of pins and tape, as she said, "For sixteen years I have carried that basket on my arm, through the streets of New York; and often have I come home with weary feet, without money enough to buy my supper. But we must always pay our rent in advance, whether we have a loaf of bread to eat or not." Seeing the bed without clothing, her visiter inquired how she slept. "Oh the house is very leaky. The wind whistles through and through, and the rain and snow come driving in. When any of us are sick, or the weather is extra cold, we lend our bedding, and some of us sit up while others get a nap." As she spoke, a ragged little girl came in to say, " Mammy wants to know whether you will lend her your fork?" "To be sure, I will, dear," she replied, in the heartiest tone imaginable. She would have been less generous, had her fork been a silver one. Her visiter smiled as he said, I suppose you borrow your neighbor's knife, in return for your fork?" “Oh, yes,” she replied; "and she is as willing to lend as I am. We poor folks must help one another. It is all the comfort we have." The kind-hearted creature did not know, perhaps, that it was precisely such comfort as the angels have in heaven; only theirs is without the drawback of physical suffering and limited means.

I have said that these families, owning a knife and fork between them, and loaning their bedclothes after a day of toil, were always compelled to pay their rent in advance. Upon adding together the sums paid by each, for accommodations so wretched, it was found that the income from that dilapidated building, in a filthy and crowded street, was greater than the rent of many a princely mansion in Broadway. This mode of oppressing the poor, is a crying sin, in our city. A benevolent rich man could not make a better investment of capital, than to build tenements for the laboring class, and let them on reasonable terms.

This Christmas tour of observation, has suggested to my mind many thoughts concerning the present relations of labor and capital. But I forbear; for I see that this path, like every other, "if you do but follow it, leads to the end of the world." I had rather dwell on the perpetual efforts of Divine Providence to equalize what the selfishness of man strives to make unequal. If the poor have fewer pleasures than the rich, they enjoy them more keenly; if they have not that consideration in society, which brings with it so many advantages, they avoid the irksome slavery of conventional forms; and what exercise of the benevolent sympathies could a rich man enjoy, in making the most magnificent Christmas gift, compared with the beautiful self-denial which lends its

last blanket, that another may sleep? That there should exist the necessity for such sacrifices, what does it say to us concerning the structure of society, on this Christmas day, nearly two thousand years after the advent of Him, who said, "God is your father, and all ye are brethren"?

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd; And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life.blood of her braveGushed, warm with hope and valor yet,

Upon the soil they fought to save. Now all is calm and fresh and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talk of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard. No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought-but thou,

Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now,
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long
Through weary day and weary year;
A wild and many-weaponed throng
Hang on thy front and flank and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof,

And blench not at thy chosen lot;
The timid good may stand aloof,
The sage may frown-yet faint thou not!
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,-

The hissing, stinging bolt of scorn;
For with thy side shall dwell, at last,
The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;
The eternal years of God are her's;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When those who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave!

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Star after star looked glimmering down,
As in the night he sat alone:
And in the firmament of mind

Thought after thought upon him shone.

An inner sky did sometimes seem

To show him truths of deepest worth,
Which custom's daylight long had dimmed,
Or sense had clouded in their birth.

And well he knew the world was dark,
And few would hear what he could tell,
And fewer still would sit with him

And watch that sky he loved so well.

One solitary soul he seemed

And yet he knew that all might see The orbs that showed to him alone The fulness of their majesty.

He knew that all the silent scorn

Which now in meekness he must bear, Would change to worship when his ear No longer was a list'ner there.

And when the cold and rugged sod

Had pressed the brain that toiled for them, That on his statue men would hang

The unavailing diadem.

All this he felt, and yet his faith,
In uncomplaining silence, kept
With starry Truth its vigils brave,

While all his brothers round him slept.
They slept and would not wake—until

The distant lights that fixed his gaze,
Came moving on, and spread abroad
The glory of a noontide blaze.

And then they started from their dreams,
And slowly oped their leaden eyes,
And saw the light whose splendors now
Are darting through the azure skies.
Then turned and sought for him whose name
They in their sleep had mocked and cursed,
But he had left them long before

The vision on their souls had burst.

And underneath the sod he lay,

Now all bedued with fruitful tears; And they could only deck the tomb

That told of his neglected years.

A LONDON LYRIC.

EY BARRY CORNWALL."

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She who is slain 'neath the winter weather-
Ah, she once had a village fame,
Listened to love on the moonlit heather,

Had gentleness-vanity-maiden shame.
Now her allies are the tempests howling,
Prodigal's curses-self disdain,
Poverty-misery-Well, no matter,

There is an end unto every pain.
The harlot's fame was her doom to-day,

Disdain-despair; by to-morrow's light
The ragged boards and the pauper's pall;
And so she'll be given to dusky night.
Without a tear or a human sigh,

She's gone-poor life and it's "fever" o'er; So-let her in calm oblivion lie,

While the world runs merry as heretofore!

(Within.)

He who yon lordly feast enjoyeth,

He who doth rest on his couch of down,

He it was who threw the forsaken

Under the feet of the trampling town. Liar-betrayer-false as cruel

What is the doom for his dastard sin?

His peers, they scorn?-high dames, they shun him? Unbar yon palace and gaze within.

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VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

There yet the deeds are all trumpet sounded-
There, upon silken seats recline
Maidens as fair as the summer morning,

Watching him rise from the sparkling wine.
Mothers all proffer their stainless daughters;
Men of high honor salute him "friend;"
Skies! Oh, where are your cleansing waters?
World! oh, where do thy wonders end?

BLANKETS.

To be read on a cold night in November.

BY "OLD HUMPHREY."

Help me my young friends! Help me, for the poor stand in need of comfort: let us try to do them

a kindness.

How the casements rattle! and hark, how the bitter, biting blast whistles among the trees! It is very cold, and soon will be colder. I could shiver at the thought of winter, when the icicles hang from the water-butt, when the snow lies deep upon the ground, and the cold, cold wind seems to freeze the heart as well as the finger ends.

Yet, after all, the darkest night, the bitterest blast, and the rudest storm confer some benefit, for they make us thankful for the roof that covers us, the fire that warms us, and for the grateful influence of a comfortable bed.

Oh the luxury of a good, thick, warm pair of blankets, when the wintry blast roars in the chimney, while the feathery flakes of snow are flying abroad, and the sharp hail patters against the windowpanes!

Did you ever travel a hundred miles on the outside of a coach, on a sharp frosty night; your eyes stiffened, your face smarting, and your body halfpetrified! Did you ever keep watch in December in the open air, till the more than midnight blast had pinched all your features into sharpness; till your feet were cold as a stone, and the very stars appeared as if frozen to the sky? If you have never borne these things, I have; but what are they compared with the trials that some people have to endure?

Who can tell the sufferings of thousands of poor people in winter, from the want of warm bedclothes! and who can describe the comfort that a pair or two of blankets communicate to a destitute family! How often have I seen the wretched children of a wretched habitation, huddling together on the floor, beneath a ragged great-coat, or flimsy petticoat, striving to derive that warmth from each other which their scanty covering failed to supply! In many places, benevolent persons give or lend blankets to the poor, and thus confer a benefit, the value of which can hardly be told. May they be abundantly repaid by the grace of that Saviour who

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said, when speaking of kindnesses done to his disciples, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

Think of these things now, for it will be of no use to reflect on them in summer. Charity is never so cordial as when it feels the misery it relieves ; while you feel the cold, then do something to protect others from the inclemency of the season. It is enough to be ill-fed, and ill-clothed, and to sit bending over a dying fire without a handful of fuel to revive it; but after that to pass the night without a blanket for a covering, must indeed be terrible.

See in the sharpest night the poor old man, over whose head threescore and ten winters have rolled,

climbing with difficulty his narrow staircase, to
See
creep beneath his thin and ragged coverlet !
the aged widow, once lulled in the lap of luxury, but
now girt around with trials, in fastings often, in
cold, and almost nakedness, worn by poverty to the
very bones, stretching her cramped limbs upon her
bundle of straw! Fancy,- but why fancy what
you know to be true?—these poor, aged, miserable
beings have to shiver through the live-long night,
when a blanket would gird them round with comfort.
I could weep at such miseries as these,-miseries
which so small an effort might relieve. The table-
crumbs of the rich would make a banquet for the
poor, and the spare remnants of their clothing would
defend them from the cold.

Come, come, reader! you are not without some feeling of pity and affection for your fellow creatures. Be not satisfied in wishing them well; let something be done for their welfare,

If there be a heart within you, if you have a soul that ever offered up an expression of thanksgiving for the manifold mercies which your heavenly Father has bestowed upon you, then sympathize with the wretched, and relieve, according to your ability, the wants of the destitute. Let me beseech you to do something this very winter towards enabling some poor, aged, helpless, or friendless person, who is slenderly provided for, to purchase a blanket. You will not sleep the less comfortably, when you reflect that some shivering wretch has been, by your assistance, enabled to pass the wintry night in comfort. It is not a great thing that is required; do what you can, but do something. Let me not plead in vain; and shame betide me if I neglect to do myself the thing that I recommend to you to perform.

Did you ever lie snug and warm in bleak December, the bed-clothes drawn close round your neck, and your nightcap pulled over your ears, listening to the midnight blast, and exulting in the grateful glow of your delightful snuggery? I know you have, and I trust, too, that the very reading of these remarks will affect your hearts, and dispose yon to some gentle deed of charity" towards those who are destitute of such an enjoyment.

VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

Now, then, while the subject is before you, while you look round on your manifold comforts, while you feel the nipping and frosty air, resolve, aye, and act, in a way that will bless others, and give comfort to your own heart.

Youth and health may rejoice in frost and snow, and while the warm blood rushes through the exulting frame, we can smile at the wintry blast; but age, sickness, and infirmity, can take no exercise sufficient to quicken the sluggish current of their veins. Wrap them round, then, with your charity; help them to obtain a pair of warm blankets, and the blessing of the widow and the fatherless, the aged and infirm, the destitute, and those ready to perish, shall rest upon you.

TRUE REST.

Sweet is the pleasure,
Itself cannot spoil!

Is not true leisure

One with true toil?

Thou that wouldst taste it,
Still do thy best;
Use it, not waste it,
Else 'tis no rest.

Wouldst behold beauty
Near thee? all round?

Only hath duty

Such a sight found.

Rest is not quitting

The busy career;

Rest is the fitting

Of self to its sphere.

'Tis the brook's motion,
Clear without strife,
Fleeing to ocean
After its life.

Deeper devotion

Nowhere hath knelt; Fuller emotion

Heart never felt.

'Tis loving and serving The highest and best! 'Tis ONWARDS' unswerving, And that is true rest.

THE MOURNERS.

BY CAROLINE E. S. NORTON.

Low she lies, who blest our eyes

Through many a sunny day; · She may not smile, she will not rise,— The life hath passed away!

Yet there is a world of light beyond,

Where we neither die nor sleep; She is there of whom our souls were found,Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,

She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,

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Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow,—
Then wherefore do we weep?

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,

As it lightly touched the ground.

The echoes of voice and step are gone,

There is silence still and deep;

Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne,-
Then wherefore do we weep?

The cheek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,
That lies like a shadow there,

Were beautiful in the eyes of all,

And her glossy golden hair!

But though that lid may never wake

From its dark and dreamless sleep;

She is gone where young hearts do not break,Then wherefore do we weep?

That world of light with joy is bright;

This is a world of wo :

Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,

Because we dwell below?

We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God,-
Ah! wherefore do we weep?

MY MOTHER.

BY "OLD HUMPHREY."

Whether you have, or have not a mother, my present address will not be unsuitable.

With whatever respect and admiration a child may regard a father, whose example has called forth his energies and animated him in his various pursuits, he turns with greater affection, and intenser love, to a kind-hearted mother. The same emotion follows him through life, and when the changing vicissitudes of after years have removed his parents from him, seldom does the remembrance of his mother occur to his mind, unaccompanied by the most affectionate recollections.

Show me a man, though his brow be furrowed, and his hair grey, who has forgotten his mother, and I shall suspect that something is going on wrong within him; either his memory is impaired, or a hard heart is beating in his bosom. "My Mother"

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VOICES OF THE TRUE-HEARTED.

is an expression of music and melody that takes us back agian to the days of our childhood, places us once more kneeling in the soft lap of a tender parent, and lifts up our little hands in morning and evening prayer.

For my own part, I never think of my mother, without thinking, at the same time, of unnumbered kindnesses, exercised not towards me only, but to all around her. From my earliest years, I can remember that the moment her eye caught the common beggar, her hand mechanically fumbled in her pocket. No shoeless and stockingless Irish-woman, with her cluster of dirty children, could pass unnoticed by her; and no weary and way worn traveller could rest on the mile-stone opposite our habitation, without being beckoned across to satisfy his hunger and thirst. No doubt she assisted many who were unworthy, for she relieved all within her influence.

"Careless their merits or their faults to scan

Her pity gave ere charity began."

Had her kindness, like that of many, been confined to good counsel, or the mere act of giving what she had to bestow, it would not have been that charity which beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things," 1 Cor. xiii. 7. Her benevolence was uniform and unceasing; it was a part of her character. In benefiting another, difficulty only increased her desire and determination to be useful. She was one who searched out" the cause that she knew not; her pen addressed the peer, and her feet trod the threshold of the pauper, with equal alacrity in the cause of charity. To be occupied in relieving the poor, and pleading the cause of the friendless, was medicine to her body and mind.

No child could cry, no accident take place, no sickness occur, without my mother hastening off to render assistance. She had her piques and her prejudices; she never pretended to love those whom she did not like; and she remembered, perhaps too keenly, an act of unkindness, but kindness was the reigning emotion of her heart.

Reader, if you think that I have said enough, bear with me; remember, I am speaking of my mother. Among the many sons and daughters of affliction, whose hearts were made glad by her benevolence, was a poor widow of the name of Winn, who resided in an almshouse; my mother had known her in her childhood. Often have I gazed on the aged woman, as she shaped her tottering steps, leaning on a stick, towards our dwelling. A weekly allowance, a kind welcome, and a good dinner, once a week, were hers to the close of her existence. She had a grateful heart, and the blessing of her who was " ready to perish," literally rested on my mother.

I could weary you with instances of my mother's kindness of heart; one more, and I have done.

With her trowel in her hand, my mother was busily engaged, one day, among the shrubs and flowers of her little garden, and listening with pleasure to the sound of a band of music, which poured around a cheerful air from a neighbouring barrack-yard, where a troop or two of soldiers were quartered; when a neighbour stepped into the garden to tell her, that a soldier was then being flogged, and that the band only played to drown the cries of the suffering ofNot a word was spoken by my agitated parent; down dropped her trowel on the ground, and away she ran into the house, shutting herself up, and bursting into tears. The garden was forgotten, the pleasure had vanished, and music had turned into mourning in the bosom of my mother.

fender.

Reader! have you a mother? If you have, call to mind her forbearance, her kindness, her love. Try also to return them by acts of affection, that when the future years shall arrive, when the green sod shall be springing over the resting-place of a kindhearted parent, you may feel no accusing pang when you hear the endearing expression, My Mother!

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drowned! drowned!"- Hamlet.
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully-
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny,
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonor,

Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers
One of Eve's family-
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.

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