In spurning ill rumour,
Reproving wrong done,
And treating but kindly
The heart we have won.

We all might do good,
Whether lowly or great,
For the deed is not gauged
By the purse or estate.
If it be but a cup

Of cold water that's given,
Like the widow's two mites,

It is something for heaven.-A. H. P.

T

THE DYING BOY TO THE SLOE BLOSSOM.

BEFORE thy leaves, thou com'st once more,
White blossom of the sloe!

Thy leaves will come as heretofore,
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.

A month at least before thy time,
Thou com'st, pale flower, to me;
For well thou know'st the frosty rime
Will blast me ere my vernal prime,
No more to be.

Why here in winter? No storm lowers
O'er nature's silent shroud;

But blithe larks meet the sunny showers,
High o'er the doomed, untimely flowers,
In beauty bowed.

Sweet violets in the budding grove
Peep where the glad waves run ;
The wren below, the thrush above,
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love,
Sing to the sun.

And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,
Hears bees chant hymns to God;

The breeze-bowed palm, mossed o'er with gold,
Smiles on the well, in summer cold,
And daisied sod.

But thou, pale blossom, thou art coine,
And flowers in winter blow,

To tell me that the worm makes room
For me, her brother, in the tomb,
And thinks me slow.

For as the rainbow of the dawn
Foretells an eve of tears;

A sunbeam on the saddened lawn,
I smile, and weep to be withdrawn
In early years.

Thy leaves will come! but songful Spring Will see no leaf of mine;

Her bells will ring, her bridesmaids sing, When my young leaves are withering, Where no suns shine.

Oh, might I breathe morn's dewy breath,
When June's sweet Sabbaths chime !

But, thine before my time, O Death,
I go where no flower blossometh,
Before my time!

Even as the blushes of the morn
Vanish, and long ere noon

The dewdrop dieth on the thorn,
So fair I bloomed ; and was I born
To die as soon?

To love my mother, and to die?
To perish in my bloom?

Is this my brief, sad history?
A tear dropped from a mother's eye
Into the tomb !

He lived and loved, will sorrow say?
By early sorrow tried,

He smiled, he sighed, he passed away,
His life was but an April day-
He loved and died.

My mother smiles, then turns away,
But turns away to weep;

They whisper round me--what they say
I need not hear; for in the clay
I soon must sleep.

Oh, love is sorrow! sad it is

To be both tried and true!

I ever trembled in my bliss,
Now there are farewells in a kiss,
They sigh adieu.

But woodbines flaunt when bluebells fade,
Where Don reflects the skies;
And many a youth, in Shire-cliff's shade,
Will ramble where my boyhood played,
Though Alfred dies!

Then panting woods the breeze will feel,
And bowers, as heretofore,

Beneath their load of roses reel ;
But I through woodbined lanes shall steal
No more, no more.

Well, lay me by my brother's side,

Where late we stood and wept ;

For I was stricken when he died,

I felt the arrow as he sighed

His last, and slept.-ELLIOT.

SPEAK GENTLY!

SPEAK gently! it is better far
To rule by love than fear;

Speak gently! let not harsh words mar
The good we might do here.

Speak gently! love doth whisper low The vows that true hearts bind ; And gently Friendship's accents flow, Affection's voice is kind.

Speak gently to the little child,.
Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild-
It may not long remain.

Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear;

Pass through this life as best they may, "Tis full of anxious care.

Speak gently to the aged one,

Grieve not the careworn heart,

The sands of life are nearly run—
Let such in peace depart.