INGRATITUDE is a crime so shameful that there never was a man found who would own himself guilty of it. Great minds, like heaven, are pleased with doing good, though the ungrateful subjects of their favors are barren in return. He that promotes gratitude pleads the cause both of God and man, for without it we can neither be sociable nor religious.

Miss Burney.

A CHILD of charity I knew of yore,

Whose steps ne'er turned from poverty's low door,
But, aye, his angel form was seen among

The saddest moaners of her wither'd throng;
Whose means were scanty, as his will was wide,
Which oft with haste slow prudence would outstride.
Methinks I see him take his lonely way,
While evening sheds a sympathizing ray,

To beam his smiles of love o'er sorrow's hour
And soothe the vex'd heart with a mother's pow'r,
Gentle his manners, and his chaste looks move,
Ethereal mildness of a Christian's love;

And quick the tear starts to his soft blue eye

He, the Samaritan to misery!

Tho' young, yet ag'd in care, for he has known

The bitter meaning of misfortune's groan,

And though sure conq'ring, yet has learn'd to sigh Beneath the sway of old adversity!

1 see him pass upon his solemn task,

While the still flocks beneath the slant rays bask,

His 'custom'd morning past in studies calm,
Which soothing letters yield, of heav'nly balm;
His heart attun'd, by godlike minds of old,
Fair deed of hope and charity to mould;
I see him now beneath the lowly shed,
Where winters, e'en in June, the damp, cold bed,
His lowly offering of mercy giv'n,-

Dearer than thousands to the sight of heav'n;
Bending the gaze of comfort and of care,

While uttering soft the sorrow-chasing pray'r.

Then with the fire of the sacred song,

Kindling the ray divine, ne'er quenched tho' clouded long!
Dear son of mercy! thy bright lamp of light
Shines all unheeded by the sons of night;-
Yet oft young angels watching from above,
Do murmur blessings on its light of love;
And from their realms of joy breathe forth a sigh,
Drawn from the wells of holy sympathy!
Thine the reward-the Sabbath of thy breast
Hath ever music in its lonely rest;

Thy pensive brow, thy calm but earnest eye,
Show the sure signs of inward harmony!
Telling of solemn breathing thoughts that find
An earthly paradise in thy pure mind,
Shadowing a soul that owns no low desire,
But which faith girt to heaven doth aspire!
Low malice broods not o'er thy sacred days,
And souring envy shrinks beneath thy gaze.
When'er thy path the grateful rays extend,
Blessing with light of thanks, misfortune's friend,
And to thy heart in watchful solitude,

Sweet echo murmurs whisp'ring gratitude!
George Wingfield.

G

THEY who are accustomed to consider themselves as interested in the happiness and misery of others, will gradually extend their regards till they feel for all mankind. Whilst the soul on which natural sympathy has no influence can never perceive the finer touches of humanity. As the heart hardens, it contracts its benevolence, till the whole centres in itself only. How little do they understand the true springs of devotion who think that every step by which they retire from the world is an approach to God! He who is sincere will perceive, that gratitude to God, as well as love to men, requires his attention to the duties of a good citizen and a good subject; for to enjoy and perpetuate the gifts of heaven, is to thank the Giver.

Rev. Dr. Samuel Powell.

WHAT meaneth this restlessness of our nature? What meaneth this unceasing activity which longs for exercise and employment, even after every object is gained which first roused it to enterprise? What mean those immeasurable longings, which no gratification can extinguish, and which still continue to agitate the heart of man, even in the fulness of plenty and of enjoyment? If they mean anything at all, they mean, that all which the world can offer is not enough to fill

up his capacity for happiness; that time is too small for him, and he is born for something beyond it; that the scene of his earthly existence is too limited, and he is formed to expatiate in a wider and a grander theatre; that a nobler destiny is reserved for him, and that to accomplish the purpose of his being he must soar above the littleness of the world and aim at a higher prize.

It forms the peculiar honor and excellence of religion, that it accommodates to this property of our nature; that it holds out a prize suitable to our high calling; that there is a grandeur in its objects, which can fill and surpass the imagination; that it dignifies the present scene by connecting it with eternity; that it reveals to the eye of faith the glories of an unperishable world.

Never forget that the way to maintain peace of conscience is also the way to maintain purity of character. Chalmers.

EVERY spark of a good thought should be blown into a flame, and produce a suitable practice in our lives and conversation.

THY neighbor, who? Son of the wild?
"All who with me the desert roam,
The freemen sprung from Abram's child,

Nelson.

Whose steeds with mine have drank the well Of Hagar and of Ishmael."

Who were thy neighbors? Name them thou,
The sire of academic lore;

There's something on thy noble brow
Bespeaks a spirit that can soar;
The echoes tell, while Plato smiles,
"The free of Doric lands and isles."

Who is our neighbor? Ask at Rome
The marble bust, the mouldering heaps,
At Ctesiphon, the Parthian's home;
His bow 's now broke, his charger sleeps,
At every mound that awes or shocks
From Indus to the Grampian rocks.

A voice comes o'er the northern wave,
A voice from many a palmy shore,
Our neighbor who? "The free, the brave,
Our brother clansmen red with gore,
Who battled on our left and right
With fierce good will and giant might."

Who then's our neighbor? Son of God
In meekness and in mildness come!
O! shed the light of life abroad,
And burst the cerements of the tomb!
Then bid earth's rising myriads move
From land to land on wings of love.

Our neighbor's home's in every clime,
Of sun-bright tint, or darker hue,
The home of man since ancient time,
The bright green isles, 'mid ocean's blue;