REGARD DUE TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS.

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REGARD DUE TO THE FEELINGS OF OTHERS.

There is a plant, that in its cell

All trembling seems to stand,

And bends its stalk and folds its leaves
From each approaching hand.

And thus there is a conscious nerve
Within the human breast,

That from the rash and careless hand
Sinks and retires distrest.

The pressure rude, the touch severe,
Will raise within the mind

A nameless thrill, a secret tear,

Oh,

A torture undefined.

you

who are by nature form'd,

Each thought refined to know!

Repress the word, the glance that wakes

That trembling nerve to woe.

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A MOTHER'S LOVE.

And be it still your joy to raise
The trembler from the shade,
To bind the broken, and to heal
The wound you never made.

Whene'er you see the feeling mind,
Oh, let this care begin;

And though the cell be ne'er so low,
Respect the guest within.

L. HUNTLEY.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

[Translated from the Portugese, by F. HEMANS.]

The brightness of a mother's love

Can never pass away,

It watcheth, like the brooding dove,
From even-tide till day.

It sitteth by the couch of pain
With quiet placid eye;

'T is free from every dark'ning stain

Of man's infirmity.

STANZAS.

A mother's love! oh who may breathe-
Oh, who may tell its worth!

Its patient suffering until death,

E'en from our childhood's birth?
'T is changeless, fathomless, and deep;
It is its lot to sigh,

To wake, and watch our feverish sleep,
When none save God is nigh.

STANZAS

[Suggested by a drawing of Felix Neff's Alpine Church.]

Thou dwellest not in temples made

By human hands alone,

Earth is thy footstool, thou hast said,

And Heaven above thy throne;

Yet grateful is it, Lord! to see

Each house of prayer built up to thee.

Amid the crowded city's din,

Such, when they meet our gaze, Inviting all to enter in,

To offer prayer or praise ;These wheresoever they may be Are silent witnesses for thee.

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For mid the toil, and care, and strife,
In which we breathe and live,
These speak of that more hidden life
Which thou alone canst give;
And touch of thought a holier key
Which bids the spirit turn to thee.

If such their charms met in the maze
Of this world's full career;

Are they less vocal to thy praise

In scenes to silence dear,

Where thought is hush'd and feeling free

In quietness to worship thee?

Hence is this humble temple rear'd

In Alpine solitude,

By one who loved thy name and fear'd,
With eloquence imbued

To touch the heart and bend the knee
In praise and thankfulness to thee.

Thy word of gracious promise shews,
That in a day to come,

Deserts shall blossom as the rose,

And lonely places—dumb,

Should shout and sing with joyful glee,
Gladden'd and glorified by thee.

THE FREED BIRD.

Hasten, O Lord, that happy day!
And may each house of prayer,
Built up thy goodness to display,
Thy blessing richly share;
Till as the waters fill the sea

Earth may be full of praise to Thee.

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B. BARTON.

THE FREED BIRD.

Return, return

my Bird!

I have dress'd thy cage with flowers,

'Tis lovely as a violet bank

In the heart of forest bowers.

“I am free, I am free, I return no more!
The weary time of the cage is o'er!
Through the rolling clouds I can soar on high,
The sky is around me, the blue bright sky!

"The hills lie beneath me spread far and clear,

With their glowing heath flowers and bounding deer;

I see the waves flash on the sunny shore

Woo me not back, I return no more!"

D