Where falls the noisy stream,

In many a bubble bright,

Along whose grassy margin gleam

Flowers gaudy to the sight,

There silently I stand,

Watching my angle play,
And eagerly draw to the land
My speckled prey.

Oft, ere the carrion bird has left
His eyrie, the dead tree,

Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft
The cloud in heaven's blue sea,

Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds
To meet the misty day,

My foot hath shaken the bending reeds,
My rod sought out its prey.

And when the Twilight, with a blush
Upon her cheek, goes by,

And Evening's universal hush

Fills all the darkened sky,

And steadily the tapers burn

In villages far away,

Then from the lonely stream I turn

And from the forests gray.

Who is my Neighbor?—ANONYMOUS.

THY neighbor? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door,—
Go thou, and succor him.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares and pain:-
Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;

Widow and orphan, helpless left:-
Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbor? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave,—
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favored than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem

The breaking heart from misery :-
Go, share thy lot with him.

Hymn. Matthew, xxvi. 6-13.-CHRISTIAN MIRROR.

SHE loved her Savior, and to him
Her costliest present brought;

To crown his head, or grace his name,
No gift too rare she thought.

And though the prudent worldling frowned,
And thought the poor bereft,

Christ's humble friend sweet comfort found,
For he approved the gift.

So let the Savior be adored,

And not the poor despised;

Give to the hungry from your hoard,
But all, give all to Christ.

The poor are always with us here.
'Tis our great Father's plan,

That mutual wants and mutual care
May bind us, man to man.

Go, clothe the naked, lead the blind,
Give to the weary rest;

For Sorrow's children comfort find,
And help for all distressed;-

But give to Christ alone thy heart,
Thy faith, thy love supreme;
Then for his sake thine alms impart,
And so give all to Him.

Broken-hearted, weep no more.-EPISCOPAL WATCHMAN.

BROKEN-HEARTED, weep no more!
Hear what comfort He hath spoken,
Smoking flax who ne'er hath quenched,
Bruised reed who ne'er hath broken:-
"Ye who wander here below,
Heavy laden as you go,

Come, with grief, with sin oppressed,
Come to me, and be at rest!'

Lamb of Jesus' blood-bought flock,
Brought again from sin and straying,
Hear the Shepherd's gentle voice-
'Tis a true and faithful saying:-
"Greater love how can there be
Than to yield up life for thee?
Bought with pang, and tear, and sigh,
Turn and live!-why will ye die !"

Broken-hearted, weep no more!
Far from consolation flying;

He who calls hath felt thy wound,

Seen thy weeping, heard thy sighing:

The Sweet Brier.-BRAINARD.

OUR sweet autumnal western-scented wind
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower,

In all the blooming waste it left behind,

As that the sweet brier yields it; and the shower
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower
One half so lovely; yet it grows along

The poor girl's path-way, by the poor man's door.
Such are the simple folks it dwells among;
And humble as the bud, so humble be the song.

I love it, for it takes its untouched stand
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate;
Its sweetness all is of my native land;
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate
Among the perfumes which the rich and great
Buy from the odors of the spicy East.

You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate
The little four-leaved rose that I love best,

That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest?

Mother, what is Death?-MRS. GILMAN.

"MOTHER, how still the baby lies!

I cannot hear his breath;

I cannot see his laughing eyes-
They tell me this is death.

My little work I thought to bring,
And sat down by his bed,
And pleasantly I tried to sing-
They hushed me-he is dead.

They say that he again will rise,
More beautiful than now;

That God will bless him in the skies-
O, mother, tell me how!"

"Daughter, do you remember, dear,
The cold, dark thing you brought,

And laid upon the casement here,—
A withered worm, you thought?

I told you that Almighty power
Could break that withered shell,
And show you, in a future hour,
Something would please you well.

Look at the chrysalis, my love,-
An empty shell it lies;—

Now raise your wondering glance above,
To where yon insect flies!"

"O, yes, mamma! how very gay
Its wings of starry_gold!

And see! it lightly flies away
Beyond my gentle hold.

O, mother, now I know full well,
If God that worm can change,
And draw it from this broken cell,
On golden wings to range,—

How beautiful will brother be,
When God shall give him wings,
Above this dying world to flee,

And live with heavenly things!"

Last Prayers.-MARY ANN BROWNE.

"O, true and fervent are the prayers that breathe Forth from a lip that fades with coming death."

I AM not what I was:

My heart is withered, and my feelings wasted; They sprung too early, like the tender grass That by spring-frost is blasted.

But THOU wilt not believe

How very soon my heart-task will be o'er My heart, whose feelings never can deceive, Is withered at its core.