She felt in her spirit the summons of grace,
That called her to live for the suffering race;
And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home,
Rose quickly like Mary, and answered, "I come."
She put from her person the trappings of pride,
And passed from her home, with the joy of a bride,
Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she moved,-
For her heart was on fire in the cause it approved.
Lost ever to fashion-to vanity lost,
That beauty that once was the song and the toast-
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet,
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat.
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding name,
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame;
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth,
For she barters for heaven the glory of earth.
Those feet that to music could gracefully move,
Now bear her alone on the mission of love;
Those hands that once dangled the perfume and gem
Are tending the helpless, or lifted for them;
That voice that once echoed the song of the vain,
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain;
And the hair that was shining with diamond and pear,
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl.
Her down-bed-a pallet; her trinkets-a bead;
Her luster-one taper that serves her to read;
Her sculpture-the crucifix nailed by her bed;
Her paintings-one print of the thorn-crowned head;
Her cushion-the pavement, that wearies her knees;
Her music-the psalm, or the sigh of disease;
The delicate lady lives mortified there,
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer.
Yet not to the service of heart end of mind,
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin confined,
Like him whom she loves, to the mansions of grief
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief.
She strengthens the weary-she comforts the weak,
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick;
Where want and affliction on mortais attend,
The Sister of Charity there is a frieni.
Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath,
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vaper of death;
Where rings the loud musket, and ashes the sword,
Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord.
How sweetly she bends o'er each plague-tainted face
With looks that are lighted with holiest grace;
How kindly she dresses each suffering limb,
For she sees in the wounded the image of Him.
Behold her, ye worldly! behold her, ye vain!
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and pain;
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and your days,
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise.
Ye lazy philosophers-self-seeking men,—
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen,
How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed
With the life and the deeds of that high-born maid?
A story is told of two artist lovers, both of whom sought the hand of a noted painter's daughter. The question, which of the two should possess himself of the prize so earnestly coveted by both, having come, finally, to the father, he promised to give his child to the one that could paint the best. So each strove for the maiden with the highest skill his genius could command.
One painted a picture of fruit, and displayed it to the father's inspection in a beautiful grove, where gay birds sang sweetly among the foliage, and all nature rejoiced in the luxuriance of bountiful life. Presently the birds came down to the canvas of the young painter, and attempted to eat the fruit he had pictured there. In his surprise and joy at the young artist's skill, the father declared that no one could triumph over that.
Soon, however, the second lover came with his picture, and it was veiled. "Take the veil from your painting," said the old man. "I leave that to you," said the young artist, with simple modesty. The father of the young and lovely maiden then approached the veiled picture and attempted to uncover it. But imagine his astonishment, when, as he attempted to take off the veil, he found the veil itself to be a picture! We need not say who was the lucky lover; for if the artist who deceived the birds by skill in fruit manifested great powers of art, he who could so veil his canvas with the pencil as to deceive a skillful master, was surely the greater artist.
A HELPMATE.-A. MELVILLE BELL.
When bashful single men are " well to do "
The ladies try their best to make them woo;
And, surely, if the man is worth the plot,
And to one's mind, &c., wherefore not?
All wives are "helpmates"; and each would-be wife
Helping to mate proves fit for married life.
The truth of this may not at first appear,
But by a case in point I'll make it clear.
No mortal ever had a better heart,
Or needed more this matrimonial art,
Than Mr. Slow; and many damsels vied
In showing him he would not be denied
If he would only lay aside his fear
And tell-or whisper-what they longed to hear.
Some sent him slippers to advance their suit,
Hoping to catch the lover by the foot;
Some, with a higher aim, his throat would deck
With warm cravat,—to take him by the neck;
Others gave flowers, their passion to disclose,
And even handkerchiefs,-to have him by the nose;
Gloves, cuffs, and mittens were by many planned
With wiles directly leveled at his hand!
But none had found out the successful art
To make this "eligible man" take heart.
He looked the lover, gave expressive sighs,
But only spoke the language of "sheep's eyes."
At last, one maid, who wisely judged the case
And really loved him, met him face to face.
She bantered Mr. Slow upon his ways:
"You need some one, I'm sure, to cheer your days-
Eh? did you speak?"-He could not for his life.
"I often wonder you don't get a wife!
I know some one, I think, who wouldn't frown
If you should ask her!"-O the senseless clown!
He wriggles nervously, plays with his hat,
Looks down and blushes, fumbles his cravat,-
Then seems about to speak-" Go on !"-but no;
He only sighs, and draws a face of woe.
"Are you not well? I fear you don't take care
To wrap yourself from this damp evening air.
Put in this button: there! that draws your coat
Close as a comforter about your throat.-
But I'm afraid you'll think me very bold."
"Oh no; go on!-I'm not afraid-of cold"—
"Why then go on?-I think you hardly know;
But I'll unbutton it if you say so.
"Dear me! I've pulled the butten off, I vow;
If you'd a wife, she'd sew it for you now!"
"I wish that you would "-" Eh?"-" would sew it onAnd something else!"-His modest features shone, But not a word his palsied tongue could frame.
"Well, something else' has surely got a name?"
He covered up his face and whispered this,
"I wish you'd give me something!" "What?" "A kiss!" "Why, Mr. Slow, you are a curious elf;
A man in such a case should help himself!
For if a lady gave one, that would be
Like sealing an engagement,—don't you see?"
"That's what I want!" "Now really! Is it so?
Well, just suppose that I have not said no!"
A maiden's coyness overwhelmed him: "Ah!"
He whispered, blushing, “Thank you: ask papa!"
She laughed outright; though 'twas indeed no joke!
He thought this was the proper form; but spoke
Quite freely now, and had so much to say,
That, ere she left, he made her fix the day!
A little help quite cured his single trouble,
And very soon they loved each other double.
HOLD THE LIGHT.
Ho! thou traveler on life's highway,
Moving carelessly along,—
Pausing not to watch the shadows
Towering o'er the mighty throng;-
Stand aside, and mark how feebly
Some are struggling in the fight,
Turning on thee wistful glances-
Begging thee to hold the light!
Look! upon thy right a brother
Wanders blindly from the way;
And upon thy left a sister,
Frail and erring, turns astray;
One kind word, perchance, may save them—
Guide their wayward steps aright;
Canst thou, then, wit'.hold thy counsel?
No! but fly and hold the light.
Hark! a feeble wail of sorrow
Bursts from the advancing throng; And a little child is groping
Through the darkness, deep and long; Tis a timid orphan, shivering
'Neath misfortune's withering blight; Friends, home, love, are all denied her; Oh! in pity hold the light.
Not alone from heathen darkness,
Where the pagan bows the knee,
Worshipping his brazen image
With a blind idolatry-
Where no blessed Gospel teachings
E'er illume the soul's dark night,
Comes the cry to fellow mortals,
Wild and pleading, “Hold the light!"
Here, as well, in life's broad highway,
Are Lenighted wanderers found;
And if all the strong would heed them,
Lights would glimmer all around.
Acts of love and deeds of kindness
Then would make earth's pathway bright,
And there'd be no need of calling
"Ho! thou traveler, hold the light!”
MEASURING THE BABY.-EMMA ALICE BROWN.
We measured the riotous baby
Against the cottage-wall-
A lily grew on the threshold,
And the boy was just as tall;
A royal tiger-lily,
With spots of purple and gold,
And a heart like a jeweled chalice,
The fragrant dew to hold.
Without, the bluebirds whistled
High up in the old roof-trees,
And to and fro at the window
The red rose rocked her bees;
And the wee pink fists of the baby
Were never a moment still,
Snatching at shine and shadow
That danced on the lattice-sill.
ZZZ⭑
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