But thou mayst grant this humble prayer,
Forget me not! forget me not!

Yet, should the thought of my distress
Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express,

Nor ever deign to think on me:
But oh! if grief thy steps attend,
If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend,
Forget me not! forget me not!

HYMN.

There's not a leaf within the bower;
There's not a bird upon the tree;
There's not a dew-drop on the flower,
But bears the impress, Lord! of Thee.

Thy hand the varied leaf design'd,

And gave the bird its thrilling tone:
Thy power the dew-drop's tints combined,
Till like a diamond's blaze they shone.

Yes: dew-drops, leaves, and birds, and all,
The smallest, like the greatest things-
The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball-
Alike proclaim Thee King of Kings.

But man alone to bounteous Heaven
Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise;
To favor'd man alone 'tis given

To join the angelic choir in praise.

54

WAR.

Alas! to think one Christian soul

At War's red shrine can worship still,

Nor heed, though seas of carnage roll,

Those awful words-"THOU SHALT NOT KILL!"

O Lord of all, and Prince of Peace,

Speed, speed the long predicted day,

When War throughout the world shall cease,
And Love shall hold eternal sway!

A LAMENT.

There was an eye, whose partial glance
Could ne'er my numerous failings see;
There was an ear that heard untired
When others spoke in praise of me.
There was a heart time only taught
With warmer love for me to burn;
A heart, whene'er from home I roved,
Which fondly pined for my return.
There was a lip which always breathed
E'en short farewells in tones of sadness;
There was a voice whose eager sound

My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness.
There was a mind whose vigorous power
On mine its own effulgence threw,
And called my humble talents forth,
While thence its dearest joys it drew.

There was a love which for my weal
With anxious fears would overflow;
Which wept, which pray'd, for me, and sought
From future ills to guard-But now!—

That eye is closed, and deaf that ear,

That lip and voice are mute forever;

And cold that heart of anxious love,

Which death alone from mine could sever:

And lost to me that ardent mind,

Which loved my various tasks to see;

And oh! of all the praise I gained,
His was the dearest far to me!

Now I unloved, uncheer'd, alone,

Life's dreary wilderness must tread,
Till He who heals the broken heart
In mercy bids me join the dead.

O Thou! who, from thy throne on high,
Canst heed the mourner's deep distress;
O Thou, who hear'st the widow's cry,
Thou! Father of the fatherless!

Though now I am a faded leaf,

That 's sever'd from its parent tree,

And thrown upon a stormy tide,

Life's awful tide that leads to Thee!

Still, gracious Lord! the voice of praise
Shall spring spontaneous from my breast;

Since, though I tread a weary way,

I trust that he I mourn is blest.

LIES FALSELY CALLED LIES OF BENEVOLENCE.

These are lies which are occasioned by a selfish dread of losing favor, and provoking displeasure by speaking the truth, rather than by real benevolence. Persons, calling themselves benevolent, withhold disagreeable truths, and utter agreeable falsehoods, from a wish to give pleasure, or to avoid giving pain. If you say that you are looking ill, they tell you that you are looking well. If you express a fear that you are growing corpulent, they say you are only just as fat as you ought to be. If you are hoarse in singing, and painfully conscious of it, they declare that they did not perceive it. And this, not from the desire of flattering you, or from the malignant one of wishing to render you ridiculous, by imposing on your credulity, but from the desire of making you pleased with yourself. In short, they lay it down as a rule that you must never scruple to sacrifice the truth, when the alternative is giving the slightest pain or mortification to any one.

I shall leave my readers to decide whether the lies of fear or of benevolence preponderate in the following trifling, but characteristic, anecdote:

A TALE OF POTTED SPRATS.

Most mistresses of families have a family receipt book, and are apt to believe that no receipts are so good as their own.

With one of these notable ladies a young housekeeper went to pass a few days, both at her town and country-house. The hostess was skilled, not only in culinary lore, but in economy; and was in the habit of setting on her table, even when not alone, whatever her taste or carefulness had led her to pot, pickle, or preserve, for occasional use.

Before a meagre family dinner was quite over, a dish of POTTED SPRATS was set before the lady of the house, who, expatiating on their excellence, derived from a family receipt of a century old, pressed her still unsatisfied guest to partake of them.

The dish was as good as much salt and little spice could make it; but it had one peculiarity; it had a strong flavor of garlic, and to garlic the poor guest had a great dislike.

But she was a timid woman; and good breeding, and what she called benevolence, said, "Persevere and swallow," though her palate said, No. "Is it not excellent?" said the hostess. "Very,"

faltered out the half-suffocated guest; and this was lie the first. "Did you ever eat anything like it before?" "Never,” replied the other more firmly; for then she knew that she spoke the truth, and longing to add, "and I hope I never shall eat anything like it again." "I will give you the receipt," said the lady kindly; "it will be of use to you as a young housekeeper; for it is economical, as well as good, and serves to make out, when we have a scrap-dinner. My servants often dine on it." "I wonder you can get any servants to live with you," thought the guest; "but I dare say you do not get any one to stay long!" "You do not, however, eat as if you liked it." "Oh yes, indeed, I do, very much" (lie the second), she replied; "but you forget I have already eaten a good dinner:" (lie the third. Alas! what had benevolence, so called, to answer for on this occasion!)

"Well, I am delighted to find that you like my sprats," said the flattered hostess, while the cloth was removing; adding, "John! do not let those sprats be eaten in the kitchen!" an order which the guest heard with indescribable alarm.

The next day they were to set off for the country-house, or cottage. When they were seated in the carriage, a large box was put in, and the guest fancied she smelt garlic; but

She therefore asked no questions; but tried to enjoy the present, regardless of the future. At a certain distance they stopped to bait the horses. There the guest expected that they should get out, and take some refreshment; but her economical companion, with a shrewd wink of the eye, observed, "I always sit in the carriage on these occasions. If one gets out, the people at the inn expect one to order a luncheon. I therefore take mine with me." So saying, John was summoned to drag the carriage out of sight of the inn windows. He then unpacked the box, took out of it knives and forks, plates, &c., and also a jar, which, impregnating the air with its effluvia, even before it was opened, disclosed to the alarmed guest that its contents were the dreaded sprats!

"Alas!" thought she, "Pandora's box was nothing to this! for in that Hope remained behind; but, at the bottom of this, is Despair!" In vain did the unhappy lady declare (lie the fourth) that "she had no appetite, and (lie the fifth) that she never ate in a morning." Her hostess would take no denial. However, she contrived to get a piece of sprat down, enveloped in bread; and the rest she threw out of the window, when her companion was

looking another way-who, however, on turning round, exclaimed, "So, you have soon despatched the first! let me give you another; do not refuse, because you think they are nearly finished; I assure you there are several left; and (delightful information!) we shall have a fresh supply to-morrow!" However, this time she was allowed to know when she had eaten enough; and the travellers proceeded to their journey's end.

This day, the sprats did not appear at dinner; but, there being only a few left, they were reserved for supper! a meal, of which, this evening, on account of indisposition, the hostess did not partake, and was therefore at liberty to attend entirely to the wants of her guest, who would fain have declined eating also, but it was impossible; she had just declared that she was quite well, and had often owned that she enjoyed a piece of supper after an early dinner. There was therefore no retreat from the maze in which her insincerity had involved her; and eat she must: but, when she again smelt on her plate the nauseous composition which, being near the bottom of the pot, was more disagreeable than ever, human patience and human infirmity could bear no more; the scarcely tasted morsel fell from her lips, and she rushed precipitately into the open air, almost disposed to execrate, in her heart, potted sprats, the good breeding of her officious hostess, and even Benevolence itself.

Some may observe, on reading this story, "What a foolish creature the guest must have been! and how improbable it is that any one should scruple to say, 'The dish is disagreeable;' and, 'I hate garlic!" But it is my conviction that the guest, on this occasion, was only a slightly-exaggerated specimen of the usual conduct of those who have been taught to conduct themselves wholly by the artificial rules of civilized society, of which, generally speaking, falsehood is the basis.

Benevolence is certainly one of the first of virtues; and its result is an amiable aversion to wound the feelings of others, even in trifles; therefore benevolence and politeness may be considered as the same thing; but WORLDLY POLITENESS is only a copy of benevolence. Benevolence is gold: this politeness a paper currency, contrived as its substitute; as society, being aware that benevolence is as rare as it is precious, and that few are able to distinguish, in anything, the false from the true, resolved, in lieu of benevolence, to receive WORLDLY POLITENESS, with all her train of deceitful welcomes, heartless regrets, false approbations, and treacherous smiles; those alluring seemings, which shine around her brow, and enable her to pass for BENEVOLENCE herself.