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FORBEARANCE.

CONDITION OF MAN.

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FORBEARANCE. All that is good and great in the universe is on the side of clemency and mercy. If we look into the history of mankind, we shall find that in every age, those who have been respected as worthy have been distinguished for this virtue.

Revenge dwells in little minds; a noble and magnanimous spirit is superior to it. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by the impotent assaults of our enemies; and with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy conduct.

Anger and revenge are uneasy passions; “hence,” says Seed,“ it appears that the command of loving your enemies, which has been thought a hard saying, and impossible to be fulfilled, is really no more when resolved into its first principles, than bidding us to be at peace with ourselves, which we cannot be, so long as we continue at enmity with others."

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VIN

DICATED.
HEAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescribed, their present state,
Oh! blindness to the future ! kindly given,
That each may fill the circle mark'd by heaven.
Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher death; and God adore.
What future bliss he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blest.

TO A DEAR LITTLE BOY, AFTER AN IN

TERVAL OF ABSENCE.
I miss thee from my side

With thy merry eyes and blue;
From thy crib at morning tide,

Oft its curtains peeping through ;
In the kisses, not a few,

Thou wert wont to give me then ;
In thy sleepy, sad adieu,

When 't was time for bed again.
I miss thee from my side,

When the dinner bustle 's o'er;
When the orange I divide,

Or extract the apple's core;
What avails my hoarded store

Of barley sugar, comfits sweet ;
Thou art by my side no more ;

Vacant is thy wonted seat!
I miss thee from my side,

With thy query oft repeated;
On thy rocking horse astride,

Or beneath my table seated;
Or when tired and overheated,

With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,

Sleep hath overpowered thee quite !
I miss thee from my side

When brisk Punch is at the door;
Vainly pummels he his bride, –

Judy's wrongs can charm no more !
He may beat her till she's sore,

She may die, and he may flee;
Though I loved their squalls of yore,

What's the pageant now to me!

I miss thee from my side

When the light of day grows pale; When with eyelids opened wide,

Thou wouldst list the oft-told tale, And the murdered babes bewail ;

Yet so greedy of thy pain, That when all my lore would fail,

I must needs begin again. I miss thee from my side

In the haunts that late were thine; Where thy twinkling feet would glide,

And thy clasping fingers twine ;Here are checkered tumblers nine,

Silent relics of thy play ;Here the mimic tea-things shine,

Thou wouldst wash the livelong day!

Thy drum hangs on the wall;

The bird-organ sounds are o'er; Dogs and horses, great and small

Wanting some a leg or more ; Cow's and sheep, - a motley store

All are stabled near thy bed; And not one but can restore

Memories sweet of him that's fled!

I miss thee from my side,
Blithe cricket of

my

hearth! Oft in secret I have sigh'd

For thy chirping voice of mirth : When the low-born cares of earth

Chill my heart, or dim my eye, Grief is stifled in its birth,

If my little prattler 's nigh!

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I miss thee from my side,

With thy bright ingenuous smile ;
With thy glance of infant pride,

And the face no tears defile;
Stay, and other hearts beguile,

Hearts that prize thee fondly too ;
I must spare thy pranks awhile ;

Cricket of my hearth, adieu !

THE FROZEN DOVE. Away from the path! silly dove,

Where the foot that may carelessly tread Will crush thee! What! dost thou not move ?

Alas! thou art stiffened and dead ! Allured by the brightness of day,

To sink mid the shadows of night, Too far from the cote thou didst stray,

And sadly hast ended thy flight ! For, thus, with the snow at thy breast,

With thy wing folded close to thy side, And couched in the semblance of rest,

Alone of the cold thou hast died !

Poor Bird! thou hast pictured the fate

Of inany in life's sunny day,
Who, trusting, have found but too late,

How fortune can smile to betray.
How oft, for illusions that shine

In a cold and a pitiless world, Bewilder'd and palsied, like thine,

Has the wing of the spirit been furl'd. The heart the most tender and light,

In its warmth to the earth has been thrown, With the chill of adversity's night,

To suffer and perish alone.

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

A FABLE.

In other men, we faults can spy, And blame the mote that dims their eye, Each little speck and blemish find; To our own stronger errors blind. A turkey, tired of common food, Forsook the barn, and sought the wood; Behind her ran an infant train, Collecting here and there a grain. Draw near, my birds,” the mother cries, This hill delicious fare supplies. Behold the busy creeping race, See millions blacken all the place! Fear not, like me, with freedom eat; An ant is most delightful meat. How bless'd, how envied were our life, Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife! But man, harsh man, on turkeys preys, And Christmas shortens all our days, Sometimes with oysters we combine, Sometimes assist the savory chine. From the low peasant to the lord. The turkey smokes on every board. Sure men for gluttony are curst, Of the seven deadly sins the worst.” An ant who climbed beyond his reach, Thus answered from the neighboring beech : Ere you remark another's sin, Bid thy own conscience look within. Control thy more voracious bill, Nor for a breakfast nations kill.”

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