Enough of thorn yet in the pathway of life,

If they travel it long, they will find;

But dim not bright youth with the shadow of strife;
Be kind to the youthful-be kind.

Be kind to the aged-not long at thy side
Hath the travel-worn pilgrim to stay;
The frail thread of life will be shortly untied;
He is passing soon passing away.

Oh! let him not deem that when summoned from earth,

He will leave but cold feelings behind;

Give him still a warm nook of thy heart and thy hearth, Be kind to the aged-be kind.

Be kind to the simple-although the full light

Of genius to thee may be given,

Yet look not with scorn, in the pride of thy might,

On a brother less favoured by heaven.

He is not to be blamed if the God-given ray

Hath but faintly illumined his mind;

Thine own may be quenched by a cloud on the way;
Be kind to the simple-be kind.

Be kind to the erring-full many a heart

Unkindness hath driven astray;

But the breath of reproach may but sharpen the smart That first sent it out of the way.

Ye would not insult with a gibe or a sneer,
The maimed, or the halt, or the blind;
But the ills of the spirit are far more severe;
Be kind to thy fellow-be kind.

LABOUR'S THANKSGIVING HYMN.

ANON.

THAT I must work I thank thee, God!
I know that hardship, toil, and pain,
Like rigorous winter in the sod,

Which doth manure the hardy grain,
Call forth in man his noblest powers:
Therefore, I hold my head erect,
And amid life's severest hours,
Stand stedfast in my self-respect.

I thank thee, God, that I must toil!
Yon ermined slave, of lineage high,
The game-law lord, who owns the soil,
Is not a man so free as I!

He wears the fetter of his clan ;

Wealth, birth, and rank have hedged him in ;

I heed but this-that I am man,

And to the great of mind akin.

C

Thank God, that like the mountain oak,
My lot is with the storms of life;
Strength grows from out the tempest's shock,
And patience in the daily strife.
The hardened hand, the furrowed brow,
Degrade not, howe'er sloth may deem;
'Tis this degrades--to cringe, and bow,
And ape the vice we disesteem.

Thank God for toil, for hardships, whence
Come courage, patience, hardihood;
And for that sad experience

Which leaves our bosoms flesh and blood;
Which leaves us tears for others' woe.
Brother in toil, respect thyself,
And let thy stedfast virtues show
That man is nobler far than pelf.

Thank God for toil; nor fear the face
Of wealth, nor rank-fear only sin,
That blight which mars all outward grace,
And dims the light of peace within.
Give me the hand, my brother, give
The hard yet honest hand to me;
We are not dreamers-we shall live,
A brighter, better day to see.

MARY HOWITT.

Vaires from Slavery.

(SEE FRONTISPIECE.)

Written on reading a Paper by Joseph Sturge, on the aggravated Horrors of the Slave-trade.-October, 1848.

1.-CAPTURE AND EMBARKATION.

HARK! to the cry from Afric's shore,
The mingled sound of strife and battle;
The prisoners come,

Behold their doom ;

A wretched drove of human cattle!

Sold for a draught of liquid fire!
Bartered for toys, that hapless band!
Oh, who can know

The depth of woe

That fills each heart along the strand?

Now packed like bales of senseless ware,
Within the vessel's murky hold;
Close, closer still,

They cram, they fill,—

Oh guilt enormous! crimes untold!

II.-MISERIES AT SEA.

Hark! to the sound that comes from far,

Borne o'er the waves in utterance low,

Deep stifled moans,

And dying groans,

That living freight of human woe!

Now the full vessel courts the wind,

O'er swelling seas they swiftly go;

And fever burns,

And pity spurns,

The palpitating mass below!

But death in mercy thins the ranks ;
Pulse after pulse forgets to beat-

They gasp, they die

In agony,-

In quenchless thirst, and maddening heat!