Of what thou hast impart unto thy neighbor;
To others do what they should do to thee.
If thou needst aid, then give thy hearty labor
To make on Want's cold hearth a jubilee.

Like Christ, deny thyself; like him, endeavor
To lift the lowly, though thyself crushed down :
So in his glory shalt thou dwell for ever;

So shalt thou wear an everlasting crown.

O. G. Warren.

HELPING TOGETHER BY PRAYER.

Is thy cruse of comfort wasting?
Rise and share it with another;
And, through all the years of famine,

It shall serve thee and thy brother.
Love divine will fill thy storehouse,
Or thy handful still renew:
Scanty fare for one will often
Make a royal feast for two.

For the heart grows rich in giving;
All its wealth is living grain :
Seeds which mildew in the garner,

Scattered, fill with gold the plain.

Is thy burden hard and heavy?
Do thy steps drag wearily?

Numb and weary on the mountain,
Wouldst thou sleep amid the snow?
Chafe the frozen form beside thee,
And together both shall glow.
Art thou stricken in life's battle?

Many wounded round thee moan:
Lavish on their wounds thy balsams,
And the balm shall heal thine own.

Is the heart a well left empty?

None but God its void can fill ;
Nothing but a ceaseless fountain
Can its ceaseless longing still.
Is the heart a living power?

Self-intwined, its strength sinks low:

It can only live in loving,

And by using love will grow.

SORROW'S CURE.

Wouldst thou from sorrow find a sweet relief?
Or is thy heart oppressed with woes untold?
Balm wouldst thou gather for corroding grief?
Pour blessings round thee like a shower of gold:
'Tis when the rose is wrapt in many a fold,

Close to its heart the worm is wasting there

Its life and beauty; not when, all unrolled, Leaf after leaf, its bosom rich and fair

Breathes freely its perfume throughout the ambient air.

Rouse to some work of high and holy love,

And thou an angel's happiness shalt know;
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above:
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow:
The seed that in these few and fleeting hours

Thy hands unsparing and unwearied sow
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal

bowers.

Carlos Wilcox.