A feeling yet without a naine,

Each sordid thought of self above, Warmer than Friendship's wavering flame, Yet softer than the fires of Love!

No change of purpose has the power
To bid him hate where once he loved;
Though Reason may condemn the hour
That once the pulse of rapture moved.

And I, by minstrel arts beguiled,

Have felt these passions, wild and strong, Though seldom have the muses smiled Propitious on my artless song.

And Mary, sure I need not say

That I have loved, and loved in vain; Though Science now has strewn my way With joys that lull the sense of pain.

Years have rolled by since last we met,
No longer Love enthralls my mind;
Yet charms I never can forget,

Are cherish'd where they once were shrined.

Passions in all their wildness felt,

Now with more sober feelings join,

Changed only as alloyers melt

Pure gold into a lighter coin.

When sickening oft at hope deferr'd,
My wounded spirit sought relief,

No sister's gentle voice was heard,
To soothe a brother's lonely grief.

Though this is joy to me unknown,
Oft have I wish'd the blessing mine :—
O, that that sister's soothing tone

Would flow from lips as loved as thine!

THE CHURCH POOR-BOX.

ANONYMOUS. FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS."

I AM a Poor-Box !-here I stick,
Nail'd to a wall of whitewash'd brick,
Teeming with "fancies coming thick,"
That sometimes mingle

With solid pence from those who kneel;
While, now and then, oh joy! I feel
A sixpence tingle!

The robin on me oft doth hop;
I am the woodlouse' working shop;
And friendly spiders sometimes drop
A line to me;

While e'en the sun will often stop

To shine on me.

I am of sterling, close, hard grain
As any box on land or main;

But age, my friends, who can sustain,
In solitude?

Neglect might make a Saint complain,
Whate'er his wood.

Heaven hath, no doubt, a large design: Some hearts are harder grain'd than mine; Some men too fat, and some too fine,

And some can't spare it ;

I do not mean to warp and pine,

But humbly bear it.

This is a cold and draughty place,
And folks pass by with quicken'd pace,
Praying, perchance, a dinner-grace;
But ever then,

I feel the comfort of HIS face,

Who pities men.

I saw, last week, in portly style,
A usurer coming down the aisle ;
His chin a screw, his nose a file,
With gimlet eye:

He turn'd his head to cough and smile,-
And sidled by.

I saw the same rich man, this morn,
With sickly cheek and gait forlorn-
As feeble, almost, as when born;
He dropt some pelf,

Pitying the Poor-the weak and worn-
Meaning "himself."

I saw,

last year, a courtly dame, With splendid bust, and jewels' flame, And all the airs of feather'd game

A high-bred star-thing:

All saw the gold-but close she came,
And dropt-a farthing.

Two days ago, she pass'd this way,
Heart-broken-prematurely grey—
Her beauty like its mother-clay :
She gave me gold;

"I am like thee"-I heard her say--
"Hollow and cold."

The farmer gives when crops are good, Because the markets warm his blood : The traveller 'scaped from field and flood, Endows the Poor;

The dying miser sends his mud,

To make Heaven sure.

A lover with his hoped-for bride (Her parents being close beside)

Drew forth his purse with sleek-faced pride, Rattling my wood :

All day I felt a pain in the side,

The Captain fresh from sacking towns,

My humble claim to pity owns;
The Justice on his shilling frowns;

But, worst of all,

Arch-hypocrites display their crowns

Beside my wall.

There came a little child, one day,
Just old enough to know its way,
And, clambering up, it seem'd to say
"Poor lonely Box!"

Gave me a kiss-and went away

With drooping locks.

I have to play a thankless part;
With all men's charities I smart,

But those who give with a child's heart,
From pure fount sprung :-

The rest I take, as on the mart;

Wise head-still tongue.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. FROM "LUCY HOOPER."

FAREWELL!

A little time, and we

Who knew thee well, and loved thee here,

One after one shall follow thee

As pilgrims through the gate of fear,

Which opens on eternity.