Record every scene,

He'd find, through life's stages,

How oft he had been

Too full of inventions

To satisfy thought,

Too rife with intentions

That dwindled to naught!

Still taxing to-morrow,

Still wasting to-day,

Whilst angels in sorrow

Dropped tears on our way.

C. SWAIN.

RELIGION'S NAME PERVERTED.

Too oft in pure Religion's name

Hath human blood been spilt;

And Pride hath claimed a Patriot's fame,

To crown a deed of guilt!

Oh! look not on the field of blood,

Religion is not there;

The spotless sword that Virtue bears

Will slumber in its sheath.

The truly brave fight not for fame,
Though fearless they go forth;
They war not in Religion's name,

They pray for peace on earth.

By them that fear is never felt,
Which weakly clings to life,

If shrines by which their fathers knelt,

Are periled in the strife;

Not theirs, the heart that, spiritless,

From threatened wrong withdraws;

Not theirs, the vaunted holiness

That veils an earthly cause.

T. H. BAILEY.

THE LONELY HEART.

THEY tell me I am happy;

And I try to think it true;

They say I have no cause to weep,

My sorrows are so few:

That in the wilderness we tread,

Mine is a favored lot,

-My petty griefs all fantasies,

Would I but heed them not..

It may be so the cup of life
Has many a bitter draught,
Which those who drink with silent lips
Have smiled on as they quaffed.

It may be so: I cannot tell

What others have to bear;

Yet sorry should I be, to give

Another heart my share.