THE GOOD SAMARITAN.

"And who is my neighbor ?" — Luke x. 29.

I.

WHO bleeds in the desert, faint, naked and torn,
Left lonely to wait for the coming of morn?
The last sigh from his breast, the last from his heart,
The last tear from his eyelid seem ready to part:
He looks to the east with a death-swimming eye,
Once more the blest beam of the morning to spy;
For penniless, friendless, and houseless he's lying,
And he shudders to think, that in darkness he's
dying;

Yon meteor! 'tis ended as soon as begun
Yon gleam of the lightning! it is not the sun;
They brighten and pass - but the glory of day
Is warm while it shines, and does good on its way.
How brightly the morning breaks out from
the east!

Who walks down the path to get tithes for his priest?

It is not the Robber, who plundered and fled; 'Tis a Levite: He turns from the wretched his head.

Who walks in his robes from Jerusalem's halls? Who comes to Samaria from Ilia's walls?

There is pride in his step--there is hate in his eye; There is scorn on his lip as he proudly walks by. 'Tis thy Priest, thou proud city, now splendid and fair;

pass thee, and who shall be

A few

years shall
there?

Mount Gerazmin looks on the valleys, that spread On the foot of high Ebal, to Esdrelon's head; The torrent of Kison rolls back through the plain, And Tabor sends out its fresh floods to that main, Which, purpled with fishes, flows rich with the dyes

That flash from their fins, and shine out from their eyes.

How sweet are the streams, but how purer the

fountain

That gushes and swells from Samaria's mountain.
From Galilee's city the Cuthite comes out,
And by Jordan-washed Thirza, with purpose de-
vout,

To pay at the altar of Gerazmin's shrine,
And offer his incense of oil and of wine,
He follows his heart, that with eagerness longs
For Samaria's anthems, and Syria's songs.

He sees the poor Hebrew: He stops on the way. - By the side of the wretched 'tis better to pray,

Than to visit the holiest temple, that stands
In the thrice blessed places of Palestine's lands,
The oil, that was meant for Mount Gerazmin's
ground,

Would better be poured on the sufferer's wound; For no incense more sweetly, more purely can rise

From the altars of earth to the throne of the skies, No libation more rich can be offered below, Than that, which is tendered to anguish and wo. Connecticut Mirror.

II.

THY neighbor? It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,

Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbor? 'T is the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door,-
Go thou, and succor him.

Thy neighbor? 'Tis that weary man
Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares and pain :-
Go thou, and comfort him.

Thy neighbor? 'T is the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem ;
Widow and orphan, helpless left:
Go thou, and shelter them.

Thy neighbor? yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave,-
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favored than thine own,
Remember 't is thy neighbor worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by ;
Perhaps thou canst redeem
The breaking heart from misery :-
Go, share thy lot with him.

Anonymous.

MARY AT THE FEET OF JESUS.

"And she had a sister called Mary, which also sat at Jesus' feet, and heard his word."— Luke x. 39.

OH! blest beyond all daughters of the earth! What were the Orient's thrones to that low seat, Where thy hush'd spirit drew celestial birth? Mary! meek listener at the Saviour's feet!

No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman's heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet,
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
'Midst the world's eager tones and footsteps flying!
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring,
lying

So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e'en when noon tide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror
fills.

Mrs Hemans.

THE PRODIGAL SON.

"I will arise and go unto my father."-Luke xv. 18.

I.

WANDERER, amid the snares

Of Time's uncertain way,

Of thousand nameless fears the sport,

Of countless ills the

prey :

A

stranger 'mid the land
Where thy probation lies,
In peril from each adverse blast
And e'en from prosperous skies,