CHANGE AND DEATH.

BY J. E. D. COMSTOCK.

EARTH's loveliest things talk of change and of death,
And bid us take heed to our shortening breath.
Go back in thy thought to the summer hours,
With thy playmates passed among fields and flowers:
For they have a voice; and that voice to thee
Doth speak to thy heart of its destiny.

And our usual paths, in our lonely moods,
That lead us afar through the Autumn woods:
They, too, will speak in their pensive way,
And tell us, "Be humble, and watch, and pray;
So our path shall lead to the shining just
And remember, O man, thy frame is dust."

And the smiles of those we have loved of old! Again shall we ever those smiles behold? Alas! they are changed, and furrows and tears Have come in their stead, and sorrow appears, And frowns o'er the place where joy loved to reign: Those smiles, as they have been, shall ne'er be again!

Lo! what saith the wind that is sweeping by?

What voice hath the sea that is running high?

And the clouds that go on their wondrous way
In their frowns and smiles, what word have they?
With a lightning wing they 're for ever gone:
So the years of our life are darting on.

The cataract thunders of time and change;
And on and below, as its waters range,
They murmur the matter to dell and plain,
And flee with the truth to the boundless main:
And the boundless main doth its wisdom utter,
And the thunders at night in the distance mutter;
So they talk together of change and death,
And bid us take heed to our shortening breath.

NEW YORK, July, 1846.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN.

[See Vignette.]

"CHARITY suffereth long, and is kind." Professions. of all kinds are but words: words are but symbols; and, to be true, should always represent what is behind them. Kindness is effective; but it consists of acts, not words. Fine expressions are nothing to the sick and suffering.The ready hand, the willing heart, the prompt movement, the effective assistance,—these alone do good; and he is a good man who uses them voluntarily; he truly does unto others as he would have others do unto him.

Have we ever given this matter one grave thought? When confined to the bed of anguish, when bowed to the earth by suffering, how much have we asked-how much more have we expected—from others! What painful reflections passed through our minds on the least appearance of reluctance, or negligence, on the part of others, to perform what we conceived to be their duty toward us! We gain a clear conception then of what we would have others do unto us; but does it as clearly strengthen in us

the resolution so to do unto others?—not always. We are too selfish. When our flesh is pained, we feel the wound, and we cry aloud. When the pain is gone, it is forgotten, and another's anguish can not revive it. The voice of another's wo may reach the ear, but, before it can find the heart, it has to encounter all the obstacles of our selfish nature. 66 Charity begins at home;" "others are more able than I;" "others are more in duty bound than I;" and numberless other special pleas are alleged; and throwing around us the mantle which selfishness too readily weaves, we drown the cries of another's suffering in the fathomless gulf of indifference. Yet we are all charitable! or at least we think―nay, know—ourselves to be so! We are certain of it; all we want is to be presented with the proper object-the right one for us-and then what wonders in the way of charity we will perform! But the proper object;-there's the difficulty with us: we are the sole judges of that fact. We have, out of the wonderful laboratory of our minds, furnished a standard to determine what shall be the length and the breadth, the height and the depth, of the merits and sufferings of the objects of our bounty. But how few of us would dare to commit to paper a description of those whom we would esteem proper objects of charity? Shame would blot the page, and the record would be illegible. Why is this? Because in our minds we create, rather than in our hearts relieve, the distressed. The ideal creations of the brain never find their counterpart in real existence.

The real objects of charity are everywhere. The poor we always have with us. Charity springs from the heart; and he who yields not to its impulse until his mind has weighed, and judged, and decided, is too calculating to be excited to "good actions." If Justice is blind, Charity is nearly so. It sees just enough to find its object, and the liberal heart does the rest. No attending circumstances are considered. The object of distress may be a stranger or an enemy, but he is a sufferer still; and ours is the duty to relieve, without inquiring his country or his creed. By whatsoever vice he may have fallen-by whatever destiny he may be controlled,-view him as we maydegraded, worthless, criminal-still he is our neighbor.

The parable of the "good Samaritan" furnishes a happy, an impressive illustration of true charity, as well as a ready answer to the question, "Who is my neighbor?" He who fell among thieves was doubtless of the Jewish nation. The priest and the Levite, who had ministered at the altar of the living God-who had expounded the mysteries of the Holy Scriptures, and who by precept at least had inculcated the duties of hospitality, kindness, charity, and sympathy were of the same chosen race; and yet they passed by on the other side, heedless of suffering, and deaf to the cry of distress. They were, of all others, in a condition to relieve him who was stripped of his raiment, and wounded, and half dead. Yet, the one "saw him," the other "looked on him," and neither afforded any assistance. These two were the most likely, of all the