Fond friendship now is cast aside,
The greed of gain absorbeth all
Except that poisonous fungus, pride,-
Sign of a worldly people's fall,

Ah, well! I thanks to heaven send
That I have still a mind so strong,
E'en though I may not have a friend,
To laud the right and spurn the wrong,

And feel that God's whole suff'ring race
Within my bosom hath a share;
'Tis joy to calm the tear-dimmed face
And soothe the groanings of despair.

The worldling's pomp and selfish aims
Excite my pity more than scorn;
Earth's vulgar airs and hollow claims
Can ne'er an endless life adorn.

Commend me to the silent hour,

With book or pen my friends to be, Or, Blessed One, Thy love and power In nature's wider page to see.

The jewelled sky, the golden moon,
The wealth of diamonds in the sun,

Are riches true,-O, godlike boon,

For me these glorious works were done.

The flowery plain, the lasting hills,
The glist'ning of the wavy sea,

My breast with Thy pure pleasure fills,
And lifts my bounding soul to Thee,

Let human "friends" be false and few, Misrepresent me as they please,

I'll love them and forgive them too,

If they will only leave me these.

ADELAIDE NEILSON.

The late famous and beautiful actress.

FROM yonder glist'ning midnight star

A ray of beauty came,
It left its home of light afar,
It left behind its name.

That ray took up a lower sphere,
A "human face divine,"

Its distant glory now brought near
Awhile on earth to shine.

It gleam'd around our loveliest flower, A daughter of mankind;

No lily bathed in vernal shower

A fairer form could find.

It sparkl'd in her beauteous eyes,
And made them death to see,

The jetty margins' long disguise
But set their lustre free.

With loving yet oft fitful glance
It so illum'd her smile,

One gesture might the soul entrance,
A single look beguile.

In wealth of all terrestrial source
Before time's light it beam'd,

And glow'd in histrionic force,

All heavenly though it seem'd.

Till soon that poor bright wand'ring ray
By mortal stain got dim,

And 'mid the darkness pass'd away
Like vanish'd seraphim.

F

THE WEARY DRINK.

I.-An Epistle.

THE Temperance paper an' your's mid prints an' letters a host,

Hae come ta my hand a' richt—they came by the mornin'

post.

I notice your name in the list o' wise men wha wish ta da

guid,

Reformers there always must be, tho' they hinna to shed their bluid.

The drink is a weary discoorse, an aften 'tis preached for

naught,

There be nane so slow ta learn as wha dinna wish ta be

taught;

Men are selfish an' thoochtless an' care na ta speir the price, Oh, thankless aboon a' the task o' tryin' ta gie guid advice. The Bibber, the blight o' the land, I hate the smell o' his breath

It minds me o' drink and disease an' the verra oncome o'

death;