For verily on all things else broodeth disappointment with care,
That childish man may be taught the shallowness of earthly enjoyment.
Wherefore, ye that have enough, envy ye the rich man his abundance?
Wherefore, daughters of affluence, covet ye the cottager's content?
Take the good with the evil, for ye all are pensioners of God,
And none may choose or refuse the cup His wisdom mixeth.

The poor man rejoiceth at his toil, and his daily bread is sweet to him:
Content with present good, he looketh not for evil to the future:
The rich man languisheth with sloth, and findeth pleasure in nothing.
He locketh up with care his gold, and feareth the fickleness of fortune.
Can a cup contain within itself the measure of a bucket?

Or the straiten'd appetites of man drink more than their fill of luxury?
There is a limit to enjoyment, though the sources of wealth be boundless:
And the choicest pleasures of life lie within the ring of moderation.

Power is seldom innocent, and envy is the yoke-fellow of eminence;
And the rust of the miser's riches wasteth his soul as a canker.

The poor man counteth not the cost at which such wealth hath been purchased;

He would be on the mountain's top without the toil and travail of the climbing.

But equity demandeth recompense; for high-place, calumny and care; For state, comfortless splendor eating out the heart of home;

For warrior-fame, dangers and death; for a name among the learned, a spirit overstrain'd;

For honor of all kinds, the goad of ambition; on every acquirement, the

tax of anxiety.

He that would change with another, must take the cup as it is mix'd:
Poverty, with largeness of heart: or a full purse, with a sordid spirit;
Wisdom, in an ailing body; or a common mind with health;
Godliness, with man's scorn; or the welcome of the mighty, with guilt;
Beauty, with a fickle heart; or plainness of face, with affection.

For so hath Providence determined, that a man shall not easily discover
Unmingled good or evil, to quicken his envy or abhorrence.

A bold man or a fool must he be who would change his lot with another; It were a fearful bargain, and mercy hath lovingly refused it;

For we know the worst of ourselves, but the secrets of another we see not;
And better is certain bad, than the doubt and dread of worse.

Just, and strong, and opportune is the moral rule of God.
Ripe in its times, firm in its judgments, equal in the measure of its gifts:
Yet men, scanning the surface, count the wicked happy,
[tions:
Nor heed the compensating peace which gladdeneth the good in his afflic-
They see not the frightful dreams that crowd a bad man's pillow,
Like wreathed adders crawling round his midnight conscience;
They hear not the terrible suggestions that knock at the portal of his will,
Provoking to wipe away from life the one weak witness of the deed;
They know not the torturing suspicions that sting his panting breast,
When the clear eye of penetration quietly readeth off the truth.
Likewise of the good what know they? the memories bringing pleasure,
Shrined in the heart of the benevolent, and glistening from his eye;
The calm self-justifying reason that establisheth the upright in his purpose;
The warm and gushing bliss that floodeth all the thoughts of the religious.
Many a beggar at the cross-way, or gray-hair'd shepherd on the plain,
Hath more of the end of all wealth than hundreds who multiply the means.

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

When streams of unkindness, as bitter as gall,
Bubble up from the heart to the tongue,
And Meekness is writhing in torment and thrall,
By the hands of Ingratitude wrung-
In the heat of injustice, unwept and unfair,
While the anguish is festering yet,

None, none but an angel or God can declare,
"I now can forgive and forget."

But, if the bad spirit is chased from the heart,
And the lips are in penitence steep'd,
With the wrong so repented the wrath will depart,
Though scorn on injustice were heap'd;
For the best compensation is paid for all ill,
When the cheek with contrition is wet,

And every one feels it is possible still
At once to forgive and forget.

To forget? It is hard for a man with a mind,
However his heart may forgive,

To blot out all insults and evils behind,
And but for the future to live:

Then how shall it be? for at every turn
Recollection the spirit will fret,

And the ashes of injury smoulder and burn,
Though we strive to forgive and forget.

Oh, hearken! my tongue shall the riddle unseal,
And mind shall be partner with heart,

While thee to thyself I bid conscience reveal,
And show thee how evil thou art:
Remember thy follies, thy sins, and-thy crimes,
How vast is that infinite debt!

Yet Mercy hath seven by seventy times
Been swift to forgive and forget!

Brood not on insults or injuries old,

For thou art injurious too

Count not their sum till the total is told,

For thou art unkind and untrue:

And if all thy harms are forgotten, forgiven,

Now mercy with justice is met;

Oh, who would not gladly take lessons of heaven,
Nor learn to forgive and forget?

Yes, yes; let a man, when his enemy weeps,
Be quick to receive him a friend;

For thus on his head in kindness he heaps

Hot coals-to refine and amend;

And hearts that are Christian more eagerly yearn,

As a nurse on her innocent pet,

Over lips that, once bitter, to penitence turn,
And whisper, Forgive and forget.

THE TRIAL.

The trial now came on, and Roger Acton stood arraigned of robbery and murder. The case was clear as light against poor Acton. No alibi he lived upon the spot. No witnesses to character; for Roger's late excesses had wiped away all former good report: kind Mr. Evans himself, with tears in his eyes, acknowledged sadly that Acton had once been a regular church-goer, a frequent communicant; but had fallen off of late, poor fellow! And then, in spite of protestations to the contrary, behold! the corpus delicti-that unlucky crock of gold actually in the man's possession, and the fragment of shawl-was not that sufficient? So, when the judge summed up, and clearly could neither find nor make a loophole for the prisoner, the matter seemed accomplished; all knew what the verdict must be-poor Roger Acton

had not the shadow of a chance.

*

*

*

Then, while the jury were consulting-they would not leave the box, it seemed so clear-Roger broke the deathlike silence; and he said :

"Judge, I crave your worship's leave to speak and hearken to me, countrymen. Many evil things have I done in my time, both against God and my neighbor: I am ashamed, as well I may be, when I think on 'em : I have sworn, and drunk, and lied; I have murmured loudly-coveted wickedly-ay, and once I stole. It was a little theft, I lost it on the spot, and never stole again; pray God, I never may. Nevertheless, countrymen, and sinful though I be in the sight of Him who made us; according to man's judgment and man's innocency, I have lived among you all blameless, until I found that crock of gold. I did find it, countrymen, as God is my witness, and, therefore, though a sinner, I appeal to him: he knoweth that I found it in the sedge that skirts my garden, at the end of my own celery trench. I did wickedly and foolishly to hide my find, worse to deny it, and worst of all to spend it in the low, lewd way I did. But of robbery I am guiltless as you are. And as to this black charge of murder, till Simon Jennings spoke the word, I never knew it had been done. Folk of Hurstley, friends and neighbors, you all know Roger Acton-the old-time, honest Roger of these forty years, before the devil made him mad by giving him much gold-did he ever maliciously do harm to man or woman, to child or poor dumb brute? No, countrymen, I am no murderer. That the seemings are against me, I wot well; they may excuse your judgment in condemning me to death-and I and the good gentleman there who took my part (Heaven bless you, sir!) cannot go against the facts; but they speak falsely, and I truly; Roger Acton is an innocent man: may God defend the right !”

"Amen!" carnestly whispered a tremulous female voice, "and God will save you, father."

The court was still as death, except for sobbing; the jury were doubting and confounded; in vain Mr. Jennings, looking at the foreman, shook his head and stroked his chin in an incredulous and knowing manner; clearly they must retire, not at all agreed; and the judge himself, that masqued man in flowing wig and ermine, but still warmed by human sympathies, struck a tear from his wrinkled cheek; and all seemed to be involuntarily waiting (for the jury, though unable to decide, had not yet left their box) to see whether any sudden miracle would happen to save a man whom evidence made so guilty, and who yet bore upon his open brow the genuine signature of innocence.

"Silence, there, silence! you can't get in; there's no room for'ards!" but a couple of javelin-men at the door were knocked down right and left, and through the dense and suffocating crowd, a big, black-whiskered fellow, elbowing his way against their faces, spite of all obstructions, struggled to the front behind the bar. Then, breathless with gigantic exertion, (it was like a mammoth treading down the cedars,) he roared out,

"Judge, swear me, I'm a witness; huzza! it's not too late." And the irreverent gentleman tossed a fur cap right up to the skylight.

Mr. Grantly brightened up at once, Grace looked happily to heaven, and Roger Acton shouted out,

"Thank God! thank God!—there's Ben Burke !"

Yes, he had heard miles away of his friend's danger about an old shawl and a honey-pot full of gold, and he had made all speed, with Tom in his train, to come and bear witness to the innocence of Roger. The sensation in court, as may be well conceived, was thrilling; but a vociferous crier, and the deep anxiety to hear this sturdy witness, soon reduced all again to silence.

Then did they swear Benjamin Burke, who, to the scandal of his cause, would insist upon stating his profession to be "poacher;" and at first, poor simple fellow, seemed to have a notion that a sworn witness meant one who swore continually; but he was soon convinced otherwise, and his whole demeanor gradually became as polite and deferent as his coarse nature would allow. And Ben told his adventure on Pike Island, as we have heard him tell it, pretty much in the same words; for the judge and Mr. Grantly let him take his own courses; and then he added, with a characteristic expletive, which we may as well omit, seeing it occasioned a cry of "order" in the court, "There, if that there white-livered little villain warn't the chap that brought the crocks, my name an't Ben Burke." "Good Heavens! Mr. Jennings, what's the matter?" said a briefless one, starting up: this was Mr. Sharp, a personage on

former occasions distinguished highly as a thieves' advocate, but now, unfortunately, out of work. "Loosen his cravat, some one

there; the gentleman is in fits."

"Oh, aunt, aunt Quarles, don't throttle me; I'll tell all, all; let go, let go!" and the wretched man slowly recovered, as Ben Burke said,

"Ay, my lord, ask him yourself; the little wretch can tell you all about it."

"I submit, my lurd," interposed the briefless one, "that this respectable gentleman is taken ill, and that his presence may now be dispensed with as a witness in the cause."

"No, sir, no," deliberately answered Jennings; "I must stay: the time, I find, is come: I have not slept for weeks; I am exhausted utterly; I have lost my gold; I am haunted by her ghost:

can go nowhere but that face follows me-I can do nothing but her fingers clutch my throat. It is time to end this misery. In hope to lay her spirit, I would have offered up a victim: but-but she will not have him. Mine was the hand that-"

"Pardon me," upstarted Mr. Sharp, "this poor gentleman is a monomaniac; pray, my lurd, let him be removed while the trial is proceeding."

"You horsehair hypocrite you!" roared Ben, "would you hang the innocent and save the guilty?"

Would he? would Mr. Philip Sharp? Ay, that he would; and glad of such a famous opportunity. What! would not Newgate rejoice, and Horsemonger be glad? Would not his bag be filled with from the community of burglars, and his purse be rich in gold subscribed by the brotherhood of thieves? Great at once would be his name among the purlieus of iniquity; and every rogue in London would retain but Philip Sharp. Would he? ask him again.

But Jennings quietly proceeded like a speaking statue.

"I am not mad, most noble-" [the Bible-read villain was from habit quoting Paul]-" my lord, I mean. My hand did the deed: I throttled her:" (here he gave a scared look over his shoulder :) yes—I did it once and again: I took the crock of gold. may hang me now, aunt Quarles."

You

"My lurd, my lurd, this is a most irregular proceeding," urged Mr. Sharp; "on the part of the prisoner-I, I crave pardon-on behalf of this most respectable and deluded gentleman, Mr. Simon Jennings, I contend that no one may criminate himself in this way, without the shadow of evidence to support such suicidal testimony. Really, my lurd—”

"Oh, sir, but my father may go free?" earnestly asked Grace; but Ben Burke's voice-I had almost written woice-overwhelmed them all :