Ignorant and poor and vile,

Plague-spot in the public eye;

Let her die!

THE HEART OF THE OUTCAST.

I AM young, alas! so young!
And the world has been my foe;
And by hardship, wrong, and woe,
Hath my bleeding heart been stung.
There was none, O God, to teach me
What was wrong and what was right.
I have sinned before Thy sight;
Let my cry of anguish reach Thee,
Piercing through the glooms of night,
God of love!

Man is cruel, and doth smother
Tender mercy in his breast;

Lays fresh burdens on the oppressed; Pities not an erring brother,

Pities not the stormy throes

Of the soul despair hath riven,

Nor the brain to madness driven.

No one but the sinner knows

What it means to be forgiven,

God of love!

Therefore will I put my trust
In thy mercy and I cleave

To that love which can forgive; To that judgment which is just; Which can pity all my weakness; Which hath seen the life-long strife Of passions fiercer than the knife; Known the desolating bleakness Of my desert path through life, God of love!

I must perish in my youth;
And had I been better taught,
And did Virtue as it ought,
And had grey-haired Wisdom ruth,
I should not have fallen so low.
'Tis the power of circumstance,
'Tis the wretch's dire mischance,
To be born to sin and woe.

Pity Thou my ignorance,

God of love!

REJOICING IN HEAVEN.

YOUNG spirit, freed from bondage,
Rejoice! Thy work is done;
The weary world is 'neath thy feet;
Thou, brighter than the sun!

Arise, put on the garments

Which the redeeméd win.

Now, sorrow hath no part in theé,
Thou, sanctified from sin !

Awake, and breathe the living air
Of our celestial clime!

Awake to love which knows no change,
Thou, who hast done with time!

Awake! Lift up thy joyful eyes,
See, all heaven's host appears;
And be thou glad exceedingly,

Thou, who hast done with tears.

Awake! descend! Thou art not now
With those of mortal birth;

The living God hath touched thy lips,
Thou, who hast done with earth!

THE GRAVE'S VICTOR.

YES, than earth's mightiest mightier, O Grave, thou hast thy vanquisher! Long in thy night was man forlorn, Long didst thou laugh his hope to scorn: Vainly Philosophy might dream :Her light was but the meteor gleam,

Till rose the Conqueror of Death,-
The humble Man of Nazareth:
He stood between us and despair;

He bore, and gave us strength to bear;
The mysteries of the grave unsealed,
Our glorious destiny revealed;
Nor sage nor bard may comprehend
The heaven of rest to which we tend.
Our home is not this mortal clime;
Our life hath not its bounds in time e;
And death is but the cloud that lies
Between our souls and paradise.

O Grave! well might each thoughtful race Give thee the high and holy place :

Mountains and groves were meet for thee,
Thou portal of eternity!

Philip James Bailey.

SONG OF THE SAINTS.

FROM "FESTUS."

CALL all who love Thee, Lord! to Thee;
Thou knowest how they long

To leave these broken lays, and aid
In Heaven's unceasing song;

How they long, Lord! to go to Thee,
And hail Thee with their eyes,
Thee in Thy blessedness, and all
The nations of the skies.

All who have loved Thee and done well, Of every age, creed, clime,

The host of saved ones from the ends

And all the worlds of time: