HOPE, FAITH,

CHARITY.

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Have HOPE!-as the tossed mariner,

Upon the wild waste driven, With rapture hails the Polar star,

His guiding light in heaven,

So Hope shall gladden thee, and guide
Along life's stormy road,

And as a sacred beacon stand,

To point thee to thy God.

Have FAITH!-the substance of things hoped,
Of things not seen the sign;

That nerves the arm with God-like might,
The soul with strength divine.

Have Faith-her rapid foot shall bring

Thee conquering to the goal,
Her glowing hand with honors wreathe
A chaplet for thy soul.

Have FAITH!—and though around thy bark

The tempest surges roar;

At her stern voice the storm shall rest,

The billows rage no more.

HOPE bids the soul to soar on high,

But yet no wing supplies;

She marks the way,-but FAITH shall bear
The spirit to the skies.

Have CHARITY!-for though thou'st faith

To make the hills remove,

Thou nothing art if wanting this,

The Charity of love.

And though an angel's tongue were thine, Whose voice none might surpass,

If Charity inspire thee not,

Thou art as sounding brass.'

Have CHARITY! that suffers long,
Is kind, and thinks no ill;
That grieveth for a brother's fault,

Yet loves that brother still.

FAITH, HOPE, and CHARITY!—of these

The last is greatest, best.

"Tis Heaven itself come down to dwell

Within the human breast.

THE LITTLE GRAVES.

BY SEBA SMITH.

'Twas autumn, and the leaves were dry, And rustled on the ground,

And chilly winds went whistling by

With low and pensive sound,

As through the grave yard's lone retreat,

By meditation led,

I walked with slow and cautious feet

Above the sleeping dead.

Three little graves, ranged side by side,

My close attention drew;

O'er two the tall grass bending sighed,
And one seemed fresh and new.

As lingering there I mused awhile
On death's long, dreamless sleep,
And morning life's deceitful smile,

A mourner came to weep.

Her form was bowed, but not with years,

Her words were faint and few,

And on those little graves her tears
Distilled like evening dew.

A prattling boy, some four years old,
Her trembling hand embraced,

And from my heart the tale he told
Will never be effaced.

'Mamma, now you must love me more,

'And t'other sister died before,

'And brother too, you said.

Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? 'She loved me when we played: 'You told me, if I would not cry,

'You'd show me where she's laid.'

THE LITTLE GRAVES.

'Tis here, my child, that sister lies, 'Deep buried in the ground;

No light comes to her little eyes, 'And she can hear no sound.

'Mamma, why can't we take her up, 'And put her in my bed?

'I'll feed her from my little cup,

'And then she wont be dead.

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"For sister 'll be afraid to lie
'In this dark grave to-night,
'And she'll be very cold, and cry,
'Because there is no light.'

No, sister is not cold, my child,

'For God, who saw her die,

'As He looked down from Heaven and smiled, 'Called her above the sky.

And then her spirit quickly fled 'To God by whom 'twas given ; Her body in the ground is dead,

'But sister lives in Heaven.'