Lines

WRITTEN IN HER BROTHER R. F. F.'S JOURNAL.

"Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace."--Psalms xxxvii. 37.

The man of heart and words sincere, Who truth and justice follows still, Pursues his way with conscience clear, Unharmed by earthly care and ill. His promises he never breaks, But sacredly to each adheres; Honor's straight path he ne'er forsakes, Though danger in the way appears. He never boasts, will ne'er deceive, For vanity nor yet for gain; All that he says you may believe; For worlds he would not conscience stain. If he desires what others do, And they deserve it more than he, He gives to them what is their due, Happy in his humility. Not to his friends alone he's kind, But his foes too with candor sees; Not to their good intentions blind, Though hopeless their dislike t' appease. His eyes are clear, his hands are pure, To God it is his constant prayer That, be he rich or be he poor, He never may wrong actions dare. If rich, he to the suffering gives All he can spare, and thinks it just, That, since he by God's bounty lives, He should as steward hold his trust. If poor, he envies not; he knows How covetousness corrupts the heart, Whatever a just God bestows Receiving as his proper part. O Father, such a man I'd be; Like him would act, like him would pray: Lead me in truth and purity To win thy peace and see thy day.

ON A PICTURE REPRESENTING THE DESCENT FROM THE CROSS.

BY RAPHAEL.

Virgin Mother, Mary mild! It was thine to see the child, Gift of the Messiah dove, Pure blossom of ideal love, Break, upon the "guilty cross," The seeming promise of his life; Of faith, of hope, of love, a loss, Deepened all thy, bosom's strife, Brow down-bent, and heart-strings torn, Fainting, by frail arms upborne.

All those startled figures show, That they did not apprehend The thought of Him who there lies low, On whom those sorrowing eyes they bend. They do not feel this holiest hour; Their hearts soar not to read the power, Which this deepest of distress Alone could give to save and bless.

Soul of that fair, now ruined form, Thou who hadst force to bide the storm, Must again descend to tell Of thy life the hidden spell; Though their hearts within them burned, The flame rose not till he returned.

Just so all our dead ones lie; Just so call our thoughts on high; Thus we linger on the earth, And dully miss death's heavenly birth.