And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity: so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body, and setteth on fire the course of nature; and it is set on fire of hell. For every kind of beasts, and of birds, and of serpents, and of things in the sea, is tamed, and hath been tamed of mankind: but the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison.-James.

THE GREAT COMMANDMENT.

And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart and thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.-Deuteronomy.

GOLDEN WHATSOEVERS.

Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, what soever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things -Paul.

OF IDLE WORDS.

How can ye, being evil, speak good things? For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh. A good man out of the good treasure of the heart bringeth forth good things and an evil man out of the evil treasure, bringeth forth evil things. But I say unto you, that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment. For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.-Matthew.

THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS.

The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain: and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth; because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon

it: surely the people is grass. The grass withereth, the flower fadeth but the word of our God shall stand forever.-Isaiah.

BE NOT DECEIVED.

Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap. For he that soweth to his flesh shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the Spirit shall of the Spirit reap life everlasting. And let us not be weary in well doing; for in due season we shall reap if we faint not.-Paul.

82.-SPRING.

MARY HOWITT.

The spring--she is a blessed thing!
She is the mother of the flowers,
She is the mate of birds and bees,
The partner of their revelries,
Our star of hope through wintry hours.
The merry children, when they see
Her coming by the budding thorn,
They leap upon the cottage floor,
They shout beside the cottage door,
And run to meet her night and morn.

They are soonest with her in the woods,
Peeping the withered leaves among,
To find the earliest fragrant thing
That dares from the cold earth to spring,
Or catch the earliest wild-bird's song.

The little brooks run on in light,
As if they had a chase of mirth;
The skies are blue, the air is warm,
Our very hearts have caught the charm
That sheds a beauty o'er the earth.

The aged man is in the field;

The maiden 'mong her garden flowers;
The sons of sorrow and distress
Are wandering in forgetfulness

Of wants that fret, and care that lowers.
She comes with more than present good,
With joys to store for future years,
From which, in striving crowds apart,
The bowed in spirit, bruised in heart,
May glean up hope with grateful tears.

Up! let us to the fields away,
And breathe the fresh and balmy air;
The bird is building in the tree,

The flower has opened to the bee,

And health, and love, and peace are there.

83.-THE STATUE.

ANONYMOUS.

In Athens, when all learning centred there,
Men reared a column of surpassing height
In honor of Minerva, wise and fair,

And on the top, that dwindled to the sight,
A statue of the goddess was to stand,
That wisdom might obtain in all the land.
And he who, with the beauty in his heart,
Seeking in faultless work immortal youth,
Would mould this statue with the finest art,

Making the wintry marble glow with truth,
Should gain the prize. Two sculptors sought the fame:
The prize they craved was an enduring name.

Alcamenes soon carved his little best;

But Phidias, beneath a dazzling thought That like a bright sun in a cloudless west

Lit up his wide, great soul, with pure love wrought

A statue, and its face of changeless stone

With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered and shone.

Then to be judged the labors were unveiled;

But at the marble thought, that by degrees

Of hardship Phidias cut, the people railed.

"The lines are coarse; the form too large," said these; "And he who sends this rough result of haste

Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste."

Alcamenes' praised work was lifted high

Upon the capital where it might stand;

But there it seemed too small, and 'gainst the sky
Had no proportion from the uplooking land;

So it was lowered, and quickly put aside,

And the scorned thought was mounted to be tried.

Surprise swept o'er the faces of the crowd,

And changed them as a sudden breeze may change

A field of fickle grass, and long and loud

Their mingled shouts, to see a sight so strange.

The statue stood completed in its place,

Each coarse line melted to a line of grace.

So bold, great actions, that are seen too near,
Look rash and foolish to unthinking eyes;
They need the past for distance, to appear

In their true grandeur. Let us yet be wise,
And not too soon our neighbor's deed malign,
For what seems coarse is often good and fine.

84.-OLD TUBAL CAIN.

CHARLES MACKAY.

Old Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when the earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers
As he fashioned the sword and spear:
And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!

Hurrah for the hand that wields them well,
For he shall be king and lord!"

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire:

And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his heart's desire.

And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted aloud for glee,

And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,

And spoils of the forest tree;

And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Who has given us strength anew!

Hurrah for the smith, and hurrah for the fire,

And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun :

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind

That the land was fed with the blood they shed,

And their lust for carnage blind;

And he said, "Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and sword for man, whose joy
Is to slay his fellow-man."

And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forbore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smouldered low;

But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright, courageous eye,

And he bared his strong arm for the work,
While the quick flames mounted high;
And he said, "Hurrah for my handiwork!"

And the fire sparks lit the air;

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made!" And he fashioned the first ploughshare!

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship joined their hands;

Hung the sword in the hall, and the spear on the wall, And ploughed the willing lands;

And sang,

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Hurrah for Tubal Cain!

Our staunch good friend is he;

And for the ploughshare and the plow

To him our prize shall be!

But when oppression lifts its hand,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,

We'll not forget the sword!"

85.-AUX ITALIENS.

R. B. LYTTON.

At Paris it was, at the opera there;

And she looked like a queen in a book that night,

With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,

And the brooch on her breast so bright.

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore; And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;

And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, "Non ti scordar di me!"

("Remember me alway.")

The emperor there, in his box of state,

Looked grave; as if he had just then seen

The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.