But for the paltry tribe, who calculate,

Still ere they give, the profit and the rate;
Each pro and con, in balanced file arrayed,

And charity itself,-a thing of trade;

And even, when worldly least, then lent, not given;
Upcounting still their interest-score with heaven;
But for these ruffian-mendicants; (just such

Le Sage hath drawn-a musket for a crutch ;)
Who quest for alms, in accent of command,
And in the name of pity, bid me stand;
Hectored by such, I prize at equal rate,
Who robs me with the pistol, or the plate.―

Yet this might pass; and he, without my plaint, A worldling here, be worshipped there a saint. On saintly throne, by brother worldlings set, The well-fumed Lama of his own Thibet ! But if he wield that most ill-gotten name, A mace to batter down his neighbour's fame,

And crush who scorns to flatter; stung at this,

What marvel, if I paint him as he is!

Then from his full-blown pride and bursting bags,
Turn to revere sincerity in rags!

B.-If motive-sifting thus our deeds you touch, The world will say that you refine too much.

A. That deeds are good or ill, as motive-wrought; That holiest forms, not spirit-fed, are nought;

That piety degrades her high-born strain,

In scramble with the mammon tribe for gain;
That charity of heart is heaven's delight;
These are plain truths, and maxims very trite.
Yet, as still-trickling rain-drops, one by one,
Will wear their impress on obdurate stone;
As green trees, clustering round our very door,
Seen daily, for that cause but please the more;

So moral truths, that seek not to surprise,

As more familiar, more attract the wise;

So maxims trite, their frequency their strength,

By repetition stamp themselves at length; With oft-driven furrow, first, the reason till; Then, from the reason, pass into the will.

Let meditation deep-let fancy bold

Vaunt of new matter-I but dress the old;

Perchance ill dress; but striving nothing new,

Am well content to be accorded true.

RHYMED PLEA FOR TOLERANCE.

DIALOGUE III.

And though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.

1 COR. xiii.

A.-By no faint shame withheld from general gaze,

'Tis thus, my friend, we bask us in the blaze;

Where deeds, more surface-smooth than inly bright,

Snatch up a transient lustre from the light.

Yet as rich hues, in loom of nature spun,

The rose itself, will fade in torrid sun;

G