THE PRISONER.

BY MISS CATHARINE H. WATERMAN,

DARK frown the massy prison walls
Upon a fated culprit there,

And the same dreary shadow falls
Around the holy man of prayer;
The weary sinner unforgiven,
And the calm delegate of heaven.

Why meet they in a lonely cell,
The placid brow, and gentle tone?

Why meet they, where dark passions dwell,
The frenzied eye, and mad'ning groan?
Why through the dungeon's spreading gloom,
Seeks he of peace, the living tomb?

He comes to raise the drooping mind,
To take the fetters from the soul-
The burning manacles, that bind
The prison'd spirit from its goal;
He comes to show the path of day,
To which his prayers have led the way.

He whispers to the man of sin,

Whose frenzied hands are clasp'd in woe,

"Be calm my son-the God within

Shall triumph o'er thine every foe;

Our maker chastens those he loves,
And the afflicted, he approves.

Look not upon these prison walls,
That compass thee with giant might,
Nor, to the vexing worldly thralls,
That hide thee from the quenchless light;
For they but shut from out thine eye,
The glories that can never die.

Earth is a prison house of care,

And blest are those, to whom are given
The wings of faith, to upward bear

The

pure enfranchis'd soul to heaven; Bright the release from sin, and gloom, To lasting life beyond the tomb.

Death, dreary death, where is thy sting,
And where, dark grave, thy victory?
Thy shrouding vaults but sunshine bring,
And thou but sett'st the spirit free;
As earth recedes before our eyes,
God's holy plains of promise rise.

Then let thy sleeping soul awake,
And gird its mighty armour on,
And think, who suffer'd for thy sake,
That such a goal might yet be won;
The sacred book this blessing gives-
"Know, know that thy Redeemer lives.'"

Philadelphia.

LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.

BY MRS. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

"AND so you will not sign this paper," said Alfred Melton to his cousin, a fine looking young man, who was lounging by the centre table.

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"Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do with these decidedly vulgar temperance pledges? Pshaw! they have a relish of whiskey in their very essence!" Come, come, Cousin Melton," said a brilliant, dark eyed girl, who had been lolling on the sofa during the conference, "I beg of you to give over attempting to evangelize Edward. You see, as old Falstaff has it, he is little better than one of the wicked.' You must not waste such valuable temperance documents on him."

"But seriously, Melton, my good fellow," resumed Edward, "this signing, and sealing, and pledging, is altogether an unnecessary affair for me. My past and present habits, my situation in life, in short, every thing that can be mentioned with regard to me, goes against the supposition of my ever becoming the slave of a vice so debasing; and this pledging myself to avoid it, is something altogether needless, nay, by implication, it is degrading. As to what you say of my influence, I am inclined to the opinion, that if every man will look to himself, every man will be looked to. This modern notion of tacking the whole