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proud; and in the Jew, austere. Against Jesus, this temper came in deadly conflict; and from none was the opposition fiercer than from his own countrymen. In one form or another, the temper pervaded Jewish life.--It sat in the chair of the scribe : it presided on the tribunal of the judge: it walked in the market-place: it took the chief rooms at feasts: it claimed the highest seats in the synagogues : and it prayed with lofty looks in the temple. Our Lord scouted this ungodliness with a holy opposition. He met it by the inculcation of a humble and a loving spirit; by the revelation of a heavenly dignity in humanity, which rebuked scornful assumption as both mean and blasphemous. And then to words, such as men had never heard, he added an example such as men had never seen. He went, himself, among the out-cast. He took his part with the despised. He sojourned among the scorned. He was to be found mixed with the vulgar multitude. He was to be met in poor men's homes, and at poor men's meals. The publican whom the pharisee spurned, received from Jesus no rebuke. The sinner and Samaritan addressed him as their friend. And those wbom all had given to reprobation, whom the world had marked with ineffable infamy, came to Jesus, attracted by the grace that was around him, and took from his lips the word of forgiveness, and the assurance of peace. And that his example might in all things be complete, his ministry ended as it had begun. He came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance : and as in life he did not shun the wretched, he was numbered with the transgressors in his death. Contumely, hatred, insult, collected together to hoot him from existence, until nailed upon a cross—the instrument of vile and ignominious torturebetween two thieves, he gave up the ghost. The spirit of that life—the spirit of that death, yet maintained the contest : and the contest will not end, until this fated temper is subdued; until every man has due honor, as a child of God, and a brother of Jesus; until every man feels in himself, and recognizes in his fellow, the divinity of an immortal soul, and the dignity of everlasting relations : not until right is founded on reverence, will it be secure; not until duty is based upon love, will it be complete; not until liberty is based upon eternal principles, will it be full, equal, lofty, and universal. Then, and only then, will the mind of Christ have entered into the heart of the millions, who, as yet, have but his name upon their lips: then will his true kingdom have enlarged its bounds and increased its glory: then shall his sceptre have sway, and his throne be established in justice, in virtue, and in freedom.

THE MARTYR OF LOVE.*

BY R. H. STODARD.

PRELUDE

TO THIRZA.

“ Had we never loved so fondly,
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken hearted.”—BURNS.

Some time has vanished since we parted last
Never, the promise ran, to meet again;
We wept not, spake not of the bitter Past,
But separated with a proud disdain
And cold indifference-'twas a task to feign;
At least for one, who earnest, kind, and true
Poured out his soul in burning words—in vain!

And beggared his rich heart, and even you,
Albeit you seemed unmoved, was moved at our adieu.

I have not seen you since, and never will,
There is a bar between us evermore,
A gulf divides us, yet I love you

still
Deeper and wilder than I did of yore,
And every day but adds unto the store
Of passionate thoughts a pyre within my breast,
My broken heart is yours till life is o'er ;

Success had sated me like all the rest,
But hopeless, I love on, the hopeless love the best.

* In these sonnets I have endeavoured to picture the history of a fine mind suffering from a hopeless passion. Such an one I knew-a playmate of my boyhood—a gentle, loving, longing heart he had, and brave and high withal. But it was soon wrecked. And the tomb covers him now, and all his sorrows are forgotten.

I've loved you deeply, Thirza, many years;
Boyhood has flown and youth is flying fast,
And manhood comes and finds my soul in tears,
Still faithful unto her first love—and last!
My Future will not contradict my Past,
But act the solemn tragedy again :
Passion is dead within me I have cast

And poured the wine of Life away like rain,
The cup is drained and naught, or dregs alone remain.

Oh Love, we take a fatal thing into
Our souls, when we receive thee as a guest!
Once there forever there, whatever we do
We cannot drive thee thence but live opprest,
It matters little whether 'curst or blest
Thou art alike a torture and a pain,
A thankless viper nourished in the breast

Stinging the heart that warms thee ; but in vainI have grown callous now, I cannot feel again.

I'm altered, Thirza, since I saw you last,
My soul has darker grown and lighter too;
The fever and the agony is past-
I've schooled and taught my spirit to subdue
Its longing for affection—and for you!
Reckless, indifferent, apathetic grown,
I smile and jest at all things-false or true,

And brood above my wasted heart alone
Like Marius by the wrecks of Carthage overthrown.

I've met with naught but mockery and wrong
From those I've benefited; years ago
A boy I strove with spirit pure and strong,
To lighten the vast load of human wo:
I met with cold repulses ; men are slow
To hear and heed, and will not-Fools !-be blest,
But cling to their old customs dark and low,

And hate and slay the souls that love them bestI would not marvel much to find you like the rest.

I feel, alas ! your scorner feels the most-
Laughing with Spartan bravery at pain,
Concealing suffering with an idle boast,
Writhing in torture, scorning to complain,

Dying with smiles at last and not in vain :
'Tis wisdom to secrete our hopes and fears,
And play the trifler's part in Life's great train;

Man thinks his fellow man what he appears,
The Fool alone would lift the masque and show his tears !-

But this is idle-let me end the strain.
I dedicate these bitter songs to thee,
Accept them though they be but rude and plain,
A few frail blossoms from a withered tree,
Preserve them in the Book of Memory,
And glowing o'er its leaves some future day
Beholding them thy thoughts will flow to me,

And thou wilt weep my sad and dark decay,
But all thy tears will fail to wash the stains away.

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Alas! how dark and sinful I have grown,
Since Youth departed from me ;-day by day
The better passions of my soul decay,
The flowers, the weeds are flourishing alone.-
The heaven-enkindled flame, the holy fire
Laid on the altar of my heart of old,
Has burned away, the glimmering sparks expire,
Leaving but embers there and ashes cold.-
The spring of piety that opened in
My mind an Arethusa from on high
Has sunk away before the lips of Sin,
And left a wasted desert bare and dry.-

A subterranean stream it seeks the main,
Striving with solemn moans to rise—but all in vain!-

II.

I stand apart with all the world at strife,
Longing the while for their applause and fame
Alone, unfitted with an end or aim-
A rock from out the sea of human life.-
I do not love the common herd of men,
And sooth to say, they do not me.--I stand
An Ishmael in the earth, and every

hand Is raised against me I must turn again :

I wonder what my lot in future years
Will be if Heaven preserves me? nothing fair,
My star forbids it: Poverty and care,
Hatred and scorn and misery and tears,

A destiny obscure, a fate unknown,
A ruined, broken heart at last, and nameless stone.

III.

I look around the peopled earth and see
The veriest fool is loved, the vilest knave,
While I, that long to be Love's thrall and slave,
Seek love, and lo! there is no love for me.-
Like fate-mocked Tantalus of old I stand,
Where all the fountains of affection flow
And strive to quench my burning thirst, but oh!
The waters vanish in the barren sand;
Lorn, loveless and companionless below,
I live in hopeless solitude distrest.
Woman is wilful-yet, I do not know-
I often think it is her fate and lot

To break her heart for him who loves her not,
And break alas! the heart of him who loves her best.

IV.

Oh Love, thou art a fallen child of light,
A ruined seraph in a world of care,
Tortured and wrung by sorrow and despair
And longings for the beautiful and bright,
Thy faded brow is scarred, and bleeds beneath
A spiked coronet, a thorny wreath ;-
Thy rainbow wings are rent and torn with chains,
Sullied and drooping in extremest wo;-
Thy dower to those who love thee best below
Is tears and torture, agony and pains-
Coldness and scorn, and doubt—which often parts,
6 The course of true love never did run smooth ;".

Old histories show it, and a thousand hearts, Breaking from day to day, attest the solemn truth.

V.

Ah, Thirza ! were my bosom bare to thee,
And all that I have hidden and concealed,
The waste, the anguish and the agony,
The blighted hopes, the withered heart revealed,

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