like his Master, in tenderest sympathy."

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence!--yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

--Alexander Pope.

EMIR HASSAN

Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race,
Asked with folded hands the Almighty's grace,
Then within the banquet-hall he sat,
At his meal, upon the embroidered mat.

There a slave before him placed the food,
Spilling from the charger, as he stood,
Awkwardly upon the Emir's breast
Drops that foully stained the silken vest.

To the floor, in great remorse and dread,
Fell the slave, and thus, beseeching, said:
"Master, they who hasten to restrain
Rising wrath, in paradise shall reign."

Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:
"I am not angry." "Yet," pursued the slave,
"Yet doth higher recompense belong
To the injured who forgives a wrong."

"I forgive," said Hassan. "Yet we read,"
So the prostrate slave went on to plead,
"That a higher seat in glory still
Waits the man who renders good for ill."

"Slave, receive thy freedom; and, behold,
In thy hand I lay a purse of gold.
Let me never fail to heed, in aught,
What the prophet of our God hath taught."

TRUE GREATNESS

Who is as the Christian great?
Bought and washed with sacred blood,
Crowns he sees beneath his feet.
Soars aloft and walks with God.

Lo, his clothing is the sun,
The bright sun of righteousness;
He hath put salvation on,
Jesus is his beauteous dress.

Angels are his servants here;
Spread for him their golden wings;
To his throne of glory bear,
Seat him by the King of kings.

--Charles Wesley.

The glory is not in the task, but in
The doing it for Him.

--Jean Ingelow.

MENCIUS

Three centuries before the Christian age
China's great teacher, Mencius, was born;
Her teeming millions did not know that morn
Had broken on her darkness; that a sage,
Reared by a noble mother, would her page
Of history forevermore adorn.
For twenty years, from court to court, forlorn
He journeyed, poverty his heritage,
And preached of virtue, but none cared to hear.
Life seemed a failure, like a barren rill;
He wrote his books, and lay beneath the sod: