She peeps and she listens, she watches and waits, Nor Satan himself is more active than she To expose in poor sinners the faults and bad traits, Which she fears that the Lord might not happen to see. When the Father of Spirits looks down from above On the good and the evil, the frail and the fair, How must he regard, with _particular_ love, This virtuous woman--good Mistress Glenare! O, Mistress Glenare! in the drama of life You are acting a _very respectable_ part; You have known just enough of its envious strife To deceive both the world and your own foolish heart. But say, in some moment of clear common sense, Did you never in truth and sincerity dare To ask the plain question, aside from pretence, How you looked to the angels, dear Mistress Glenare? The glory of God has enlightened their eyes: No longer, through darkness, they see but in part, And the robes of your righteousness do not suffice To cover the lack of true love in the heart. You look shabby, and filthy, and ragged, and mean-- E’en with those you condemn, you but poorly compare! Go! wash you in Charity till you are clean; You will change for the better, dear Mistress Glenare. Your thoughts have been run in the popular mould, Like wax that is plastic and easily melts; Till now, like a nondescript, lo, and behold! You are neither yourself, nor yet any one else. Of tender compassion, forgiveness, and love, Your nature has not a _respectable_ share; You are three parts of serpent, and one of the dove-- Very badly proportioned, dear Mistress Glenare. Your noblest and purest affections have died, Like summer-dried roses, your spirit within; Your heart has grown arid, and scarce is supplied With sufficient vitality even to sin. But would you be true to your virtuous name, There is _one_ we commend to your tenderest care; To deal with her wisely will add to your fame: That poor sinful woman is--Mistress Glenare. LITTLE JOHNNY. [A poem delivered by Miss Lizzie Doten at the close of a lecture in Springfield, May 10, and addressed to the parents of Little Johnny--Mr. and Mrs. Thomas A. Denison, of Chicopee, Mass.] Sing not, O blessed angels! To those who truly mourn, But come with gifts of healing, For heart-strings freshly torn. Ah! human hearts are tender, And wounds of love are deep: Sing not, O blessed angels! But “weep with those who weep.” Come not, O spirit-teachers! With wisdom from above, But come with soft, low whispers Of sympathy and love. Truths seem uncertain shadows Beneath the clouds of care; Come, then, in friendly silence, And strengthen them to bear.