Thursday, April 18, 1872,

I am of the " heathen at home," But nobody caies for us ;

In the cities we're thousands ten, ' And go from bad to worse. In lanes, and alleys, and slums We grow from youth to age, But through the darkness of vice No light ever beams on our page. Parents there are who drink, And drink themselves soon to the grave, And daughters flock on to our streets, But there's never a hand to save* Sons hecottie bullies and thieves, And spend their best days in gaol ; Is not this a most terrible truth ? Is not this a most dismal tale ? Wo hear of meetings, to which Flock bishop, parson, and priest, And there to the saintly anointed Is offered a Christian feast. Parsons, in language poetic, Discourse of the heathens abroad ; And money, and moneys the cry, To give to the negro a God. Distance, indeed, lends enchantment— *' Oh, beautiful isles of the sea ; Oh, savage, so sweet and so docile,

Who pants from his chains to be free." Oh; speech is cheap, hollow, and false ; In this harvest of woi'ds where's the grain? Pray who of these parsons and priests Stands and knocks in a Borneo lane ?

"Who goes to these haunts of vice, The sweet message of peace to teach ? And the drunkard strive to reclaim, Ere safety's beyond his reach ? Not we, not we, say our teachers ; Not such work with our taste agrees ; Though the "lost" at our door 3 should perish, We must live in our comfort and ease. Oh, where are the soft kindly hearts ? Why do all men this great duty shirk, To plead with the "heathen at home," And in faith do their Great Master's work ?

FACETI Æ.
