BE GENTLE.

There is a plant that in its cell All trembling seems to stand, And bends its stalk and folds its leaves From each approaching hand. And thus there is a conscious nerve Within the human breast, That from the rash and careless hand Shrinks and retires distressed. The pressure rude, the touch severe, Will raise within the mind A nameless thrill, a secret tear, A torture undefined. Oh, you whose nature is so formed Each thought refined to know, Repress the word, the glance, that wakes That trembling nerve to woe! And be it still your joy to raise The trembler from the shade; To bind the broken, and to heal The wound you never made. Whene'er you see the feeling mind, Oh, let this care begin! And though the cell be e'er so low, Respect the guest within.—L. H.