JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

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JUDGE NOT.

  Judge not; the workings of his brain
    And of his heart thou canst not see;
  What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,
    In God’s pure light may only be
  A scar, brought from some well-won field,
  Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

  The look, the air, that frets thy sight
    May be a token that below
  The soul has closed in deadly fight
    With some infernal fiery foe,
  Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace
  And cast thee shuddering on thy face!

  The fall thou darest to despise,—­
    May be the angel’s slackened hand
  Has suffered it, that he may rise
    And take a firmer, surer stand;
  Or, trusting less to earthly things,
  May henceforth learn to use his wings.

  And judge none lost; but wait and see,
    With hopeful pity, not disdain;
  The depth of the abyss may be
    The measure of the height of pain
  And love and glory that may raise
  This soul to God in after days!

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

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TO THE UNCO GUID.

      “My son, these maxims make a rule
        And lump them aye thegither: 
      The Rigid Righteous is a fool,
        The Rigid Wise anither: 
      The cleanest corn that e’er was dight
        May hae some pyles o’ caff in;
      Sae ne’er a fellow-creature slight
        For random fits o’ daffin.”

      —­SOLOMON, Ecclesiastes vii. 16.

  O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
    Sae pious and sae holy,
  Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
    Your neebor’s fauts and folly:—­
  Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
    Supplied wi’ store o’ water. 
  The heapet happer’s ebbing still,
    And still the clap plays clatter.

  Hear me, ye venerable core,
    As counsel for poor mortals,
  That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door,
    For glaikit Folly’s portals! 
  I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
    Would here propone defences,
  Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
    Their failings and mischances.

  Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,
    And shudder at the niffer;
  But cast a moment’s fair regard,
    What makes the mighty differ? 
  Discount what scant occasion gave
    That purity ye pride in,
  And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave)
    Your better art o’ hidin’.

  Think, when your castigated pulse
    Gies now and then a wallop,
  What ragings must his veins convulse,
    That still eternal gallop: 
  Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
    Right on ye scud your sea-way;
  But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
    It makes an unco leeway.

  See Social life and Glee sit down,
    All joyous and unthinking,
  Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown
    Debauchery and Drinking: 
  O, would they stay to calculate
    The eternal consequences;
  Or your mortal dreaded hell to state,
    Damnation of expenses!