On the withering leaves of time,
Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on,
In an ever spring-bright clime;
Where we find the joy of loving,
As we never loved before;
Loving on unchilled, unhindered,
Loving once and evermore-

Brother, we shall meet and rest
'Mid the holy and the blest.

Where a blasted world shall brighten
Underneath a bluer sphere,
And a softer, gentler sunshine
Shed its healing splendor here;
Where earth's barren vales shall blossom,
Putting on their robe of green,

And a purer, fairer Eden

Be where only wastes have been ;
Where a King, in kingly giory

Such as earth has never known,
Shall assume the righteous sceptre,
Claim and wear the heavenly crown-
Brother, we shall meet and rest
'Mid the holy and the blest.

A RESPONSE TO “BEAUTIFUL SNOW.”

Sallie J. Hancock.

Cast by the bright wings of a seraph-the snow,
From the uppermost heights to the earth below;
Gently enwrapping a star-begemmed spread
O'er homes of the living and graves of the dead.
Radiantly white as the Genii of story!
Pure as the saints in their robings of glory!
Whose soft tears of sympathy froze in their fall,
For the sin an 1 the curse that are over us all;
Fleecy and light from the olive-hued skies,
As the trailing insignia of paradise ;
The one fair perishing thing that is given
To worlds aglow with the splendors of Heaven!

Proud spirit, who told of the height which you fell
Adown like the snow flakes from Heaven to hell ?”
God made you as fair as the beautiful snow!

He loves you, poor sinner, though you may not know
How deep in that Infinite heart sank your cry
For "shelter" and "rest" of the saint passing by,
Who spurned you, and left you to die in the street,
With a bed and a shroud of the snow and the sleet.
The world has cursed you, yet God has not said
A soul shall be bartered for gold or for bread.

He knows all your erring and horrible woe,

The want and the crime that have maddened you so:
All the dearer to him for the strife, and for stain,
And purer to-day for repentance and pain!
Made white by His blood, as the beautiful snow

That falls on a sinner with nowhere to go;"
And sweeter the pardon hard won by the cries
That from Magdalen lips went up to the skies.

Oh! beautiful snow, from the filth of the earth,
Swift rises again in its cherubic mirth
In crystalline dew-drops-all glistening bright
As clear shining stars in a heaven of night.
If contrite to the throne of God's mercy you go,
He will make you as pure as the "beautiful snow!"

A DRUNKEN SOLILOQUY IN A COAL CELLAR Alf. Burnett.

LET'S see, where am I? This is coal I'm lying on. How'd I get here? Yes, I mind now; was coming up street; met a wheel-barrow wot was drunk, coming t'other way. That wheel-barrow fell over me, or I fell over the wheel-barrow, and one of us fell into the cellar, don't mind now which; guess it must have been me. I'm a nice young man; yes, I am; tight, tore, drunk, shot! Well, I can't help it; 'taint my fault. Wonder whose fault it is? Is it Jones's fault? No! Is it my wife's fault? WELL IT AN'T! Is it the wheel-barrow's fault? No-o-o! IT'S WHISKY'S FAULT!! WHISKY! who's Whisky? Has he got a large family? Got many relations? All poor, I reckon. I won't own him any more; cut his acquaintance. I have had a notion of doing that for the last ten years; always hated to, though, for fear of hurting

his feelin's. I'll do it now for I believe liquor is injurin' me; it's spoilin' my temper. Sometimes I gets mad and abuses Bets and the brats. I used to call 'em Lizzie and the children; that's a good while ago, though. Then, when I cum home, she used to put her arms around my neck and kiss me, and call me "dear William !" When I cum home now she takes her pipe out of her mouth, puts the hair out of her eyes, and looks at me and says, "Bill, you drunken brute, shut the door after you! We're cold enough, havin' no fire, 'thout lettin' the snow blow in that way." Yes she's Bets and I'm Bill now; I a'nt a good bill neither; I'm counterfeit; won't pass-(a tavern without goin' in and getting a drink.) Don't know wot bank I'm on; last Sunday was on the river bank, at the Corn Exchange, drunk! I stay out pretty late-sometimes out all night, when Bets bars the door with a bed-post; fact is, I'm out pretty much all over- out of friends, out of pocket, out at elbows and knees, and out-rageously dirty. So Bets says, but she's no judge, for she's never clean herself. I wonder she don't wear good clothes? May-be she an't got any! Whose fault is that? Taint mine! It may be whisky's. Sometimes I'm in; I'm in-toxicated now, and in somebody's coal cellar. I've got one good principle; I never runs in debt, 'cause nobody won't trust me. One of my coat tails is gone; got tore off, I expect, when I fell down here. I'll have to get a new suit soon. A feller told me t'other day I'd make a good sign for a paper-mill. If he hadn't been so big I'd licked him. I've had this shirt on nine days. I'd take it off, but I'm 'fraid I'd tear it. Guess I tore the window-shutter on my pants t'other night, when I sot on the wax in Ben Sniff's shoe-shop. I'll have to get it mended up or I'll catch coli. I an't very stout neither, though I'm full in the face; as the boys say, "I'm fat as a match, and healthy as the small pox." My hat is standin' guard for a window-pane that went out the other day at the invitation of a brick-bat. It's getting cold down here; wonder how I'll get out? I an't able to climb. If I had a drink, think I could do it. Let's see, I an't got three cents; wish I was in a tavern, I could sponge it then. When anybody treats, and says "Come fellers !" I always thinks my name is fellers, and I've too good manners to refuse. I must leave this place, or I'll be arrested for burglary, and I an't come to that yet! Anyhow, it was the wheel-barrow did the harm, not

me!

OUR COUNTRY'S CALL.-W. C. Bryant.

LAY down the axe, fling by the spade;
Leave in its track the toiling plough ;
The rifle and the bayonet-blade

For arms like yours are fitter now;
And let the hands that ply the pen

Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.

Our country calls; away! away!

To where the blood-stream blots the green, Strike to defend the gentlest sway

That Time in all his course has seen.

See, from a thousand coverts-sce

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track; They rush to smite her down, and we

Must beat the banded traiters back.

Ho! sturdy as the oaks ye

cleave,

And moved as soon to fear and flight;

Men of the glade and forest! leave
Your woodcraft for the field of fight.
The arms that wield the axe must pour
An iron tempest on the foe;

His serried ranks shall reel before

The arm that lays the panther low.

And ye who breast the mountain storm
By grassy steep or highland lake,
Come, for the land ye love, to form

A bulwark that no foe can break.

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock
The whirlwind; stand in her defence:
The blast as soon shall move the rock,
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence.

And ye, whose homes are by her grand
Swift rivers, rising far away,
Come from the depth of her green land
As mighty in your march as they;

As terrible as when the rains

Have swelled them over bank and bourne,

With sudden floods to drown the plains
And sweep along the woods uptorn.

K*

And ye who throng beside the deep,
Her ports and hamlets of the strand,
In number like the waves that leap

On his long murmuring marge of sand,
Come, like that deep, when, o'er his brim,
He rises, all his floods to pour,

And flings the proudest barks that swim,
A helpless wreck against his shore.

Few, few were they whose swords of old,
Won the fair land in which we dwell;
But we are many, we who hold

The grim resolve to guard it well.
Strike for that broad and goodly land,

Blow after blow, till men shall see

That Might and Right move hand in hand,
And glorious must their triumph be.

THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE.-Susan Wilson.

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, as one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630.

'Twas morning in Seville; and brightly beamed
The early sunlight in one chamber there;
Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed,
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where
Murillo, the famed painter, came to share

With young aspirants his long-cherished art,
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care,
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart,
The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart.

The pupils came, and glancing round,
Mendez upon his canvas found,
Not his own work of yesterday,
But, glowing in the morning ray,
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright,

It almost seemed that there were given

To glow before his dazzled sight,

Tints and expression warm from heaven.