Within Murillo's study-all were gone

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. "Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, One bright-eyed boy was there-Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child-that boy had seen

Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lofty brow,

O'er which his locks of jet

Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through

Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,

To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said:

The lash, if I refuse to tell
Who sketched those figures-if I do,
Perhaps e'en more-the dungeon cell!"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came for soon in slumber laid,

He slept, until the dawning day
Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now, Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes; for then

I shall be but a slave again.

Three blessed hours of freedom! how

Shall I employ them?-ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvass traced
Must be yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush-the morning light
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,

He cried, "Shall I efface it-No!
That breathing lip! that beamimg eye!
Efface them?-I would rather die."

The terror of the humble slave

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings Nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.

He touched the brow-the lip-it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed-
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat

Of punishment still hanging o'er him
For with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.

At length 'twas finished; rapturously
He gazed-could aught more beauteous be!-
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood
Then started-horror chilled his blood!

His master and the pupils all

Were there e'en at his side!

The terror-stricken slave was muteMercy would be denied,

E'en could he ask it-so he deemed,

And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.

Speechless, bewildered-for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;

At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke-

"Who is your master, boy?"

"You, señor," said the trembling slave. "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew?" Again he answered, "Only you." "I gave you none!" Murillo cried. "But I have heard," the boy replied,

"What you to others said."

"And more than heard," in kinder tone,

The painter said; "'tis plainly shown
That you have profited.

"What (to his pupils) is his mead? Reward or punishment?"

"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,

(Sebastian's ear was bent

To catch the sound he scarce believed,
But with imploring looks received.)
"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold
And of a splendid dress;

But still unmoved Sebastian stood,

Silent and motionless.

"Speak!" said Murillo, kindly, "choose

Your own reward-what shall it be? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse: Then speak at once and fearlessly." "Oh! if I dared!" Sebastian knelt,

And feelings he could not control, (But feared to utter even then)

With strong emotion, shook his soul.

"Courage!" his master said, and each Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, To soothe his overpow'ring dread. He scarcely heard, till some one said, "Sebastian-ask-you have your choice, Ask for your freedom." At the word,

The suppliant strove to raise his voice: At first but stifled sobs were heard, And then his prayer-breathed fervently"O master, make my father free!" "Him and thyself, my noble boy!" Warmly the painter cried;

Raising Sebastian from his feet,
He pressed him to his side.
"Thy talents rare, and filial love,
E'en more have fairly won;

Still be thou mine by other bonds—
My pupil and my son."

Murillo knew, e'en when the words
Of generous feelings passed his lips,
Sebastian's talents soon must lead

To fame that would his own eclipse;
And, constant to his purpose still,
He joyed to see his pupil gain,
Beneath his care, such matchless skill
As made his name the pride of Spain.

Long Life.

OUNT not thy life by calendars; for

Years shall pass thee by unheeded, whilst an hour

Some little fleeting hour, too quickly past

May stamp itself so deeply on thy brain,

Thy latest years shall live upon its joy.

His life is longest, not whose boneless gums,

Sunk eyes, wan cheeks, and snow-white hairs bespeak
Life's limits; no! but he whose memory

Is thickest set with those delicious scenes

'Tis sweet to ponder o'er when even falls.