MONK FELIX.

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

ONE morning all alone,

Out of his convent of gray stone,
Into the forest older, darker, grayer,
His lips moving as if in prayer,
His head sunken upon his breast
As in a dream of rest,

Walked the Monk Felix. All about

The broad, sweet sunshine lay without,

Filling the summer air;

And within the woodlands, as he trod,

The twilight was like the truce of God
With worldly woe and care.

Under him lay the golden moss;

And above him the boughs of the hemlock-trees

Waved, and made the sign of the cross,

And whispered their Benedicites;

And from the ground

Rose an odor, sweet and fragrant,

Of the wild flowers and the vagrant

Vines that wandered,

Seeking the sunshine round and round;
These he heeded not, but pondered
On the volume in his hand,
A volume of St. Augustine,
Wherein he read of the unseen
Splendors of God's great town
In the unknown land,

And, with his eyes cast down,
In humility he said:

"I believe, O God,

What herein I have read,

But, alas! I do not understand!"

And lo! he heard

The sudden singing of a bird,

A snow-white bird, that from a cloud

Dropped down,

And among the branches brown

Sat singing

So sweet, and clear, and loud,

It seemed a thousand harp-strings ringing.

Listening all the time

To the melodious singing
Of a beautiful white bird,
Until I heard

The bells of the convent ringing
Noon from their noisy towers.
It was as if I dreamed;

For what to me had seemed

Moments only, had been hours!"

"Years!" said a voice close by. It was an aged monk who spoke, From a bench of oak

Fastened against the wall;

He was the oldest monk of all.

For a whole century

Had he been there,

Serving God in prayer,

The meekest and humblest of his creatures.

He remembered well the features

Of Felix, and he said,

Speaking distinct and slow:

"One hundred years ago,

When I was a novice in this place,

There was here a monk full of God's grace,

Who bore the name

Of Felix, and this man must be the same."

And straightway

They brought forth to the light of day

A volume old and brown,

A huge tome, bound

In brass and wild boar's hide,

Wherein was written down

The names of all who had died

In the convent since it was edified.

And there they found,

Just as the old monk said,

That on a certain day and date,

One hundred years before,

Had gone forth from the convent-gate

The Monk Felix, and never more

Had entered the sacred door.

He had been counted among the dead!

And they knew, at last,

That such had been the power

Of that celestial and immortal song,

A hundred years had passed,

And had not seemed so long as a single hour!

A HOUSEKEEPER'S TRAGEDY.

ANONYMOUS.

ONE day as I wandered, I heard a complaining,

And saw a poor woman, the picture of gloom: She glared at the mud on her doorsteps ('twas raining), And this was her wail as she wielded the broom:

"Oh! life is a toil, and love is a trouble,

And beauty will fade and riches will flee;

And pleasures they dwindle, and prices they double,
And nothing is what I could wish it to be.

"There's too much of worriment goes to a bonnet;
There's too much of ironing goes to a shirt;
There's nothing that pays for the time you waste on it;
There's nothing that lasts but trouble and dirt.

"In March it is mud; it's slush in December; The midsummer breezes are loaded with dust; In fall the leaves litter; in muggy September The wall-paper rots, and the candlesticks rust. "There are worms in the cherries, and slugs in the roses, And ants in the sugar and mice in the pies; The rubbish of spiders no mortal supposes, And ravaging roaches and damaging flies. "It's sweeping at six, and dusting at seven;

It's victuals at eight, and dishes at nine; It's potting and panning from ten to eleven ;

We scarce break our fast ere we plan how to dine. "With grease and with grime, from corner to centre, Forever at war and forever alert,

No rest for a day, lest the enemy enter

I spend my whole life in a struggle with dirt.

"Last night, in my dreams, I was stationed forever
On a bare little isle in the midst of the sea;

My one chance of life was a ceaseless endeavor
Το sweep off the waves ere they swept over me.

"Alas, 'twas no dream! Again I behold it!

I yield: I am helpless my fate to avert !"

She rolled down her sleeves, her apron she folded,
Then laid down and died, and was buried in dirt!

THE FATE OF MACGREGOR.

BY JAMES HOGG.

"MACGREGOR ! Macgregor! remember our foemen;
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond ;
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay;
Arise! let us bound to Glen-Lyon-away!"

Stern scowled the Macgregor; then, silent and sullen,
He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan ;
"Go, Malcolm ! to sleep let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest."

"Macgregor Macgregor ! our scouts have been flying, Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon; Of riding and running such tidings they bear,

We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here."
"The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him,
And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him;
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray,
And do what it freezes my vitals to say.

Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;
Thou know'st in the strife I was never behind,

Nor ever receded a foot from the van,

Or blenched at the ire or the prowess of man;

But I've sworn by the Cross, by my God and my all!—

An oath which I cannot and dare not recall

Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,

To meet with a Spirit this night in Glen-Gyle.

"Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone, I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,

When entered a Lady, with visage so wan,
And looks such as never were fastened on man!
I knew her, O brother! I knew her full well!

Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell

As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remained,

So racked was my spirit, my bosom so pained,

I knew not-but ages seemed short to the while!

Though proffer the Highlands, nay, all the Green Isle,

With length of existence no man can enjoy,

The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly!