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his struggles, and the agonized face became as peaceful as your sleeping baby-sister;—the evil spirit had departed. But as the great multitude exclaimed, "Is not this the Son of David?" some of the Pharisees said, "This fellow doth not oast out devils, but by Beelzebub, the prince of the devils." Though Carmi, Mezron, and Helah, learned, respected Pharisees, scribes of the law, said this, I cannot believe it, for Satan never relieved one sufferer, and desires our everlasting misery. I
hastened away to tell you, my little ones, of this great miracle. My heart tells me that he may be our long-desired Messiah; I will take you to his feet, and entreat him to bless you. They say he never refused an earnest request, that he has sent none away uncared for;—we will beg his blessing, that you may be kept from the power of Satan, now and for ever. Would that your father was alive to see this day, when our nation is to be rescued from the Roman power, and Messiah to commence his reign!
Wintik. a happy age might see,
When skies grow fair,
For change of air.
"I must be gone—go get my steed—
And mind the pelf.
Upon the shelf."
Winter returned, with faithful shoon,
To have a blow,
A scud of snow.
To hall him to his homestead towers,
And Summer, up,
With ready cup.
But be was cross as cross could be,
That no man meddles)—
His picks and pedals.
With Autumn's logs the chimney roared, The supper reeked with Summer's hoard, And Spring with flowers dressed the board:
The carl peered roun*— u Ye're likely folks, my three adored!"
He sate him down.
Spring sang a song—her tuneful powers
Cradled the soul in vernal bowers;
Forth stepped the sun his cloudy towers,—
Skies opened fair,—
Among your hair.
And Summer sang a busy tale,
In at the door;
Upon the floor.
And Autumn breathed his thoughtful lore,
In echoes dying evermore;
Or swelling, o'er a watered shore,
In naked woods.
Warmed up with wine and social glee,
He told his stories;
He*d been in Jack Frost's capitol—
In rows like guns—
By scores of tons.
He'd stood upon the Arctic seas,
Where he had seen the old moon squeeze
Through Sims's Hole, by hard degrees,
And kenned it well;
He coul1J not toll.
Beneath a sky-bow borealis,
He'd danoed, on Ice, the jig of sailors,
With dewlapped witches three, as pale as—
And blue—as Death; While wolves sang chorus, hoarse as whalers,
With all their breath.
But in the reel he dropped his stick—
With thunder din,
And soused him in.
In truth, he sopped it—got uproarious,
And kissed 'em o'er,
And called for more.
His children tried to stint his measure;
If ye were I,
Of being dry."
The morning blazed—no wind did blow,
And icicles, in many a row,
Went, crash, and skittered o'er the snow.
In dreary phape Lay hearth, and board; and Winter snored
With jaws agape.
Now, reader, don't put up your hair;
The mask of Vice:
Not over nice.
Though social nights, and rousing cheer.
"It is not well J"—
LITERATURE AND ART.
BT WILLIAM PEMBROKE MULOHINOCK.
(See Engraved Title-Page.)
OnI thou bright and blest Ideal,
With your ralnbow-tlnted gleams;
Wouldst thou know the thoughts of sages?
Wouldn't thou read the poet's song?
Set., she waits not overlong.
Lifelike, to the gaxer's heart?
Beauteous Literature and Art.
Like a vision
Bow down, mortal,
At their portal, That opes but to melody; At the portal of the suiters, Ah! how beautiful to see.
They are smiling on each other,
They are speaking words of love. Cheering on each other's efforts,
That her task may lighter prove; For the genius, fired by Heaven,
Hath of selfishness no part, And your sympathy is godlike, Beauteous Literature and Art. The Ideal's fair twin children, Oh! how beautiful they be! Sunlight dances In their glances, With a sky-born brilliancy; Hay they never Part or sever, But in beauty still be seen, In the pages Of the sages Of the "Union Magasine."
THE BROWN MANTLE.
BY EDITH MAY.
Write thee her history? Why, dear friend, I Always a new one. That of yesterday, To-day seems trite. Some varying of my mood, Some chance-thrown light upon the picture caught, Still makes me question If I read aright The limner> meaning. I can only guess That not in grief, or guilt, her soul is drawn Through her raised eyes towards Heaven. Too ripe a hue Crimsons the passionate fulness of her lip; The black profusion of her rippled hair, Caught backward from a check too rosy clear. She hath been leaning o'er the salniiy book Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock Hath parted from the mass, across her brow Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess Her state from her arraying; at her throat The sad-hued mantle, with its failing hood, Close gathered. Best of all, I love her eyes— I'd have no change in them. I would not see Even the angel presence of a smile, 14
Troubling their dark
Was she good as fair? How thickest thou? Are not her very looks Teachers of purity ?—Was she high born? Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God The blossom of her nature? She has dwelt Where the Seine wanders; canst thou image h.-r A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields. Binding her brows with grape leaves—else, apart. Weaving fresh chaplets? For she hath been wout To kneel at Romish altars; and I know, Under the brown folds of her cloak you*d find Beads and a crucifix.
Peasant, or queen,
• Til think of her as one, whose lightest word
, Angels heard unrebuking; whose pure heart
• Turned from impurity, as a flower shuts
At the approach of night.
Ah, be content! I would not know her history if I could.
Thoc hast gone hence, my beautiful,—
For so thou wort to me,—
Enrobed both vale and tree;
The rlne, entwining fair,
Enriched the balm/ air;
Poured such a flood of light,
Were opened to our sight.
I miss thee everywhere, my son,
I miss thee everywhere;
Sofa, or antique chair,
Were with precision laid,
Even 'mid Doath's darkening shade, The burnished bells, that to thy couch
The heedful nurso would call— Alas I how very a trifle moves
A mother's tears to fall.
Again, with vivid tint returns
Thy childhood s cloudless scene; Thy truthful words, thy pious mind,
Reflecting and serene;
Amid the lone, green wood,
Some iUUe children good
Thy father's lawns to rove, Fast by thy gentle sister's side,
Twin-like, and full of love:
For hand in hand, and heart to heart,
Their forms one shadow cast,
Through gardens fair they passed.
That flowed rejoicing by,
Upreared its canopy.
Beguiled these happy hours;
Amid the thornless flowers.
Then came the school-boy's lot, to search
For wealth of classic lore,
My pupil wert no more.
Thine image sought my sldo,
That God would be thy guide.
Some hidden foe, or strife,
To bear the ills of life.
But throngs of painful memories rise,
That I would fain forget,
Disease its seal had set;
The eye's unearthly ray,
Dire signal of decay;
Its death-knell on my ear,
I start, and seem to hear.
Ah I hast thou fallen, our youngest one,
Fallen from the parent tree,
This same shall comfort me?
And dress my burial mould f
To close thine eyelids cold,
At morn and eventide,
That I, for thee, had died I"
Fade, memories, fade I Ye rend my heart!
I bid ye hence, away,
The strong-beaked birds of prey;
That morbid thoughts alloy,
A strain of grateful joy.
As best the wounded may,
My desolated way.
There! there I Ye've laid him in the tomh.
And eloped the vaulted door;
And he returns no more.
Ye dead! who there abide,—
To slumber by your side;
And felt the intruder's fear,
With ill-dissembled tear.
Ah l weak and selfish earthly grief I
Restrain thy tides I Be still I When He who lent reclaims Ms loan,
Revere the Unerring Will. Father l I yield him back to Thee,
Compassionate, and strong;
Thou wilt not do him wrong.
His infant temples blest,
And share eternal rest .
Oh, my first is like a fancy,
Or a fairy whisper mild,
As the breathing of a child.
Or a demon on his path,
Thundering down his tones of wrath.
He will kiss you in the morning
With a fragrant dainty breath; He will touch your lips at even,
And the vapour shall be death.
With a whisper and a sigh;
As he roars along the sky.
Oh, my second's tones are gentle
As the advent of a dream, Melting on the heart as softly
As the t'now upon a stream: She can lead you with a whisper,
She can fright you with a frown; She is sharper than a thistle,
She is softer than 't - down.
She will plague you in your pleasure,
She will soothe you in your woe; She can be your guiding angel,
She may be your fiercest foe. He who takes her to his bosom,
Welcomes doubt, and care, and strife: He who takes her not, had better
End at once his wretched life.
Lo, a cottage, nestled sleeping
In a swaying dream of leaves; Where the sidelong sun is creeping,
Inch by inch, across the eaves. With my whole a child was playing,
Looking down the cottage well, Laughing out with hearty pleasure,
As the bucket rose and fell.
Sank the sun, all flushed and weary,
Like a hero sick of wars;
Keenly forth the eager stars.
Gazing in the mossy well,
As the bucket's drippings ML