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his struggles, and the agonized face became as hastened away to tell you, my little ones, of 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 cast 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

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!

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WRITE thee her history? Why, dear friend, I weave
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's 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 cheek too rosy clear.
She hath been leaning o'er the saintiy 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 falling 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,

Troubling their darkness.

Was she good as fair? How thinkest 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 ber A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields, Binding her brows with grape leaves-else, apart. Weaving fresh chaplets? For she hath been wont 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,

I'll 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.

MY SON.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

(ANDREW M. SIGOURNEY DIED AT HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT, JUNE 24, 1850, AGED NINETEEN.)

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