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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!

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Wintik. a happy age might see,
At home among his children three,
If he could but contented be;

When skies grow fair,
He frets and sweats perpetually

For change of air.

"I must be gone—go get my steed—
But, children, lest we come to need,
(Spring, Summer, Autumn,) be agreed,

And mind the pelf.
You'll And the pots and pans of seed

Upon the shelf."

Winter returned, with faithful shoon,
Some days beyond the harvest moon,
When winds had got their pipes in tune

To have a blow,
And in the sombre afternoon

A scud of snow.

To hall him to his homestead towers,
Lacqueyed by Love, and scarfed with flowers,
Came Spring, the queen of rosy hours,

And Summer, up,
And Autumn, from his vintage bowers,

With ready cup.

But be was cross as cross could be,
For very, very cold was he—
(Cold as a miser's charity

That no man meddles)—
And to the fire put, tremblingly,

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,—
Ye seemed to feel the breath of flowers

Among your hair.

And Summer sang a busy tale,
Of fruits and grains in russet mail.
Reeled the full wain, of verdure pale,

In at the door;
Rang the quick trampling thresher's flail

Upon the floor.

And Autumn breathed his thoughtful lore,

In echoes dying evermore;

Or swelling, o'er a watered shore,

From solitudes.
Barked the loud axe, with startled roar.

In naked woods.

Warmed up with wine and social glee,
Winter, a merry carl was he.
With drops of tears in either e'e

He told his stories;
Each one as queer as queer could be,
And each more glorious.

He*d been in Jack Frost's capitol—
Seen in an icy armour-hall,
Of lcicles, both great and small,

In rows like guns—
Seen powder-snow, and hail for ball,

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;
But lf the moon were stone, or cheese,

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—
They took it for a cursed trick,
And skyward whisked, rocket-quick.

With thunder din,
The ice, it bursted in a nick,

And soused him in.

In truth, he sopped it—got uproarious,
And bade his daughters sing like Boreas,
He hugged 'em, like a god uxorious,

And kissed 'em o'er,
And thumped his pewter mug victorious,

And called for more.

His children tried to stint his measure;
It moved the old man's quick displeasure:
"Nal nal now—give!—I am not azure!

If ye were I,
So old, and cold, ye'd know the treasure

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;
With this true story try to bear,
Although it makes old Winter wear

The mask of Vice:
Wisdom, and Wit, and Virtue are

Not over nice.

Though social nights, and rousing cheer.
Makes Old Advice less wise than queer,
And Prudence says, with eye severe,

"It is not well J"—
Be kind, if Age, but once a year,

OVrdoes bbnsel*.

LITERATURE AND ART.

BT WILLIAM PEMBROKE MULOHINOCK.

(See Engraved Title-Page.)

OnI thou bright and blest Ideal,
Radiant vision of my dreams,
Lighting op the darksome Real

With your ralnbow-tlnted gleams;
I have wooed thee long and fondly,
With a proud, impassioned heart,
And thy dove-eyed, (air twin children,
Beauteous Literature and Art;
The glorious, glorious sisters,
How beautiful to see,
How lightsome
And how brightsome
And bow radiant they bel
With their smiling,
And beguiling,
Care and sorrow, what are ye?
In the sunlight of their glances,
Ah! how beautiful to see.

Wouldst thou know the thoughts of sages?

Wouldn't thou read the poet's song?
On** fair sipter holds the volume—

Set., she waits not overlong.
Wouldst thou see the canvass speaking,

Lifelike, to the gaxer's heart?
Bend before the fair twin children,

Beauteous Literature and Art.
The glorious, glorions sisters,
How beautiful to see,

Like a vision

All Elysian,
In their loneliness they be

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.

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Thoc hast gone hence, my beautiful,—

For so thou wort to me,—
When Summer, in most glorious pomp,

Enrobed both vale and tree;
When, round the trellis of thy home,

The rlne, entwining fair,
With perfume or its choicest flowers,

Enriched the balm/ air;
And when the fall, solstitial moon,

Poured such a flood of light,
As if the crystal gates of heaven.

Were opened to our sight.

I miss thee everywhere, my son,

I miss thee everywhere;
Each nook, where side by side we sate,

Sofa, or antique chair,
The table, where thy books and pens

Were with precision laid,
The favourite watch, thy fingers wound

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;
The haunts where thou wert wont to mm

Amid the lone, green wood,
And "write a story, thai thould make

Some iUUe children good
Thy joy, the daily lesson o'er,

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,
As from the arbour's sweet recess,

Through gardens fair they passed.
Or sought the margin of the stream

That flowed rejoicing by,
Or wandered where the solemn grove

Upreared its canopy.
Study, and sport, and Nature's love,

Beguiled these happy hours;
And thus thy first two lustrums fled,

Amid the thornless flowers.

Then came the school-boy's lot, to search

For wealth of classic lore,
And then, to other homes transferred,

My pupil wert no more.
Yet duly, still, at twilight hour,

Thine image sought my sldo,
And dawn awoke the anxious prayer

That God would be thy guide.
For much I feared, as mothers will,

Some hidden foe, or strife,
And knew thy nerves too keenly strung

To bear the ills of life.

But throngs of painful memories rise,

That I would fain forget,
When on thy young and vigorous form

Disease its seal had set;
The wasting flesh, the wearied heart,

The eye's unearthly ray,
The hectic kindling on the cheek,

Dire signal of decay;
The racking cough, that nightly rang

Its death-knell on my ear,
Which still, amid my broken dream,

I start, and seem to hear.

Ah I hast thou fallen, our youngest one,

Fallen from the parent tree,
Of whom I said, in all my toil,

This same shall comfort me?
This same shall lay me in my grave,

And dress my burial mould f
And little deemed, with trembling hand,

To close thine eyelids cold,
Or breathe the agonising plaint

At morn and eventide,
"Oh l would to God, my only son,

That I, for thee, had died I"

Fade, memories, fade I Ye rend my heart!

I bid ye hence, away,
Like Rispah, driving from her dead

The strong-beaked birds of prey;
For many a duty still is mine,

That morbid thoughts alloy,
And many a blessing that demands

A strain of grateful joy.
And I must gather up my strength

As best the wounded may,
And gird myself anew, to run

My desolated way.

There! there I Ye've laid him in the tomh.

And eloped the vaulted door;
The harsh key grateth in its lock,

And he returns no more.
Be kind unto my precious child,

Ye dead! who there abide,—
As unsalutlng thus he comes,

To slumber by your side;
For he was timid from his birth,

And felt the intruder's fear,
And from imagined coldness shrank

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 lov'st the souls that Thou hast made,

Thou wilt not do him wrong.
Dear Saviour! whose baptismal dew

His infant temples blest,
Grant us to meet him at thy feet,

And share eternal rest .

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Oh, my first is like a fancy,

Or a fairy whisper mild,
Floating past your cheek as gently

As the breathing of a child.
And my first I s like a fury,

Or a demon on his path,
Rushing rast athwart the heavens,—

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.
He will creep to you at noontide,

With a whisper and a sigh;
He will swoop at night and crush you,

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;
Through the cool gray air came peering

Keenly forth the eager stars.
By my whole the child still lingered,

Gazing in the mossy well,
Where the starlight broke and scattered,

As the bucket's drippings ML

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