"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 canvas 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 beaming 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 mute
Mercy 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, Senor,” 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 meed?
Reward or punishment ?"
"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried.
(Sebastian's ear was bent
To catch the sounds he scarce believed,
But with imploring look 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 i 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"Oh! 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,
É'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 feeling 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.
[The refrain, "No," should be given in a manner appropriate to the circumstances under which it is uttered.]
Tell me, ye winged winds, that round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest?
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd-"No."
Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play,
Know'st thou some favor'd spot, some island far away,
Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs-
Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies?
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopp'd for awhile, and sigh'd to answer-"No."
And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face,
Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace;
Tell me, in all thy round hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man might find a happier lot?
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded—“ No.”
Tell me, my secret soul; oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot where mortals may be bless'd,
Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest?
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings, and whisper'd-" Yes, IN HEAVEN."
CHARLES MACKAY.
[Great pathos at the close.]
Come, mother, set the kettle on,
And put the ham and eggs to fry;
Something to eat,
And make it neat,
To please our Jamie's mouth and eye;
For Jamie is our all, you know,
The rest have perished long ago!
He's coming from the wars to-night,
And his blue eyes will sparkle bright,
And his old smile will play right free,
His old loved home again to see.
I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing
That Jamie was not maimed or killed!
Five were the years,
With hopes and fears,
And gloomy, hopeless tidings filled;
And many a night the past five year,
We've lain within our cottage here,
And while the rain-storm came and went,
We've thought of Jamie, in his tent;
And offered many a silent prayer
That God would keep him in His care.
I say for 't! 'twas a cur'us thing
That Jamie was not maimed or killed!
Five were the years,
With blood and tears,
With cruel, bloody battles filled;
And many a morn, the past five year,
We've knelt around our fireside here,
And while we thought of bleeding ones,
Our blazing towns and smoking guns,
We've thought of him and breathed a prayer
That God would keep him in His care.
Nay, Addie, girl, just come away,
Touch not a dish upon the shelf!
Mother well knows
Just how it goes,
Mother shall set it all herself!
There's nothing to a wanderer's looks
Equal to food that mother cooks;
There's nothing to a wanderer's taste
Like food where mother's hand is traced;
Though good a sister's heart and will,
A mother's love is better still.
She knows the side to put his plate,
She knows the place to put his chair;
Many a day,
He's talked and laughed and eaten there: And though five years have come and gone, Our hearts for him beat truly on,
And keep a place for him to-day,
As well as ere he went away;
And he shall take, as good as new,
His old place at the table, too!
And opposite to him, again,
Your place, my Addie, girl, shall be;
Mother, your place,
And kind old face,
I'll still have opposite to me;
And we will talk of olden days,
Of all our former words and ways,
And we will tell him what has passed
Since he, dear boy, was with us last;
And how our eyes have fast grown dim,
Whenever we conversed of him.
And he shall tell us of his fights,
His marches, skirmishes, and all;
Many a tale
Will make us pale,
And pity those who had to fall; And many a tale of sportive style Will go, perhaps, to make us smile;
And when his stories are all done,
And when the evening well has gone,
We'll kneel around the hearth once more,
And thank the Lord the war is o'er.
Hark! there's a sound! he's coming now.
Hark, mother! there's the sound once more! Now on our feet,
With smiles to greet,
We'll meet him at the opening door!
It is a heavy step and tone.
Too heavy, far, for one alone,
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