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St. Dennis, the saint of the Gaul;
St. Andrew, the saint of the Scot; But JONATHAN, youngest of all,
Is the mightiest saint of the lot!
He wears a most serious face,
Well worthy a martyr's possessing; But it isn't all owing to grace,
But partly to thinking and guessing;
Has rather a secular bias,
Of his being excessively pious !
He's fond of financial improvement,
And is always extremely inclined
For mending the morals and mind.
St. Jonathan ever has done
Just listen, a moment, to one:
One day when a flash in the air
Split his meeting-house fairly asunder, Quoth JONATHAN, “Now, I declare
They're dreadfully careless with thunder 1" So he fastened a rod to the steeple;
And now, when the lightning comes round, He keeps it from building and people,
By running it into the groumd I
One morning, while taking a stroll,
He heard a lugubrious cry-
In a hospital standing near by;
Saluted St. JONATHAN's ear,
Was melted with pity to hear.
ONCE I WAS PURE.
That night he invented a charm
So potent, that folks who employ it,
Don't suffer, but rather enjoy it!
As good as the best of his brothers', -
Is patron of cripples and mothers!
There's many an excellent saint,
St. George, with the dragon and lance;
St. Vitus, the saint of the dance ;
St. Andrew, the saint of the Scot;
Is the mightiest saint of the lot !
ONCE I WAS PURE.
01 THE Snow,
the beautiful snow,
Or the snow, the beautiful snow,
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
How the wild crowd goes swaying along,
Dashing they go,
Once I was pure as the snow-but I fell !
Dreading to die,
Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,
How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
RESIGNATION.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.
THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
But has one vacant chair !
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afilictions
Not from the ground arise,
Assume this dark disguise.
Amid these earthly damps,
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition.
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead, -the child of our affection,
But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For where, with raptures wild,
She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times, impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed, The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay ;
The grief that must have way,