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; In sooth, our American saint

Has rather a secular bias,

And I never have heard a complaint
Of his being excessively pious!

He's fond of financial improvement,
And is always extremely inclined
To be starting some practical movement
For mending the morals and mind.
Do you ask me what wonderful labors
St. Jonathan ever has done

To rank with his calendar neighbors ?
Just listen, a moment, to one:

One day when a flash in the air

Split his meeting-house fairly asunder, Quoth JONATHAN, "Now-I declareThey're dreadfully careless with thunder !" 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 !

One morning, while taking a stroll,
He heard a lugubrious cry—
Like the shriek of a suffering soul-
In a hospital standing near by;
Anon, such a terrible groan

Saluted ST. JONATHAN's ear,

That his bosom-which wasn't of stone

Was melted with pity to hear.

ONCE I WAS PURE.

That night he invented a charm

So potent, that folks who employ it, In losing a leg or an arm,

Don't suffer, but rather enjoy it! A miracle, you must allow,

As good as the best of his brothers',-And blessed ST. JONATHAN now

Is patron of cripples and mothers!

There's many an excellent saint,—
St. George, with the dragon and lance;
St. Patrick, so jolly and quaint;

St. Vitus, the saint of the dance;
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!

ONCE I WAS PURE.

O! THE snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below;
Over the housetops, over the street,

Over the heads of the people you meet,

Dancing,

Flirting,

Skimming along,

Beautiful snow! It can do nothing wrong,

Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak,
Beautiful snow from the heaven above
Pure as an angel, as gentle as love!

O! the snow, the beautiful snow,

How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!
Whirling about in its maddening fun,

It plays in its glee with every one,

Chasing,

Laughing,

Hurrying by,

It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye!

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And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around;
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How the wild crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges, like meteors, flash by,
Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye;;
Ringing,

Swinging,

Dashing they go,

Over the crest of the beautiful snow;

Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,

To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by,

To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet,

Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

v-but I fell!

Once I was pure as the snow

Fell like the snow-flakes from heaven to hell;
Fell to be trampled as filth in the street;

Fell to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat;

Pleading,

Cursing,

Dreading to die,

Selling my soul to whoever would buy,
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living and fearing the dead;

Merciful God! have I fallen so low?

And yet I was once like the beautiful snow.

Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,

With an eye like its crystal, a heart like its glow;

Once I was loved for my innocent grace

Flattered and sought for the charms of my face;

Father,

Mother,

Sisters all,

God, and myself, I have lost by my fall;

The veriest wretch that goes shivering by,
Will take a wide sweep lest I wander too nigh;
For all that is on or above me, I know,

There is nothing as pure as the beautiful snow.

RESIGNATION.

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!

How strange it should be, when the night comes again,
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain,

Fainting,

Freezing,

Dying alone,

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan
To be heard in the crazy town,

Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down,
To lie and to die in my terrible woe,

With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow

RESIGNATION.-H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!

There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,

But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,

And mournings for the dead;

The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,

Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions

Not from the ground arise,

But oftentimes celestial benedictions

Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;

Amid these earthly damps,

What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers

May be heaven's distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition.

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian,

Whose portal we call Death.

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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,

Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;

Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,

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,

In our embraces we again enfold her,

She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion

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;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing,

The grief that must have way,