St. Dennis, the saint of the Gaul; Is the mightiest saint of the lot! He wears a most serious face, 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 He's fond of financial improvement, To rank with his calendar neighbors ? 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, 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. Vitus, the saint of the dance; Is the mightiest saint of the lot! ONCE I WAS PURE. O! THE snow, the beautiful snow, 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, O! the snow, the beautiful snow, How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! It plays in its glee with every one, Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye! 137 And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, How the wild crowd goes swaying along, 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 scoffed, to be spit on and beat; Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whoever would buy, 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, There is nothing as pure as the beautiful snow. RESIGNATION. How strange it should be that this beautiful snow How strange it should be, when the night comes again, Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down, With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow RESIGNATION.-H. W. LONGFELLOW. THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, 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. 139 She is not dead,-the child of our affection,- Where she no longer needs our poor protection, In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, Day after day we think what she is doing Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 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, 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, |