THE SNOW-STORM.

63

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But, Oh! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary—
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since

my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,

That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-

I bless you, Mary, for that same,

Tho' you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
And you did it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your
heart was sad and sore-
Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you darling,
In the land I'm going to;

They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there-
But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May

morn

When first you were my bride.

THE SNOW-STORM.

EMERSON.

ENNOUNCED by all the trumpets of

the sky,

Come see the north-wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore

Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
the fields,

Curves his white bastions with projected roof

Seems nowhere to alight; the whited Round every windward stake or tree or door;

air

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage; naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered. and the

world

WAITED more than two hours without having an opportunity of crossing the river, during which time the people who had crossed carried information to Man-song, the king, that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his country; and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which he pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me further instructions how to conduct myself.

This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village, where I found, to my great mortification, that no person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a tree; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable-for the wind rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain-and the wild beasts are so very numerous in the neighborhood, that I should have been under the necessity of climbing up the trees and resting amongst the branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my situation, which I briefly explained to her; whereupon, with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. She went out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for

supper.

The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress-pointing to the mat, and telling me I might sleep there without apprehension-called to the female part of her family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ themselves a great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs, one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally translated, were these: "The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to bring him milk-no wife to grind his corn. Chorus-Let us pity the white man--no mother has he," etc. Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my compassionate landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waistcoat-the only recompense I could make her.

H

THE HEBREW RACE.

BENJAMIN DISRAELI.

AVORED by nature and by nature's God, we produced the lyre of David; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel; they are our Olynthians, our Philippics. Favored by nature we still remain; but in exact proportion as we have been favored by nature, we have been persecuted by man. After a thousand struggles—after acts of heroic courage that Rome has never equalled-deeds of divine patriotism. that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have never excelled-we have endured fifteen hundred years of supernatural slavery; during which, every device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him. the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion.

Great poets require a public; we have been content with the immortal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs; they solace our afflic