A lion would have crouched to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and His sandals worn,
His stature modelled with a perfect grace;
His countenance the impress of a God,
Touch'd with the opening innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon; His hair unshorn
Fell to His shoulders; and His curling beard
The fullness of perfected manhood bore.
-He look'd on Helon earnestly awhile,
As if His heart were moved, and, stooping down,
He took a little water in His hand,

And laid it on his brow, and said, “ Be clean !”
And lo! the scales fell from him; and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins,
And his dry palms grew moist; and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's sole :
His leprosy was cleans'd; and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshipped Him.

A POETESS'S PICTURE OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

JOANNA BAIillie.

Ev'N now, methinks,

Each little cottage of my native vale
Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof,
Like to a hillock moved by laboring mole,

And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls,
Roses, and every gay and fragrant plant,
Before my fancy stands a fairy bower;

Aye, and within it, too, do fairies dwell.

Peep through its wreathed window, if, indeed,

The flowers grow not too close; and there within,
Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats,

Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk

Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
Their very forms distinctly?—

I'll gather round my board
All that heav'n sends to me of way-worn folks,
And noble travellers and neighboring friends,
Both young and old. Within my ample hall,
The worn-out man of arms shall o' tip-toe tread,
Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow,
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats
Of days gone by. Music we'll have, and oft
The bickering dance upon our oaken floors
Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear
Of nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din.
Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd and demure,
We shall not be: but every season

Shall have its suited pastime: even winter
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow,
And choked up valleys, to our mansion bar
All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller
Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken,
In some warm chamber by the crackling fire,
We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court,
Plying our work with song and tale between.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.-F. HEMANS.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They fill'd one house with glee;

Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;

She had each folded flower in sight-
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;

He was the lov'd of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers-
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus, they rest who play'd
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they pray'd
Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall

And cheer'd with song the hearth—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,

And nought beyond, on earth!

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.-F. HEMANS.

THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long imprison'd sire;

"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I bring thee faith, my liege, my lord!-oh, break my father's chain!"

"Rise, rise! ev'n now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this day, Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.” Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there in very truth is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see.”

His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heav'd, his cheek's blood came and went;

He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there dismount

ing bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,—
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold—a frozen thing-it dropp'd from his like lead,

He look'd up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!
A plume waved o'er the noble brow, the brow was fix'd and white;
He met at last his father's eyes,—but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprung, and gaz'd, but who could paint that gaze?

They hush'd their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length, he murmur'd low, and wept like childhood then :

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men !— He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his young renown,― He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then, covering, with his steel-glov'd hands, his darkly mournful brow,

"No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for, nowMy king is false, my hope betray'd, my father-oh! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth!

“I thought to stand where banners wav'd, my sire! beside thee yet,

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met; Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee my fields

were won,

And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as if thou hadst no son."

Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train ; And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?

If thou wouldst clear thy perjur'd soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,— Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,

Thou canst not—and a king?—His dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loos'd the steed; his slack hand fell ;-upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look,-then turn'd from tha sad place:

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain,— His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain!