I have seen a magnificent painting of Christ's triumphant entry into Jerusalem, in which a mother is urging a prayer at the feet of our Saviour, for her sinful daughter. The poor girl is shrinking back as with a sense of her utter unworthiness; one hand covers her face, while the other is forcibly held up by the noble parent, whose face is full of living poetry.

SHE lonely stood beside a marble fount,

Her white arms meekly folded on her breast,
And her whole person drooping like a flower
The frost had breathed upon.

The morning yet was young-
The broken light fell softly through the trees,
Like a last blessing to her troubled brow,
And shed its beauty round her where she stood,
As some bright statue burthened with a soul.
The sorrowing curve of that small trembling mouth,
And the deep gloom of her large, liquid eye-
The long dark lashes heavy with her grief-
The black, unbraided hair, and falling tears
That stirred, at intervals, the placid fount-
All-all bespoke the struggle of a heart,
Sick to the core of its own wickedness.

Well might she weep while shaded by the trees,
Where once,
in childhood's innocence, she pulled
With her small dimpled hand the luscious fig,
The red-cheeked pomegranate, and the grape,
Where its bright clusters bent the summer vines.
The fruit was ripe, and all the scented flowers
Breathed out sweet welcome as in former years;
The waters rippled in their marble fount,
With the same hushing murmur which had won
The ringing shout of her sweet infancy;
Cool shadows lay upon the grassy bank,
And there, uprising in the distant plain,
A thousand slender spires and sheeted domes
Shot proudly up against the golden sky,
And glittering vanes flashed to the regal sun,
In mimic gorgeousness.

Jerusalem!

There stood the holy city. The low hum
Of all its stirring multitude was borne
Up to the ear of that lone penitent,
Like the far moaning of a distant sea.
Around her, and abroad, all was the same-
All-all, except herself. She was changed!
With the deep stain of sin upon her brow,

Could she do aught but weep, when all things smiled?
How could she feel the white rose on her breast,
And wonder not a thing so white and pure,
Could rest unsullied on that guilty spot?

Sadly she turned from gazing on the fount
Where fell a shadow of the raven curls
Her mother once had parted from her brow,
Before it knew aught but a mother's kiss.
Hark! 'tis a loud hosanna rends the air!

And now the hum of voices, and the tramp
Of a dense multitude is passing by.
There's yet a hope. Jesus, the Lord, is near.
Rushed the red blood up to the maiden's cheek;
Her eyes grew brilliant, and her dewy lips
Were parted like a rose-bud to the sun:
Most eagerly she bent to catch the sound—
Her hair flung backward from her listening ear,
And one small foot just lifted from the grass,
Like a young antelope prepared for flight.
The flood of hope that started thus to life
The dormant energies within her soul,

Stayed but a moment in her trembling frame,
For thoughts of her transgressions followed close,
And fell like death upon her stricken heart.

The springing foot which scarce had touched the earth
In her heart's eagerness, now heavily

Crushed down the tender flowers. The sunny rose
Lay coldly on her breast, as motionless

As if ber heart had frozen it to stone.
The crimson tide went slowly from her cheek,
And there, like humid shadows darkly lay
The silken beauty of her drooping lash.
Again she hears that joyful shout of praise,
And with it come, like music from its source,
The eager shouting of her mother's voice.
"Up with thee, child! the Saviour is abroad!"
One look-one stifled cry-and forward sprang
The startled maiden to her mother's arms.
"And is there hope, dear mother?" murmured she,
As the quick throbbings of the parent heart
Stirred the dark tresses floating on her breast.

But

Hope-ay! glorious hope! God grant thee faith! On, on, my child-the Lord is drawing nigh!" Fond mothers who have seen the child of love While yet the pure, chaste object of your care, Withered and sullied by the touch of sin, Can tell how felt the mother of the maid. Long had she mourned her as a blighted flowerHad mourned her, but forgiven! Well she knew Disgrace and shame was on her erring child, yet she was a mother, and forgave. And now the maiden and her mother stands Beside our blessed Lord. One look she caught, And then all withered by that flood of light, Her hand lay pressed upon her burning eyes, Could she, so vile, so scorned and trampled on, Look up to HIM! Back, like a wounded bird, Trembling she shrunk, and would have left the crowd To hide her shame in tears-but in her grasp The mother still secures that trembling hand, And boldly struggles to the Saviour's face.

Was doubt for her? Should she look faintly forth,

A mother pleading for her youngest born?
He would not pass her by-when he had given
Life to the dead, health to the lame and sick,

And with a word, had made the leaper clean-
Would he not cleanse, from sin, her daughter's soul?
And now,
with swelling heart, and nerves drawn tight,
Almost to sundering-that upturned brow,

Contracted by her agony, and pale

Original.

THE STAR OF LOVE

Had waked thy young heart's slumbering,
From visions clothed in glory's light,
In realms of Paradise all bright,

That doubly strong thy claims should prove,
Young beauty to-The Star of Love!
What look'st thine eye on, maiden fair,
That joy and love are sparkling there?
Is't he to whom thy virgin vows

Were breathed beneath the moonlight boughs?
When came sweet sighs in those loved hours,
Like summer winds o'er beds of flow'rs,
And honied tones in whispers fell,
Soft as the zephyr's balmy swell.

Yes! idol of the martial throng,
Thy lover moves in pride along;
Fix'd is his glance on thy sweet face,
Thy bosom's thoughts and truth to trace.
But, ah! bless'd sight thy speaking eye,
Soon clears each doubt, dispels each sigh,
For Love sits there upon his throne,
Bound with Truth's bright and spotless zone-
While, on thy arm of beauty's mould,
White as the snow-robe's wreathy fold,
His gift-the bracelet flashes now!
Symbol of that eternal vow,

That soon thy youthful heart shall twine
In rosy links at Hymen's shrine,

Where blessings round thy form shall move,
And voices hail thee, Star of Love!
Oh! well may pleasure gild thy cheek,
Thou rose of love-young maiden meek!

For life, to thee, has ever been,
One cloudless sky-a golden sheen-
A garden, rich with fadeless flowers,

Where bright hopes roved through sweetest bowers,
And brighter may thy future beam,
The loveliest type in Fancy's dream,
Thou gem of radiance-sun-ey'd dove,
Thou beautiful-The Star of Love!

R. H.

Original.

THE SACRED MINSTREL.

BY LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.

THE King of Israel sat in state,
Within his palace fair,

Where falling fountains, pure and cool
Assuag'd the summer air.

But shrouded was the son of Kish,
'Mid all his regal grace,
The essence of a troubled soul,
Swept foaming o'er his face.
In vain were pomp, or regal power,
Or courtier's flattering tone,
For pride and hatred basely sat
Upon his bosom's throne.

He call'd upon his minstrel-boy,
With hair as bright as gold,
Who mus'd within a deep recess,

Where droop'd the curtain's fold.
Upon his minstrel-boy he call'd,

And forth the stripling came, With beauty on his ruddy brow,

Like morn's enkindling flame. "Give music," said the moody king,

Nor rais'd his gloomy eye-
"Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp,
And wake its melody."

He thought upon his father's flock,
Which long in pastures green

He fed, where flow'd with silver sound

The rivulets between.

He thought of Bethlehem's star-lit skies, Beneath whose liquid rays

He gaz'd upon the glorious arch,

And sang its Maker's praise.
Then boldly o'er the sacred harp,

He pour'd in thrilling strain,
The promptings of a joyous heart,
That knew nor care nor pain.
The monarch leaning on his hand,
Drank long the wondrous lay,
And clouds were lifted from his brow,
As when the sunbeams play.
The purple o'er his heaving breast,

That throbb'd so wild, grew still,
And Saul's clear eye gleam'd out, as when
He did Jehovah's will.

Oh, ye who feel the poison-fumes

Of earth's fermenting care
Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim

What Heaven created fair,
Ask music from a guileless heart,

High tones, with sweetness fraught, And by that amulet divine,

Subdue the sinful thought.