The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Robert rode, making huge merriment

In all the country towns through which they went.

The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's Square,
Giving his benediction and embrace,
Fervent and full of apostolic grace.

While with congratulations and with prayers
He entertained the angel unawares,

Robert, the jester, bursting through the crowd,
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
I am the king! Look and behold in me
Robert, your brother, King of Sicily!

This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,
Is an impostor in a king's disguise.

Do you not know me ?

Does no voice within

Answer my cry, and say we are akin ?"

The Pope, in silence, but with troubled mien,
Gazed at the angel's countenance serene;

The emperor, laughing, said, “It is strange sport
To keep a madman for thy fool at court!"
And the poor baffled jester, in disgrace,
Was hustled back among the populace.

In solemn state the holy week went by,
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
The presence of the angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
And with new fervour fill'd the hearts of men,
Who felt that Christ, indeed, had risen again.
Even the jester, on his bed of straw,

With haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw;
He felt within a power unfelt before,

And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,

He heard the rushing garments of the Lord

Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.

And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube shore,
Homeward the angel journeyed, and again
The land was made resplendent with his train,
Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from there by sea.

And when once more within Palermo's wall,
And, seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
As if the better world conversed with ours,
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And, with a gesture, bade the rest retire.
And when they were alone the angel said,

"Art thou the king?" Then, bowing down his head,
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
And meekly answered him, " Thou know'st best!
My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
And in some cloister's school of penitence,
Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven !"
The angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place,

And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the stir and tumult of the street:
"He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree!"
And through the chant a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
"I am an angel, and thou art the king!"

King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone!
But all apparelled as in days of old,

With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold;
And when his courtiers came they found him there
Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.

Longfellow.

BEAUTIFUL CHILD.

BEAUTIFUL child by the mother's knee,
In the mystic future what wilt thou be?
A demon of sin, or an angel sublime-
A poison Upas, or innocent thyme-
A spirit of evil flashing down

P

With the lurid light of a fiery crown--
Or gliding up with a shining track,
Like the morning star that ne'er looks back.
Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled,
Which wilt thou be, my beautiful child?

Beautiful child in my garden bowers,
Friend of the butterflies, birds, and flowers,
Pure as the sparkling crystalline stream,
Jewels of truth in thy fairy eyes beam;
Was there ever a whiter soul than thine
Worshipped by love in a mortal shrine?

My heart thou hast gladdened for two sweet years
With rainbows of hope through mists of tears-
Mists beyond which the sunny smile,
With its halo of glory, beams all the while.

Beautiful child, to thy look is given

A gleam serene-not to earth, but of heaven;
With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongue,
Would thou couldst ever thus be young.
Like the liquid strain of the mocking bird,
From stair to hall thy voice is heard.
How oft in the garden nooks thou'rt found,
With flowers thy curly head around,

And kneeling beside me with figure so quaint!
Oh, who would not dote on my infant saint!

Beautiful child, what thy fate shall be,
Perchance is wisely hidden from me :
A fallen star thou mayst leave my side,
And of sorrow and shame become the bride-
Shivering, quivering, through the cold street,
With a curse before and behind thy feet,
Ashamed to live, and afraid to die;
No home, no friend, and a pitiless sky.
Merciful Father, my brain grows wild,
Oh! keep from evil my beautiful child!

Beautiful child, mayst thou soar above,
A warbling cherub of joy and love,
A drop on eternity's mighty sea,
A blossom on life's immortal tree-

Floating, flowering evermore,

In the blessed light of the golden shore.
And as I gaze on thy sinless bloom,

And thy radiant face, they dispel my gloom;
I feel He will keep thee undefiled,

And His love protect my beautiful child.

By the Author of "Beautiful Snow."

BENEDICK ON LOVE.

I DO much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love. And such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now he would rather hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known when he would have walked ten miles afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier ; and now is he turned orthographer; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but, I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair: yet I am well; another virtuous: yet I am well; but, till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come into my grace. Rich shall she be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God.

Shakespere.

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

A few years ago this poem appeared in the American papers. The beauty of the composition secured its republication in numerous journals, and at length it found its way to England, accompanied by the tale that the original had been discovered upon the person of a young woman who was frozen to death. For a long time the author preserved his incognito. Some months since the secret was revealed, and Major Sigourney, nephew of the celebrated poetess of that name, became known as the writer. On the night of April 22, 1871, Major Sigourney was found dead in the outskirts of New York, under circumstances leading to the belief that he had shot himself. He had in early life married a Miss Filmore, a lady of great personal attractions, and with her made a voyage to Europe. During their absence rumours unfavourable to her character reached the Sigourney family. The reports seem to have been well founded; for, shortly after her return to New York, she showed that the curse of the nineteenth century-drink-had another victim to its list. She abandoned her husband, became an outcast, and was next heard of as an inmate of the penitentiary on Blackwell's Island. Her husband's love was still sufficiently strong to induce him to make another attempt to save her, and, through his influence, she was released only again to desert her home. In the winter of 1853 the papers spoke of a young and beautiful woman having been found dead, under the snow, in a disreputable street in New York. Something seemed to tell Sigourney that the body was that of his wife. Upon making inquiries he found his surmises but too true, and, after claiming the remains, he had them interred in that picturesque "silent city" which overlooks the busy harbour of New York.

The story of that erring wife is told in this touching poem. The circumstances connected with Sigourney's death remain a mystery.

OH! the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky, and 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 no wrong;

Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in frolicsome freak;
Beautiful snow from heaven above,
Pure as an angel, gentle as love!
Oh! the snow, the beautiful snow,
How the flakes gather, and laugh as they go,
Whirling about in maddening fun;

Chasing-laughing-hurrying by,
It lights on the face, and it sparkles the eye;
And the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals as they eddy around;
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.