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The snow-plumed Angel of the North
Has dropped his icy spear; gain the mossy earth looks forth,
Again the streams gush clear.
The fox his hill-side cell forsakes,
The muskrat leaves his nook, me bluebird in the meadow brakes
Is singing with the brook. Bear up, oh, mother Nature !” cry
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; “Our winter voices prophesy
Of summer days to thee !"
so, in those winters of the soul,
By bitter blasts and drear O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole,
Will sunny days appear.
The soul its living powers,
germs of summer flowers !
The Night is mother of the Day,
Tłe Winter of the Spring, And ever upon old Decay
The greenest mosses cling. Behind the cloud the starlight lurks,
Through showers the sunbeams fall; Fur God, who loveth all His works,
Has left His Hope with all.
Joan Wilson, the celebrated professor of Moral Philosophy, in the Uni. versity of Edinburgh, was born in Paisley, in the year 1788. He was first distinguished by his poetical effusions. Afterwards he became far more so by his writings in prose. The incident related in the exercise following, is one of the many beautiful and impressive things found in his famous contributions to Blackwood's Magazine, under the title of Christopher North.
THE ANGEL IN THE THUNDER-STORM.
1. How beautifully emerges that sun-stricken cottage from the rocks, that all around it are floating in a blue vapory light! Were we so disposed, methinks we could easily write a little book entirely abou, the obscure people that have lived and died about that farm, by name LOGAN BRAES. Neither is it without its old traditions. One May-day long ago—some two centuries since—that rural festival was there interrupted bŷ a thunderstorm, and the party of youths and maidens, driven from the budding arbors, were all assembled in the ample kitchen.
2. The house seemed to be in the very heart of the thunder; and the master began to read, without declaring it to be a religious service, a chapter of the Bible; but the frequent flashes of lightning so blinded him, that he was forced to lay down the book, and all then sat still without speaking a word; many with pale faces, and none without a mingled sense of awe and fear. The maiden forgot her bashfulness as the rattling peals shook the roof-tree, and hid her face in her lover's bosom; the children crept closer and closer, each to some protecting knee. and the dogs came all into the house, and lay down in dark places. Now and then there was a convulsive, irrepressible, but half-stifled shriek—some sobbed—and a loud hysterical laugh from one overcome with terror, sounded ghastly between the deepest of all dread repose—that which separates one peal from another, when the flash and the roar are as one, and the thick air smells of sulphur.
3. The body feels its mortal nature, and shrinks as if about to be withered into nothing. Now the muttering thunder seems to have changed its place to some distant cloud-now, as if re. turning to blast those whom it had spared, waxes louder and fiercer than before—till the great tree that shelters the house is shivered with a noise like the masts of a ship carried away by the board.
4. Look! father, look!--see, yonder is an angel all in white, descending from heaven!” said little Alice, who had already been almost in the attitude of prayer, and now clasped her hands together, and steadfastly, and, without fear of the lightning, eyed the sky --One of God's holy angels-one of those who sing before the Lamb!” And, with an inspired rapture, the fair child sprung to her feet.
“See ye her not-see ye her not-father -mother? Lo! she beckons to me with a palm in her hand, like one of the palms in that picture in our Bible, when our Savior is entering into Jerusalem! There she comes, nearer and nearer the earth. Oh! pity, forgive, and havo mercy on me, thou most beautiful of all the angels, even for His name's sake!”
5. All eyes were turned towards the black heavens, and then to the raving child. Her mother clasped her to her bosom, afraid that terror had turned her brain-and her father, going to the door, surveyed an ampler space of the sky. She flew to his side, and clinging to him again, exclaimed in a wild outcry,“On her forehead a star! on her forehead a star! And, oh! on what lovely wings she is floating away, away into eternity! The angel, father, is calling me by my Christian name, and I must no more abide on earth; but, touching the hem of her garment, he wafted away to heaven.” Sudden, as a bird let loose from the hand, darted the maiden from her father's bosom, and, with her face upward to the skies, pursued her flight.
6 Young and old left the house, and, at that moment, the forked lightning came from the crashing cloud, and struck the wholý tenement into ruins. Not a hair on any head was singed: and, with one accord, the people fell down upon their kncec. From the eyes of the child, the angel, or vision of the angel, had disappeared; but, on her return to Heaven, the celestial heard the hymn that rose from those that were saved, and above
all the voices, the small, sweet, silvery voice of her whose eyes alone were worthy of beholding a saint transfigured.
ROBERT SOUTHEY was born in Bristol, England, in the year 1774, and died te 1843. He is distinguished both as a poet and as a prose writer. His writings are numerous. The following humorous tale is one of his best pieces in this line. The story, however, is not original with him; but the verse only.
ROPRECHT THE ROBBER.
ABRIDGED FROM SOUTHEL.
Roprecht the Robber is taken at last;
But buried Roprecht must not be;
It will be a comfortable sight
The stir in Cologne is greater to-day
So 'twas thought, because he had died so well,
'Twas a whole week's wonder in that great town,