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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.
Suviving Hope and Faith, they show

The soul its living powers,
And how beneath the winter's snow

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.



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 is taken at last;
In Cologne they have him fast;
Trial is over, and sentence past;
And hopes of escape were vain, he knew;
For the gallows now must have its due.


But buried Roprecht must not be;
He is to be left on the triple tree;
That they who pass along, may spy
Where the famous robber is hanging on high.


It will be a comfortable sight
To see him there by day and by night;
For Roprecht the Robber many a year
Had kept the country round in fear.

In his suit of irons he was hung;
They sprinkled him then, and their psalm they sung:
And, turning away when this duty was paid,
They said, “What a goodly end he had made."

The crowd broke up, and went their way;
All were gone by the close of day;
And Roprecht the Robber was left there
Hanging alone in the moonlight air.


The stir in Cologne is greater to-day
Than all the bustle of yesterday;
Hundreds and thousands went out to see;
The irons and chains, as well as he,
Were gone, but the rope was left on the tree

A wonderful thing! for every one said
He had hung till he was dead, dead, dead;
And on the gallows was seen, from noon
Till ten o'clock, in the light of the moon.

Moreover, the hangman was ready to swear
He had done his part with all due care;
And that certainly better hanged than he
No one ever was, or ever could be.


So 'twas thought, because he had died so well,
He was taken away by miracle.
But would he again alive be found?
Or had he been laid in holy ground?


'Twas a whole week's wonder in that great town,
And in all places, up the river and down;
But a greater wonder took place of it then;
For Roprecht was found on the gallows again.

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