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 an angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
And with new fervor filled 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 splendor

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's 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, scated on his 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 when they were alone, the angel sai And with a gesture bade the rest retire. "Art thou the king?" Then bowing dow his head,

King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,

And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest 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

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.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. WHEN the hours of day are numbered, And the voices of the night Wake the better soul that slumbered To a holy, calm delight

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,

And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlor wall;

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open doorThe beloved ones, the truc-hearted, Come to visit me once more:

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous

Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep

Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me,

Lays her gentle hand in mine;

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

LIFE.

LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of cagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood-

727

E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dics,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past-and man forgot!

HENRY KING.

MAN'S MORTALITY.

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning of the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had-
E'en such is man ;-whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes-and man he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearled dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan-

E'en such is man ;-who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.-
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended,
The hour is short, the span is long,
The swan 's near deatli-man's life is done!
SIMON WASTELL

SONNET.

Or mortal glory, O soon darkened ray!
O winged joys of man, more swift than wind!
O fond desires, which in our fancies stray!
O trait'rous hopes, which do our judgments

blind!

Lo, in a flash that light is gone away

Which dazzle did each eye, delight each

mind,

And, with that sun from whence it came combined,

Now makes more radiant heaven's eternal day.

Let beauty now bedew her cheeks with tears; Let widowed music only roar and groan; Poor virtue, get thee wings and mount the spheres,

For dwelling-place on earth for thee is none! Death hath thy temple razed, love's empire foiled,

The world of honor, worth, and sweetness spoiled.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

LINES ON A SKELETON.

BENOLD this ruin!-'T was a skull
Once of ethereal spirit full!
This narrow cell was life's retreat;
This space was thought's mysterious seat;
What beauteous pictures filled this spot-
What dreams of pleasures long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void;—
If social love that eye employed,
If with no lawless, fire it gleamed,
But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be forever bright
When stars and suns have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern, hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue:

If falsehood's honey it disdained,

And, where it could not praise, was chained-

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke,
That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee
When death unveils eternity.

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear the gem
Can nothing now avail to them;
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.

Avails it whether bare or shod
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled
To soothe affliction's humble bed-
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's lap returned,
Those feet with angel's wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.

ANONYMOUS.

HYMN OF THE CHURCH-YARD. An me! this is a sad and silent city:

Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey Its grassy streets with melancholy pity!

Where are its children? where their glee

some play?

Alas! their cradled rest is cold and deep,-Their playthings are thrown by, and they asleep.

This is pale beauty's bower; but where the beautiful,

Whom I have seen come forth at evening's

hours,

Leading their aged friends, with feelings dutiful,

Amid the wreaths of spring to gather flow

ers?

Alas! no flowers are here but flowers of death,

And those who once were sweetest sleep beneath.

This is a populous place; but where the bustling

The crowded buyers of the noisy martThe lookers-on,-the snowy garments rust

ling,

The money-changers, and the men of art Business, alas! hath stopped in mid career, And none are anxious to resume it here.

This is the home of grandeur: where are they,

The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise?

Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay,

The gaudy guise of human butterflies?