He touched the brow-the lip-it seemed
His pencil had some magic power;
The eye with deeper feeling beamed-
Sebastian then forgot the hour!
Forgot his master, and the threat

Of punishment still hanging o'er him ;
For, with each touch, new beauties met
And mingled in the face before him.

At length 'twas finished; rapturously
He gazed-could aught more beauteous be i--
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood,
Then started-horror chilled his blood!
His master and the pupils all
Were there e'en at his side!

The terror-stricken slave was mute-
Mercy would be denied,

E'en could he ask it-so he deemed,
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed.

Speechless, bewildered-for a space
They gazed upon that perfect face,
Each with an artist's joy;
At length Murillo silence broke,
And with affected sternness spoke-
"Who is your master, boy ?"

"You, Señor," said the trembling slave.

66

Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave,

Before that Virgin's head you drew ?"
Again he answered, "Only you."
"Murillo cried!

66 I

gave you none,

"But I have heard," the boy replied, "What you to others said."

66

"And more than heard," in kinder tone, The painter said; “ 'tis plainly shown That you have profited."

"What (to his pupils) is his meed? Reward or punishment ?"

"Reward, reward!" they warmly cried,
(Sebastian's ear was bent

To catch the sounds he scarce believed,
But with imploring look received.)

"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold

And of a splendid dress;

But still unmoved Sebastian stood,

Silent and motionless.

"Speak!" said Murillo, kindly; "choose
Your own reward-what shall it be?
Name what you wish, I'li not refuse:
Then speak at once and fearlessly."
"Oh if I dared !"-Sebastian knelt,
And feelings he could not control,
(But feared to utter even then)

With strong emotion, shook his soul.

"Courage" his master said, and each
Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech,
To soothe his overpow'ring dread..
He scarcely heard, till some one said,
"Sebastian--ask-you have your choice,
Ask for your freedom !"—At the word,
The suppliant strove to raise his voice:
At first but stifled sobs were heard,
And then his prayer-breathed fervently-
"Oh! master, make my father free !"
"Him and thyself, my noble boy!"
Warmly the painter cried;

Raising Sebastian from his feet,
He pressed him to his side.
"Thy talents rare, and filial love,
E'en more have fairly won;
Still be thou mine by other bonds-
My pupil and my son.'

Murillo knew, e'en when the words
Of generous feeling passed his lips,
Sebastian's talents soon must lead
To fame, that would his own eclipse;
And, constant to his purpose still,
He joyed to see his pupil gain,
Beneath his care, such matchless skill
As made his name the pride of Spain.

GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. Miss Edwards.

GIVE me three grains of corn, mother,

Only three grains of corn;

It will keep the little life I have,

Till the coming of the morn.

I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,
Dying of hunger and cold,

And half the agony of such a death
My lips have never told.

It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,
A wolf that is fierce for blood-

All the livelong day, and the night beside,
Gnawing for lack of food.

I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,
And the sight was heaven to see-
I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,
But you had no bread for me.

How could I look to you, mother,
How could I look to you,

For bread to give to your starving boy,
When you were starving too?
For I read the famine in your cheek,
And in your eye so wild,

And I felt it in your bony hand,

As you laid it on your child.

The queen has lands and gold, mother,
The queen has lands and gold,

While you are forced to your empty breast
A skeleton babe to hold-

A babe that is dying of want, mother,
As I am dying now,

With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,
And famine upon its brow.

What has poor Ireland done, mother,
What has poor Ireland done,

That the world looks on, and sees us starve,

Perishing, one by one?

Do the men of England care not, mother,

The great men and the high,

For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,

Whether they live or die?

There is many a brave heart here, mother,

Dying of want and cold,

While only across the Channel, mother,

Are many that roll in gold;

There are rich and proud men there, mother,

With wondrous wealth to view,

And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night, Would give life to me and you.

Come nearer to my side, mother,
Come nearer to my side,

And hold me fondly, as you held
My father when he died;
Quick, for I cannot see you, mother;
My breath is almost gone;
Mother! dear mother! ere I die,
Give me three grains of corn.

MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA.-Charles Dickens.

MR. PICKWICK's apartments in Goswell street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sittingroom was the first floor front, his bed-room was the second floor front; and thus, whether he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare.

His landlady, Mrs. Bardell—the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer-was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law.

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behavior, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, would nave been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each,

constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been able to discover.

แ

"Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. "Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. "Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick," very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting.

"Mrs. Bardell,” ," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. "Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. "Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" "La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question ! "Well, but do you ?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. "That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table; "that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." "That's very true,” said Mr. Pickwick; "but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell; which may be of material use to me."

"La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell; the crimson rising to her cap-border again. "I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him. "I do indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." "Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. "You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his companion, "that I never consulted you about this matter, and never mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning-eh?”

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle, to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr Pickwick was going to propose a deliberate plan, too-sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way-how thoughtful-how considerate!" Well," said