THE POOR ARTIST.

"Serene Philosophy?

She springs aloft with elevated pride,

Above the tangling mass of low desires,

That bind the fluttering crowd; and angel-winged,
The heights of Science and of Virtue gains,
Where all is calm and clear."

THERE is one whom I love to think of oft,

With an intenser passion far, than I

Can summon forth to most whom I call friends.

I love sweetly to task my memory, too,

At times, for some ensample of his pure

And rich, philosophy.

Fixed in their sockets, and his brow knit low
As though with studied nicety his steps

He measured.

There his pencil and palette

Lay—not from sloth, but want of patronage —
Neglected. He was with sorrows bowed: yet,
Mine was no cold reception at his hand;
For he was a true Christian, nor would let
His individual suffering cramp the glow

And ardor of benevolence within

His lacerated bosom. He was poor

In this world's goods, but rich in faith and hope. The Bible was to him a casket, full

Of rarer gems, and, clasped in ancient style,

Upon a cushioned tripod laid,

His wonted prayers ascended.

o'er which

The bright vein

In his psychrometer ran low,

and his

Contracted window was flowered o'er with frost.
The moon-beams played upon the crystal buds,
And pliant streamed through the rich foliage,
That sparkled so prismatically, when

The piercing wind waved the dim flame that danced
Upon the crisped wick of his spent taper.

"But one blast more, and like a star 't will roll
From its bright orbit, and be lost in rays

Of traceless emanations."

Clenching my hand

He said and

sank to his huge arm-chair
Beside me. With a bright flash, like the last
And false nerved struggle of a dying man—
When the immortal spirit is drawn up
To its intelligent centre, whose love breathed
It first into existence, and leaves earth,
The flame sought its original. 'T was then
A soft and steady fulgency burst in

Upon a draft of the Cenacolo,*

Which graced his chequered wall. The sheen lit up

A smile upon his care-worn face, and he

Gave utterance to the joys that flowed his soul.

"Sweet talisman of by-gone days

And fair Italia's skies!

Back to those times and scenes how quick
Imagination flies."

He sighed, then raised his eyes eyes to Heaven, and said,

*The Cenacolo, or "Last Supper," was originally painted in fresco, by Leonardo da Vinci, upon the wall of the refectory or hall of the convent of the Dominicans, attached to the church Santa Maria Della Grazie, at Milan.

"How prone to cleave to things of earth, And dwell upon its joys!"

"Look how the silvery moon-beams lave

The picture that I love;

To cheer my saddened spirit, and
To lift my thoughts above.

"O, may I e'er remember Him,
I pictured here behold;
And ne'er forget his dying love,
His sufferings untold !

"I raised this emblem to incite
My memory of Him, who
Had greater sorrow far than I
And was forsaken too.

"Though pent in poverty's mean cot,

Secluded and unknown

To the wide world, and pierced with care, I never am alone.

"God condescends to dwell with me,

And succor with his grace, While from his own beloved Son He hid his smiling face!

"When his o'erflowing soul burst forth In agony to God,

No sympathizing voice was heard,

No hand restrained the rod.

“But I, poor worthless worm of dust, When clouds and tempests rise,

Receive support, — faith, hope, and love, E'en ere I lift my cries.

I love, beside my gorgeous hearth, to sit in a winter's day,
And smile at the flakes as they fall to their beds, or as they

slumbering lay;

I love, too, to watch the expanding flowers. the crocus and snow

drop,

As they rise from their beds to hasten Spring, and quick their petals

ope.

I love to hear the clouds' parting adieu, as round the zephyrs breathe, And to hail the yellow and crimson tints that paint the scene beneath, When the merry snow-birds hie to the light and flit o'er shrubs of

glass;

I surely imagine that Summer 's come, as 'long the cold months pass.

I love to behold my little peach-tree with icy jewels strung,

Like a bright chandelier in Nature's church the lesser lights among, When the sunshine illumes each withered stalk that lifts its sickly

head,

And the numerous fallen leaves that lie upon their spangled bed.

I love, too, to watch the frost-flowered pane as o'er its surface start The rays that wake blossoms in iris-hues to glad the poet's heart And I love to mark the sun's parting ray, when to his couch he goes, For though he carries those blossoms away, a crystal forest grows.

And at eve when Queen Luna rides abroad with all her spangled

train,

I love well to mark that gemm'd forest grown quite o'er the window

pane;

And I love to catch a glimpse of the rays that play among the trees, Which cast their beautiful shades on my wall: O these are things that please!

THE BIRTH-DAY CORONAL.

ONE winter eve there met around
Sweet Laura's gladsome hearth
A happy band, and games went round
To celebrate her birth.

Queen Luna deigned to grace the feast,
And shining gifts she brought.
And Flora came and spoke of gifts,

With which she too was fraught.