of a little bird, that was singing among the rose-trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.

"And the Brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him, that there was in the convent a tradition of a Brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before; but that what had become of him was never known.

"And while he was speaking, the holy man said, 'My hour of death is come: blessed be the name of the Lord, for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his onlybegotten Son.'

"And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, 'Brother, take my confession, and give me absolution, for my soul is departing.'

"And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died.

'The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubim or seraphim; and that was the way that the Almighty was pleased in his mercy to take to himself the soul of that holy man."

THE ROSES.

[Imitated from Lorenzo Pignotti.]

BY J. P. COLLIER.

UPON a vase's margin,

There stood a blushing rose, Pure as a lovely virgin,

Whose beauties just unclose: A flower which maidens gather In summer's sultry weather.

In verdant silken vesture,
With not less blushing face,
As if that rose's sister,

Another had its place

Within the vase-the creature

Of art and not of nature.

So art itself transcended,

The gaudy insects flew,
Both to the rose pretended,

As well as to the true;
With both would have disported,
But one not long they courted.

Attracted by its brightness,
The butterfly mistook,
And stood but while its lightness
The silken flow'ret shook:

It balanced while it doubted,
And then the false rose flouted.

The bee this rose saluted,

And made a moment's rest;

But want of odour suited

Not with its busy guest :
Its scorn it could not smother,
And flew upon the other.

A gentle, bashful maiden,

Whose years were in their spring,

Whom love not yet had laden

With cares he's sure to bring, Saw them the false rose stand on, Then instantly abandon.

She cried-" Are flowers enchanted,

Or, Mother, tell me why,
To one sweet rose, 'tis granted,
The bee and butterfly

Are drawn?-they love it only,
And leave the other lonely.

"Their beauty, as I view them, Appears in both the same."

She said" If well you knew them, The bee you would not blame. Draw near the vase of water,

And smell the roses, daughter.

"What odours sweet assemble
Around this dewy rose !
While yet their winglets tremble,

Each cunning insect knows

Here is its true employment,

And here alone enjoyment.

"The other is not fragrant,

Though brightly green and red;

And every airy vagrant,

Though lovely, finds it dead. Its charms a moment win it;

It finds no soul within it."

Thus may you learn, defective
Though be my humble song:-
Mere beauty, though attractive,

Can never hold us long.
The bee alone reposes

Upon the fragrant roses.

THE SLEEPING INFANT.

BY WILLIAM UPTON.

LITTLE cradled babe of love,
Emblem of the spotless dove !
Angel-smiles thy face adorn;
Beauty's bud without a thorn.
Long may every bliss be thine!
Heavenly sun-beams on thee shine!
And as strength with years increase,
Nought be known but joy and peace.

May a father's fondness see
Every hope fiulfilled in thee!
May each love-born virtue rise,
Long to glad a mother's eyes!

Health be thine then, infant dear!
Health, without a sigh or tear:
Hearts parental pray for this,

Sweetened with affection's kiss!