of the poet-poet-I feel that I can say in the words of the poet of the poet-poet, and in these few confused remarks -in the words of the poet-[turns round, looks at MS.]— I feel that I can say in the words of the poet that I feel my heart swell within me. Now Mr. Capasun, Mr. Commasun, why does my heart swell within me-in the few confusedwhy does my heart swell within me swell within me-swell within me what makes my heart swell within me why does it swell-swell within me? [Turns round and looks. at MS.] Why Mr. Cappadore-look at George Washington -what did he do?-in the few confused- -[Strikes dramatic attitude with swelled chest and outstretched arm, preparing for burst of eloquence which will not come.] He -huh-he-huh-he-huh-[turns round and looks at MS.] he took his stand upon the ship of state-he stood upon the main top gallant jiboomsail and reefed the quivering sail—and when the storms were waging rildly round to wreck his fragile bark, through all the howling tempest he guided her in safety into the harbor of perdition-a-a-a -into the haven of safety. And what did he do then? What he do then? What he do then? He-he-he-[looks at MS.]-there he stood. And then his grateful countrymen gathered round him-they gathered round George Washington-they placed him on the summit of the cipadel -their capadol-they held him up before the eyes of the assembled world-around his brow they placed a neverdying wreath-and then in thunder tones which all the world might hear- [Flourishes MS. before his face, notices it and sits down in great confusion.] THE TWO PICTURES It was a bright and lovely summer's morn, Fair bloomed the flowers, the birds sang softly sweet, While nature scattered, with unsparing hand, He thought to turn his truant steps toward home. Lined with green hedge-rows, spangled close with flowers, Of envy, hatred, malice, worldly care, Had ever yet been written. With bated breath, The artist seized his pencil, and there traced Then, when 'twas finished, wrote beneath one word, A word of holiest import-Innocence. Years fled and brought with them a subtle change, Upon the canvas that had touched men's souls, One day, in tossing o'er his folio's leaves, He chanced upon the picture of the child, Which he had sketched that bright morn long before, And then forgotten. Now, as he paused to gaze, A ray of inspiration seemed to dart Straight from those eyes to his. He took the sketch, Placed it before his easel, and with care That seemed but pleasure, painted a fair theme. Touching and still retouching each bright lineament, Until all seemed to glow with life divine 'Twas innocence personified. But still The artist could not pause. He needs must have A meet companion for his fairest theme; And so he sought the wretched haunts of sin, And every wicked deed that he had done, Were visibly written on his lineaments; Even the last, worst deed of all, that left him here, A parricide within a murderer's cell. Here then the artist found him; and with hand And brought the wretch before them. With a shriek Of souls forever doomed to woe, Prostrate upon the stony floor he fell, And hid his face and groaned aloud in anguish. That innocent and happy little child! These very hands were raised to God in prayer, Great Heaven! can such things be? Almighty power, He rose, laid hold upon the artist's arm The while he cried: "Go forth, I say, go forth And tell my history to the tempted youth. I looked upon the wine when it was red, That led me onward, step by step, to this, He ceased at last. The artist turned and fled; Were borne the awful echoes of despair, Which the lost wretch flung on the empty air, GOD BY G. R. DERZHAVIN O Thou Eternal One! whose presence bright Whom none can comprehend and none explore; Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone: Embracing all-supporting-ruling o'er— Being whom we call God-and know no more! In its sublime research, philosophy May measure out the ocean deep-may count The sands or the sun's rays-but God! for Thee There is no weight nor measure:-none can mount Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark, |