All the while her busy needle
Pricking in and out its way;
Gazing from the open casement,
Where the landscape lay in view,
Striving from her silken treasures
Thus to match each varied hue.

"Nay, I cannot," sighed she sadly,
As the threads dropped from her hold—
"Cannot mate that steely sapphire,

Or that line of burnished gold. How it sparkles as it stretches

Straight the deep blue waves across! Never hint of such a lustre

Lives within my richest floss!

"Ah, that blaze of splendid color!
I could kneel with folded hands,
As I watch it slowly fading
Off the distant pasture lands.
How it pales my brightest saffrons!
How it blurs my crimsons o'er!
Mocking me with bitter tauntings
That my skill can do no more.'

From their play the children starting,
Pressed around their mother's knees
"Why," they cried, "in all our Antwerp
Where are 'broideries such as these?

Even the famous master, Rubens,

Craves the piece we think so rare

Asks our father's leave to paint it
Hanging o'er the emperor's chair."

"How ye talk!" she smiled. "Yet often
Have my fingers ached to choose
Brush and pigments for my working,
Not the fading floss I use.

But a woman, wife, and mother-
What have I to do with art?
Are not ye my nobler pictures -
Portraits painted from my heart?

"Yet, I think if, 'midst my seven,

One should show the master's bent One should do the things I dream of All my soul would rest content." Quick the four-year-old Antonio

On his hand his forehead bowed, Whispering, "I will be your painter I will make my mother proud!

Close she clasped her youngest darling,
Smoothing down his golden hair;
Kissing, with a crazy rapture,

Mouth and cheek and eyes so fair, As she cried, with sob and laughter, "So, my baby, you would like

To be named with Flemish masters

Rembrandt, Rubens. and Van Dyck!"

THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL.

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,
Of earth and folly born,

Ye shall not dim the light that streams
From this celestial morn.

To-morrow will be time enough
To feel your harsh control;
Ye shall not violate this day
The Sabbath of my soul.

Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts;
Let fires of vengeance die;

And, purged from sin, may I behold
A God of purity!

THE WAY TO HEAVEN.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

HEAVEN is not gained at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true,

That a noble deed is a step towards God,Lifting the soul from the common sod To purer air and a broader view.

We rise by things that are 'neath our feet;
By what we have mastered of good and gain;
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels but feet for men!

We may borrow the wings to find the wayWe may hope and resolve and aspire and pray, But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.

ROBERT BUrns.

Is there, for honest poverty,

Wha hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that !
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that!

What tho' on homely fare we dine,
Wear hodden grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that,
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king of men for a' that!

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind
He looks and laughs at a' that!