If on to-morrow morn you fail

To answer what I ask,

The lash shall force you-do you hear?
Hence! to your daily task."

'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study-all were gone

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Passed cheerfully the morning hours away;

'T was shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey,

One bright-eyed boy was there-Murillo's little slave.

Almost a child-that boy had seen

Not thrice five summers yet,
But genius marked the lofty brow,
O'er which his locks of jet

Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide,
To Africa and Spain allied.

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said,
"The lash, if I refuse to tell
Who sketched those figures-if I do,

Perhaps e'en more-the dungeon-cell!"
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid;
It came for soon in slumber laid,

He slept, until the dawning day

Shed on his humble couch its ray.

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now
Three hours of freedom I may gain,

Before my master comes; for then

I shall be but a slave again.
Three hours of blessed freedom! how
Shall I employ them?-ah! e'en now
The figure on that canvas traced
Must be yes, it must be effaced."

He seized a brush-the morning light.
Gave to the head a softened glow;
Gazing enraptured on the sight,

He cried, "Shall I efface it? No!
That breathing lip! that burning eye!
Efface them?-I would rather die!"

The terror of the humble slave

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow
Of the high feelings nature gave-
Which only gifted spirits know.

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 't was finished; rapturously
He gazed-could aught more beauteous be!-
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, senor," said the trembling slave. "Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew?" Again he answered, "Only you." "I gave you none, "Murillo cried! "But I have heard," the boy replied, "What you to others said."

"And more than heard," in kinder tone The painter said: ""T is 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 Murilio, kindly; "choose Your own reward-what shall it be? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse;

Then speak at once and fearlessly."

"O! 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 overpowering 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-
"O 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.

-Susan Wilson

converse-conversation, talk;

Words: aspirants-eager learners; affected-feigned, pretended; essayed-tried.

ROLAND'S LAST BATTLE

(The most popular poem of the warlike Middle Ages was the Song of Roland*-a pleasing mingling of history and romance. The historical Roland was a captain in the army of Charles the Great, Emperor of the Franks. He fell in battle against the Moors in 788. The legendary Roland was a wonderful warrior, whose brave deeds on many a hard-fought field proved him more than human. This story of Roland's last fight is abridged and adapted from Cox's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages. It is the form used in Baker and Carpenter's Fifth Year Language Reader, and is used by permission of the Macmillan Company, publishers of that book.)

HARLES THE GREAT, king of the Franks, had fought

seven years in Spain, until he had conquered all the land down to the sea, and there remained not a castle whose walls he had not broken down, save only Saragossa, a fortress on a rugged mountain top, so steep and strong that he could not take it. There dwelt the pagan King Marsilius,* who feared not God, but served Mohammed.

*

King Marsilius sat on his throne in his garden, beneath an olive tree, and summoned his lords and nobles to council. When twenty thousand of his warriors were gathered around him, he spoke to his dukes and counts, saying: "What shall we do? Lo! these seven years the great Charles has been winning all our lands, till only Saragossa remains to us. We are too few to give him battle, and man for man we are no match for his warriors. What shall we do to save our lands?" Then up spake Blancandrin, a wily counselor: "It is plain we must be rid of this proud Charles; Spain must be rid of him; and since he is too strong to drive out with the sword, let us see what promises will do. Send envoys to him and say that we will give him great treasure in gold and cattle. Say that we will be his vassals, and do him service at his call. Say that we will forsake our God and call upon his God. Say anything, so long as it will persuade him to ride away with his army and quit our land." And all the pagans said, "It is well spoken."