In the very heart of this, I found A mystery of grief and pain. It was an image of the power Of Satan, hunting the world about, With his nets and traps and well trained dogs, The Word they shall perforce let stand, Though they take our life, Yea, it remaineth forevermore, And my mortal foes that lie in wait As to that odious monk John Tetzel And those mischievous fellows, Wetzel, Half-learned, dunce-bold, dry and hard, But ah! Erasmus of Rotterdam, He is the vilest miscreant That ever walked this world below! Philip Melancthon! thou alone My Philip, prayest thou for me? 1872. My Philip! thou who knowest best The inward deaths, the inward hell, And choral chant of victory! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. EDELWEISS. I. By Alpine road, beneath an old fir-tree, And to the strangers climbing tired and slow, | Along which angel forms of loving thought Led to the trysting-place; - no child was She called, "Buy roses, please,” in accents mild, there! As if she feared the echo, soft and low, Of her own voice might wake the sleeping The wind was moaning in the old fir-tree, The lizards crawling o'er the mossy seat; But no fair child, with baby at her knee, And in the mould no track of little feet. child. And many came and passed, and answered not And one took offered flowers with gentle hand, And met with kindly glance the timid eyes, And said, in tones that children understand, "My little girl, have you the Edelweiss?" II. "Oh, not to-day, dear lady," said the child. She grows large faster than my arms grow "If you stay on the mountain all the night, "Your baby, little one?" "Oh, yes," she said. "Yonder, you see that old stone tower shine? There, in the churchyard, lies my mother, dead, And since she died the baby has been mine." Soft shone the lady's eyes with tender mist, And ever, as she pressed toward fields of ice, She pondered in her heart the half-made tryst III. At night, safe sheltered in the convent's fold, Across the white caps of a mountain sea; At morn, with face subdued and reverent tone, As from a vision of the great white throne, The blessing of the hills her soul had caught prayer, IV. No faded flowers strewing the stunted grass; A black cloud, creeping downward swift and still, Answered her listening heart, a far-off knell, Almost before there swept along the hill The slow, deep tolling of the valley bell. Once more there drifted, 'cross the face the mist; Once more, with trembling soul and tender She hurried on to keep the half-made tryst, Nearer she came and nearer every hour, It led her to the shadow of the tower, V. She found her there -a cross rose at her feet, head; And God's peace on her face; the child was dead! Quaint carven saints and martyrs stood around. Each clasped the symbol of his sacrifice; But this fair child, in saintly sweetness crowned, Held, as they held the cross, her Edelweiss. Early that morn a shepherd, on the height, In cleft of rocks sought shelter from the cold, And there he found this lamb, all still and white, Entered already to the heavenly fold. The Edelweiss grew on that rocky steep; The brave child-feet had climbed too fast and far; And so had come to her this blessed sleep, This blessed waking 'neath the morning star. VI. The light within the little church grew dim, And, ere the last gleam faded in the west, While childish voices sang the vesper hymn, A lady, with a babe upon her breast, Crept silently adown the shadowy aisle, And, kneeling, bathed with tears the hand of ice, And laid it on the babe, and saw it smile, And whispered, "I have named her Edelweiss!" When one more day had seen its shadows fall, That old stone tower gleaming in the sun, And the great olive by the western wall, Shaded two humble graves where had been one. And by and by, above the dear child's head, Arose a little stone with quaint device. When summer blossoms died around the bed, A marble hand grasped still the Edelweiss. 1876. MRS. MARY LOWE DICKINSON. THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was restored, at once, to youth and vigor The traveller saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf. — J. G. W. THEY sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, Gray Age and Sickness waiting there And motionless as they. Unheeded in the boughs above The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; Unseen of them the island flowers Bloomed brightly at their feet. O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill; The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, Yet there they waited still! What was the world without to them? The Moslem's sunset-call, the dance Of Ceylon's maids, the passing gleam Of battle-flag and lance? They waited for that falling leaf Of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring. Oh, if these poor and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel O'er torpid pulse and failing limb A youthful freshness steal; Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree Whose healing leaves of life are shed, In answer to the breath of prayer, Upon the waiting head,— Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken shrine, Shall we grow weary in our watch, Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die? Alas! a deeper test of faith Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make. O Thou, who in the garden's shade Bend o'er us now, as over them, And set our sleep-bound spirits free, Nor leave us slumbering in the watch Our souls should keep with Thee! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. MOZART'S REQUIEM. RUFUS DAWES was born in Boston, in 1803, and though a lawyer by profession, preached in pulpits of the Swedenborgians. He died in 1859. Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the great German composer, was born in Salzburg. Jan. 27, 1756, and died at Vienna, Dec. 5, 1791. In July before his death he received an anonymous request to compose a Requiem, a partial payment being made for it in advance. After delaying the work until October, he made it his single occupation, devoting to it all the strength of his powers and all the force of his genius Not being able to learn the name of the one who ordered the composition, Mozart began to fancy that there was something supernatural in the affair. and finally felt that he was preparing it for his own obsequies. His strength grew constantly less and less, owing to the energy and determination with which he pursued this object, and finally, attacked by a fever, he was unable to rally and died leaving it incomplete. He worked upon it the last day of his life. THE tongue of the vigilant clock tolled one, The shrouded moon looked out upon Mozart now rose from a restless bed, And his heart was sick with care; Though long had he wooingly sought to wed Sweet Sleep, 't was in vain, for the coy maid fled, Though he followed her everywhere. He knelt to the God of his worship then, 'T was balm to his soul, and he rose again With a strengthened spirit, but started when He marked a stranger there. He was tall, the stranger who gazed on him, His cheek was pale, and his eye was dim, "I'll furnish the requiem then," he cried, Mozart grew pale when the vision fled, He knew 't was a messenger sent from the dead, To warn him, that soon he must make his bed He knew that the days of his life were told, And his lamp of life could barely hold Yet he went to his task with a cheerful zeal, IN HIS NAME. THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. Julius Mosen was born July 8, 1803, and became a song-writer of note, having been ranked next to Heine in this respect. ON the cross the dying Saviour Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm, |