For the earth and all its beauty;
The sky and all its light;
For the dim and soothing shadows,
That rest the dazzled sight;
For unfading fields and prairies,
Where sense in vain has trod;
For the world's exhaustless beauty,
I thank thee, O my God!

For an eye of inward seeing;
A soul to know and love;
For these common aspirations,
That our high heirship prove;
For the hearts that bless each other
Beneath thy smile, thy rod;
For the amaranth saved from Eden,
I thank thee, O my God!

For the hidden scroll, o'erwritten
With one dear name adored;
For the Heavenly in the human,-
The spirit in the Word;

For the tokens of thy presence

Within, above, abroad;

For thine own great gift of Being

I thank thee, O my God!

THE MAESTRO'S CONFESSION.-MARGARET J. PRESTON.

(ANDREA DAL CASTAGNO-1460.)

Threescore and ten!

I.

I wish it were all to live again.

Doesn't the Scripture somewhere say,
By reason of strength men oft-times may

Even reach fourscore? Alack! who knows?
Ten sweet, long years of life! I would paint
Our Lady and many and many a saint,
And thereby win my soul's repose.
Yet, Fra Bernardo, you shake your head:
Has the leech once said

I must die? But he

Is only a fallible man, you see:

Now, if it had been our father the pope,
I should know there was then no hope.
Were only I sure of a few kind years
More to be merry in, then my fears

I'd slip for awhile, and turn and smile
At their hated reckonings: whence the need
Of squaring accounts for word and deed
Till the lease is up?.... How? hear I right?
No, no! You could not have said, To-night!
II.

Ah, well! ah, well!

"Confess"-you tell me-" and be forgiven."
Is there no easier path to heaven?
Santa Maria! how can I tell

What, now for a score of years and more
I've buried away in my heart so deep
That, howso tired I've been, I've kept
Eyes waking when near me another slept,
Lest I might mutter it in my sleep?

And now at the last to blab it clear!

How the women will shrink from my pictures! And

worse

Will the men do-spit on my name, and curse;
But then up in heaven I shall not hear.

I faint! I faint!

Quick, Fra Bernardo! The figure stands
There in the niche-my patron saint;
Put it within my trembling hands
Till they are steadier. So!
My brain

Whirled and grew dizzy with sudden pain,
Trying to span that gulf of years,
Fronting again those long-laid fears.

Confess? Why, yes, if I must, I must.
Now good Sant Andrea be my trust!
But fill me first, from that crystal flask,
Strong wine to strengthen me for my task.
(That thing is a gem of craftsmanship:
Just mark how its curvings fit the lip.)

Ah, you in your dreamy, tranquil life,
How can you fathom the rage and strife,
The blinding envy, the burning smart,
That worm-like, gnaws the Maestro's heart
When he sees another snatch the prize
Out from under his very eyes,

For which he would barter his soul? You see,
I taught him his art from first to last;

Whatever he was he owed to me.

And then to be browbeat, overpassed,

Stealthily jeered behind the hand!

Why, that was more than a saint could stand; инн.

And I was no saint.

And if my soul,

With a pride like Lucifer's mocked control,
And goaded me on to madness, till

I lost all measure of good or ill,

Whose gift was it pray? Oh, many a day
I've cursed it, yet whose is the blame, I say?
His name? How strange that you question so.
When I'm sure I have told it o'er and o'er,
And why should you care to hear it more?
III.

Well, as I was saying, Domenico

Was wont of my skill to make such light,
That, seeing him go on a certain night
Out with his lute, I followed. Hot
From a war of words, I heeded not
Whither I went, till I heard him twang
A madrigal under the lattice where
Only the night before I sang.
-A double robbery! and I swear
"Twas overmuch for the flesh to bear.
Don't ask me. I knew not what I did,
But I hastened home with my rapier hid
Under my cloak, and the blade was wet.

Just open that cabinet there, and see
The strange red rustiness on it yet.

A calm that was dead as dead could be
Numbed me: I seized my chalks to trace-
What think you?-Judas Iscariot's face!
I just had finished the scowl, no more,
When the shuffle of feet drew near my door
(We lived together, you know I said):
Then wide they flung it, and on the floor
Laid down Domenico-dead!

Back swam my senses: a sickening pain
Tingled like lightning through my brain,
And ere the spasm of fear was broke,

The men who had borne him homeward spoke
Soothingly: "Some assassin's knife

Had taken the innocent artist's life

Wherefore, 'twere hard to say: all men
Were prone to have troubles now and then
The world knew naught of. Toward his friend
Florence stood waiting to extend
Tenderest dole." Then came my tears,
And I've been sorry these twenty years.
Now, Fra Bernardo, you have my sin:
Do you think Saint Peter will let me in?
Lippincott's Magazine.

FROM INDIA.-W. C. BENNETT.

Oh! come you from the Indies, and soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well? O soldier say my son is safe--for nothing else I care, And you shall have a mother's thanks-shall have a widow's prayer."

"Oh, I've come from the Indies-I've just come from the

war;

And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are;

From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades

well,

And news I've brought for you, mother, your Robert bade me tell!"

*And do you know my Robert, now? Oh tell me, tell me true!

O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you!
His very words-my own boy's words—Oh tell me every one!
You little know how dear to his old mother is my son.”

"Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there;

In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share; Twice he went into Lucknow, untouched by steel or ball, And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought him safe through all."

"Oh! thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's

prayer,

The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare! Oh bless'd be God, that turned from him the sword and shot away!

And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?"

"Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done; In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your

son;

A medal and a pension's his; good luck to him, I say, And he has not a comrade but will wish him well to-day." "Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue. O husband, that you knew

How well our boy pays me this day for all that I've gone through,

All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead!

But, soldier, tell me how he looked, and all my Robert said."

"He's bronzed and tanned, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame,

We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same; For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune, But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you

soon.

Oh! is he really coming home, and shall I really see

My boy again, my own boy, home? and when, when will it be?

Did you say soon?"—" Well, he is home; keep cool, old dame; he's here."

"O Robert, my own blessed boy!"-"O mother-mother dear!"

THE HARP OF A THOUSAND STRINGS.

I may say to you, my breethering, that I am not an edeca ted man, an' I am not one o' them as bleeves that edeca. tion is necessary fur a Gospel minister, fur I bleeve the Lord edecates his preachers jest as he wants 'em to be edecated, an', although I say it that oughtn't to say it, yet in the State of Indianny, whar I live, thar's no man as gits a bigger congregation nor what I gits.

Thar may be some here to-day, my breethering, as don't know what persuasion I am uv. Well, I may say to you, my breethering, that I'm a Hardshell Baptist. Thar's some folks as don't like the Hardshell Baptists, but I'd ruther hev a hard shell as no shell at all. You see me here to-day, my breethering, drest up in fine close; you mout think I was proud, but I am not proud, my breethering, and although I've been a preacher uv the Gospel for twenty years, an' although I'm capting of that flat boat that lies at yure landing, I'm not proud, my breethering.

I'm not a gwine ter tell you edzackly whar my tex may be found; suffice it to say it's in the leds of the Bible, an' you'll find it somewhar 'tween the first chapter of the book of Generation and the last chapter of the book of Revolutions, and ef you'll go and sarch the Scriptures, as I have sarched the Scriptures, you'll not only find my tex, thar, but a great many uther texes as will do you good to read, an' my tex, when