And laughed to see the urchin crawl
About the cabin floor.

Pour your snowy blossoms forth,
Peach, and pear, and almond trees;
Hang your rosy garlands o'er,

Wave them with yon waving breeze;
Follow, follow, gather flowers-
Flowers of every shape and hue.
Deck the church, and deck the bowers,
Sprigs of broom and pansies blue.
Poppies, harebells, cowslips bright,
Starry daisies, pink and white,
With green leaves in garlands weave,
'Tis the Annunciation Eve.
Girls in snow-white caps are flying
O'er the orchards, o'er the fields;
Boys in hills and woods are running;
Nature all her treasure yields.
'Tis the great Feast of the Sisters;
'Tis the Annunciation Eve.
Garlands for St. Vincent's altar,

Hearts and hands unite to weave.
“O Sister Vincent! sister dear,
Come, sister, you are wanted here;
A weary, footsore man has brought
A child he picked up out at sea-
The fairest, sweetest boy that e'er

Your eyes or mine did ever see." It was a touching sight to see

Jean Brizieux's honest face the while, The sisters gathered round the babe,

And chafed its hands and made it smile.

That baby bore a charmed life;

Upon the distant desert shore

A hundred fathers he had found,—
And now, as many mothers more!
Jean told his tale; the sisters grieved
For the poor soul who died at sea;
Ma Sœur, with her bright tranquil look
So calmly gay, so sweetly free,
Into her own arms took the boy,

Who laughed and played with her black beads.
""Tis Mary's gift" she said, and smiled,
As one accustomed to good deeds.
And Jean went on and slept that night
Within a prison's narrow cell;
And on his saddened ear next day

The words of his hard sentence fell. To be imprisoned for twelve months, And then of martial service due, With heavy heart and blighted name, The weary, lengthy term go through. He bowed his head in mute assent,

He urged no plea, made no defence; And owned it just that man should pay For the unheeding youth's offence. But then, an aged, gray-haired man, One of the veterans known to fame, A soldier of the "Grande Armée,"

Whose title-deeds are in their name; Arose to plead the conscript's cause. He did not do much more than tell His story, as 'twas told to him;

He told it briefly, told it well.
In a short speech, he set against

The boy's offence the man's good deed;
He carried with him the whole court,
And Jean's acquittal was decreed.

Loud, deafening cheers, the verdict hailed;
And as the prisoner walked along,

A thousand hearts, a thousand hands
Were raised to bless him 'midst that throng.
In every mouth were words of praise
And tears in every mother's eyes.
When round about St. Vincent's home
The crowd have gathered, lustier cheers
Break forth: "Long live the Sisters all!
Long live the servants of the poor!
Long live the man who spurned the gold,
And brought the orphan child ashore!
Then Breton homes were open thrown

To the good youth who did this deed,
And scarce a man in all the town

But craved to aid him in his need.
Subscriptions were soon raised in Vannes,
And all throughout the Morbihan,
To pay a substitute, and stock

A farm, for the brave conscript Jean.
It was a grand day when he made
His entrance in his native place.
The news as quick as lightning spread;
Joy beamed in every kindred face.
The bells of the old Church were rung,
The youths went out with flag and band,
The men all waved their hats, and grasped
With rough good will, the wanderer's hand.
And maidens stood at cottage doors,

To see Jean Brizieux's handsome son;
And hear and tell with smile and blush,
The generous deed the youth had done.
And Marie Jeanne, "la jolie blonde,"
The village heiress, vowed that day
Did he but woo, to wed the man

Who flung the glittering dross away.
His father's joy, his mother's tears,
'Tis not for lightsome verse to tell,

Nor the deep thanksgivings offered
In the Church he loved so well.
Hid beneath life's common surface,
Undiscerned by human eye,
Depths of meaning strangely woven,
In men's stories often lie.
Starting points, decisive hours,
Stand as landmarks in their way,
And Eternity foreshadowed.

Turns upon one act or day.

PART II.

EDMUND SPENSER.-BORN 1553; DIED 1599.
THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

AND is there care in Heaven? and is there love
In heavenly spirits to these creatures base,
That may compassion of their evils move?

There is:-else much more wretched were the case
Of men than beasts: but O! th' exceeding grace
Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,
And all his works with mercy doth embrace
That blessed angels he sends to and fro,
To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe!
How oft do they their silver bowers leave

To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, Against foul fiends to aid us militant!

They for us fight, they watch and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant, And all for love and nothing for reward:

O, why should heavenly God to men have such regard ?

THE HERMITAGE.

BY SPENSER.

A LITTLE lowly Hermitage it was,
Down in a dale, hard by a forest side,
Far from resort of people that did pass
In travel to and fro! a little wide