The waters know their own and draw

The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law

Unto the soul of pure delight.

The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

Wm Allen Butter

THE INCOGNITA OF RAPHAEL.

[The portrait to which the following verses refer is in the Pitti Palace, at Florence.]

Long has the summer sunlight shone
On the fair form, the quaint costume;
Yet, nameless still, she sits unknown,
A lady in her youthful bloom.

Fairer for this! no shadows cast
Their blight upon her perfect lot,
Whate'er her future or her past,

In this bright moment matters not.

No record of her high descent

There needs, nor memory of her name;
Enough that Raphael's colors blent

To give her features deathly fame!

'Twas his anointing hand that set

The crown of beauty on her brow;
Still lives its early radiance yet,
As at the earliest, even now

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'Tis not the ecstasy that glows

In all the rapt Cecilia's grace; Nor yet the holy, calm repose

He painted on the Virgin's face.

Less of the heavens, and more of earth,
There lurk within these earnest eyes,
The passions that have had their birth
And grown beneath Italian skies.

What mortal thoughts, and cares, and dreams,
What hopes, and fears, and longings rest
Where falls the folded veil, or gleams
The golden necklace on her breast!

What mockery of the painted glow

May shade the secret soul within; What griefs from passion's overflow, What shame that follows after sin!

Yet calm as heaven's serenest dreams
Are those pure eyes, those glances pure;
And queenly is the state she keeps,

In beauty's lofty trust secure.

And who has strayed, by happy chance,

Through all those grand and pictured halls,

Nor felt the magic of her glance,

As when a voice of music falls?

Not soon shall I forget the day,

Sweet day, in spring's unclouded time,

While on the glowing canvas lay

The light of that delicious clime;

I marked the matchless colors wreathed

On that fair brow, the peerless cheek; The lips, I fancied, almost breathed

The blessings that they could not speak.

Fair were the eyes with mine that bent
Upon the picture their mild gaze,
And dear the voice that gave consent
To all the utterance of my praise.

O fit companionship of thought;

O happy memories, shrined apart; The rapture that the painter wrought, The kindred rapture of the heart!

WORK AND WORSHIP.

"Laborare est orare."-St. Augustine.

Charlemagne, the mighty monarch,
As through Metten wood he strayed,
Found the holy hermit, Hutto,
Toiling in the forest glade.

In his hand the woodman's hatchet,
By his side the knife and twine,
There he cut and bound the fagots
From the gnarled and stunted pine.

Well the monarch knew the hermit
For his pious works and cares,
And the wonders which had followed
From his vigils, fasts, and prayers.

Much he marveled now to see him
Toiling thus, with axe and cord;
And he cried in scorn, "O Father,

But the hermit, resting neither

Hand nor hatchet, meekly said:

'He who does no daily labor
"May not ask for daily bread.

"Think not that my graces slumber
While I toil throughout the day;
"For all honest work is worship,
"And to labor is to pray.

"Think not that the heavenly blessing "From the workman's hand removes;

"Who does best his task appointed, "Him the Master most approves."

While he spoke the hermit, pausing
For a moment, raised his eyes
Where the overhanging branches
Swayed beneath the sunset skies.

Through the dense and vaulted forest Straight the level sunbeams came,

Shining like a gilded rafter,

Poised upon a sculptured frame.

Suddenly, with kindling features, While he breathes a silent prayer, See the hermit throws his hatchet Lightly, upward in the air.