The snow a treachrous smoothness spread
O'er the mountain's rugged mould-
Such as indifference gives the heart—
As smooth, and all as cold.

The monk that left his walls that day
Might ne'er return, I ween;

For not a trace was left to show
Where footsteps might have been.

But there was one, I marvel why,
Who trod the waste that night-
His heart was heavy as his tread,
His scrip alone was light.

Perhaps he sought the convent's cell,

With penance and remorse,

To heal a bosom deeply sear'd
By passion's lawless force.

Or perhaps mankind had done him wrong,
And he had fled their sway;
In hope St. Bernard's rugged clime
Might prove less harsh than they.

I know not-for 'tis not of him
My simple tale would tell—
For one more humble I bespeak
The pity earned so well.

But sure it is, for many an hour
He had not tasted food;

And many an hour he had not known
Which way his footsteps trod.

And if the convent bell had rung
To hail the pilgrim near,
It still had rung in vain for him-
He was too far to hear.

And should the morning light disclose

Its towers amid the snow,

To him 'twas but a mournful sight-
He had not strength to go.

If he believed in spirits unseen

That haunt the midnight gloom, He might expect their magic aid, Where mortal could not come.

Or if, deceiv'd by monkish lore,
He wore some hidden charm,
He yet might hope the tempest's rage
Would lose its power to harm.

But likelier, he had told his beads,
And breath'd a prayer to heaven,
That if he perish'd unconfess'd,
His sins might be forgiven.

For few, in such a case, had thought
Their Maker's boundless power,
Would find a messenger of love
At such a fearful hour.

Valour could arm no mortal man
That night to meet the storm-
No glow of pity could have kept
A human bosom warm.

But obedience to a master's will
Had taught the dog to roam,
And through the terrors of the waste,
To fetch the wanderer home.

And if it be too much to say
That pity gave him speed,
'Tis sure he not unwillingly
Perform'd the generous deed.

For now he listens-and anon

He scents the distant breezeAnd casts a keen and anxious look On every speck he sees.

And now deceiv'd, he darts along,
As if he trod the air-

Then disappointed, drops his head

With more than human care.

He never loiters by the way,

Nor lays him down to rest;
Nor seeks a refuge from the shower
That pelts his generous breast.

And surely 'tis not less than joy
That makes it throb so fast,
When he sees, extended on the snow,
The wanderer found at last.

He stops, as if he thought the bliss
Too great to be believ'd-

And holds his breath, as one might do
Who fear'd to be deceived.

'Tis surely he-he saw him move, And at the joyful sight,

He toss'd his head with a prouder air,

His fierce eye grew more bright.

Eager emotion swell'd his breast,

To tell his generous tale

And he raised his voice to its wildest tone,

To bid the wanderer hail.

That voice was rescue from the grasp
Of painful, ling'ring death-
'Twas life to one prepar❜d to yield

To the winds his parting breath—

'Twas hope to him from whom despair The latest hope had riven

'Twas a friend, when he might scarce expect A friend from earth or heaven.

And surely 'twas the sweetest sound
That ear had ever known-

The heart might almost burst with joy
That heard the welcome tone.

The pilgrim heard-he rais'd his head,
And beheld the savage form--
With sudden fear he seiz'd the gun
That rested on his arm.

His eye was dimm'd, his voice was still,
And he toss'd his head no more-

But his heart, though it ceased to throb with joy,
Was generous as before!

For round his willing neck he bare

A store of needful food,

That might support the traveller's strength

On the yet remaining road.

Enough of parting life remain'd
His errand to fulfil-

One painful, dying effort more
Might save the murderer still.

So he heeded not his aching wound,
But crawl'd to the traveller's side,
Mark'd with a look the way he came,
Then shudder'd, groan'd, and died.

HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATIONS.

THE ANCHOR.

A MARINER at eventide

Pushed his light boat from the land—

I saw him pass the boiling surge

And fix his anchor in the sand.

Then blithe returning to the shore
As if his every care was past,
Nor casting e'en a look behind,
He hied him homeward to his rest.

How could he trust so frail a thing
"Upon the dark and troubled main?
How did he know but yonder waves

Would rend his feeble bark in twain?

Because through many a rougher night
He had seen it safely ride-
Because he knew the anchor sure
To which his trusted bark was tied.

So in darkness and in light,
Prov'd so often and so long
Prov'd in sorrow and in joy,

Christians know their anchor strong.

So with hearts to heaven devoted,
Sins repented and confess'd,
All they have to heaven committed,
Christians get them to their rest.

LE COLIMACON.

SANS amis, comme sans famille,
Ici-bas vivre en étranger;

Se retirer dans sa coquille

Au signal du moindre danger;
S'aimer d'une amitié sans bornes,
De soi seul remplir sa maison;
En sortir, suivant la saison,

Pour faire à son prochain les cornes;
Signaler ses pas destructeurs
Par les traces les plus impures;
Outrager les plus tendres fleurs
Par ses baisers ou ses morsure;
Enfin, chez soi comme en prison,
Vieillir, de jour en jour plus triste;
C'est l'histoire de l'egoïste,

Et celle du Colimaçon.

THE BLOSSOM.

SAID Anna to Jane, as they loiter'd one day

In the year's early spring by the garden hedge side, "Those bright, blushing flowers on yonder tall tree "Are the fairest and sweetest I ever espied.