In the deep and solemn midnight, All the household lost in sleep, Comes thy holy spirit to me, And in accents soft and lowly, Bide me not to weep! Come, thou blessed spirit, nearer, Feel the beating of my heart; How it longs to burst its fetters— How it eager pants for freedom— Now ’tis ready for the start! Oh, my mother! be thou with me; Guide my wandering steps to thee; Watch thy son in sleep or waking, And when fainting in his spirit, Guide—oh guide—his steps to thee! For I feel, if thou art near me— If thy spirit watcheth me, With its soft and faith-full eyes Looking downward from the skies, From its home in Paradise, It will ever, ever cheer me! * * * * * MAGDALEN. BY L. L. M. O’er the shining walls of Sunset Drooped the night-flag’s sable fold; Far adown the dim old forest Evening anthems slowly rolled. Up from brakes and velvet mosses, Heart-wrung pleadings faintly stole, With Death’s anguish wildly wrestled, All that night, a passing soul. Wronged and wronger here had parted In life’s glorious summer morn, He, to win the world’s high honor, She, to shrink from man’s fierce scorn. She had sinned, and love’s sweet numbers Rang from human lips no more, But around her gently murmured Voices from the Eternal shore. Past her flowed the chiming waters, Heaven-hued flow’rets bent above; Upward rose their blended incense To the God whose name is Love. Downward through the forest arches Swept the pine-trees fragrant balm; O’er her fevered senses stealing With a soft, delicious calm. Angel eyes smiled down upon her, Angel wings about her lay; And a gleam from Heaven’s bright portals, Flashed upon her upward way. Calm she lay, the great All Father Held her in his dear embrace; And the peace of sin forgiven, Rests upon her sweet, dead face. * * * * * ROSALIE. A SKETCH FROM LIFE. BY MRS. E. L. CUSHING. In a luxurious dressing-room in one of the most aristocratic mansions of Montreal, a young girl stood before a cheval-glass which gave back the full-length reflection of her lovely person, from the rich luxuriance of her rose-crowned ringlets to the sole of the fairy foot, now clad in a sylvan buskin, laced with silken strings over the delicate and naked ankle. The girl’s dress was a fanciful one—it had just been sent home from the dress-maker’s, and she was but rehearsing in it, preparatory to her appearance as the goddess Flora at a fancy-ball, to be given shortly by the officers of the garrison to the _élite_ of the city.