holy law of God and his church.” The state of mind of that man who can find nothing in the _Speeches of Pius IX._ save matter for ridicule, sarcasm, and invective is not to be envied. It reminds one of the phrase employed in the consistorial “_processus_” for the appointment of a bishop to a diocese in which heretics usurped the churches and impeded the profession and practice of true religion: _Illius status potius est deplorandus quam recensendus_--It is a condition which is rather to be deplored than described. THE BATH OF THE GOLDEN ROBIN. The sun beams over Laurelside To Ana-lo-mink water, And nature smiles in rural pride At all the gifts he brought her. The merry greenwood branches hold More cheer than castle’s rafter, The gurgling river ne’er is old With sly and mellow laughter. How welcome is the soothing sound Of mingling water speeding O’er pebbly bed with laugh and bound, Through wooded banks receding! Ah! pleasant ’tis to close one’s eyes, And let the murmurous measure With liquid tones of gay surprise Fill up the fancy’s pleasure. But ere my hooded eyes could wake Sweet fancy’s happy scheming, Came Robin Oriole to break My sleepless, dulcet dreaming. For Rob outshines the glowing day, And in the sun’s dominions Seems like a ball of fire at play On elfin sable pinions. He glints the orchard’s dropping dew, Illumes the maple’s mazes, Dispels the pine-shade passing through, And in the sunshine blazes! And sweeping to a mossy bank, The wings the flame deliver Where fern-encloister’d pebbles flank An eddy from the river. Here, by the stream-indented path, As master Rob did spy it, Thought he, What chance for Sunday bath! So tempting, cool, and quiet. He quaintly eyed the little pool, And hopt so self-confiding, And peek’d around, like boy from school, To see none near were hiding. Then, list’ning, seem’d to mark the tone Made by the eddies’ patter; But bravely sprang upon a stone, And plunged with splash and spatter. The bath came only to his knees, But, ducking as he flutters, Against his throat the water sprees, And round his body sputters. It leapt in bubbles, as his crest And wings were merrily toiling; You’d think his ruffled, fiery breast Had set the water boiling. He stopt short in his merry ways As coy as any lady, And, flutt’ring, sent a diamond haze Around his bath so shady. Then popt out on the olive moss So softly deep and luscious; Then skimm’d the blue-eyed flow’rs across, And perch’d within the bushes. He perk’d his head like dandy prig, Now feeling fine and fresher; And took the air upon a twig, That scarcely felt his pressure.