And 'tis the glory of the master's art Some radiance of this inward light to find; Some touch that to his canvass may impart A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind. Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show But some faint shadow of a transient thought, Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow, Some swift impression in its passage caught. Oh! that the artist's pencil could pourtray A father's inward bosom to your eyes; What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, What aspirations for your welfare rise. Then might this unsubstantial image prove, When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, A friend for ever urging you to move In paths of honour, holiness, and truth. Let fond imagination's power supply The void that baffles all the painter's art; And when those mimic features meet your eye, Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart. Think that you still can trace within those eyes The kindling of affection's fervid beam, The searching glance that every fault espies, The fond anticipation's pleasing dream. Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise, Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will, The warning voice, or precepts that may raise Your thoughts above this treach'rous world of ill. And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power; To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend: Not the companion of an idle hour, But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend. THE MITCHELLA. BY S. L. MITCHELL. [The Mitchella is a very delicate flower, a native of our woods, and although originally named from another botanist called Mitchell, was always a great favourite of Dr. S. L. Mitchell. The "double nature" alluded to in the poem refers to the fact of the flowers uniformly growing in pairs.] Sequestered safe beneath the sylvan bow'rs, Lo! fair Mitchella spends her joyous hours. The double nature on her form bestow'd Displays a winning and peculiar mode. With lilac wreath her beauteous front is grac'd, A crimson zone surrounds her slender waist; A robe of green trails sweeping o'er the ground, And scents ambrosial fill the air around-- Thus Proserpine o'er Enna's precincts stray'd Till gloomy Dis surpris'd the unthinking maid. From Earth to Tartarus transferr'd, in vain She intercedes her native home to gain. Jove grants in part her pray'r: above to know One half the year, the rest to pass below: And Ceres sees her daughter's two-fold mien, On Earth a nymph, in Pluto's realms a queen. A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.