dome, and Campanile, shining in the soft golden radiance of the setting sun, with the broad topped tower of the Palazzo Vecchio lifted in the yellow light, even as at this day it stands.

* Ah, death! can no worth ward thee? Must the inspired artist's eyes be dark, his hand motionless, his heart still, and his inventive brain as dull as the clay he models? Yes! Donatello lies stretched on his last couch, and the light of life is passing from his eyes; yet even in that awful hour, his thoughts ran on the wishes of his past years, and he sent for the Florentine artist.

His friend came instantly.

* "I am going, Michael, my chisel is idle, my vision is dim, but I feel thy hand, my noble boy, and I hear thy kind breast sob. I glory in thy renown; I predicted it, and I bless my Creator that I have lived to see it; but before I sink into the tomb, I charge thee, on thy friendship, on thy religion, answer my question truly." "As I am a man, I will."

"Then tell me, without equivocation, what it is that my St. George wants?"

"The gift of Speech!" was the reply.

A gleam of sunshine fell across the old man's face. The smile lingered on his lips long after he lay cold as the marble upon which he had so often stamped the conceptions of his genius.

The statue remains the admiration of posterity, and adorns the exterior of the Chiesa d'or San Micheles, Scottish Annual.

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.

Translated from the Irish by Charles Clarence Mangan, Esq.

0, WOMAN of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle!

O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen-and, here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despise For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser, And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows;

Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momonia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants, "Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!

If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,

Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows!

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;

Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returningWho knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?

Yet you can give yourself these airs, O, Woman of Three Cows!

O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing dauntedSee how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!

He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse— Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story

Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory

Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,

And so, for all your pride, will yours, O, Woman of Three Cows!

Th' O'Carrolls also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?

Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbour's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, Because, forsooth, you've got three cows, one more, I see, than she

has;

That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows, But, if you're strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

THE SUMMING UP.

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,

And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

THE BIBLE A CLASSIC.

1The suppositive and negative members in a high voice, and ending with a rising inflexion; the affirmative members in a firm but lower tone, ending with the falling inflexion. Tones varied and suited to the sublime, cheerful, or narrative part of the subject.

'THERE is a Classic, the best the world has ever seen, the noblest that has ever honoured and dignified the language of mortals. If we look into its antiquity, we discover a title to our veneration, unrivalled in the history of Literature. If we have respect to its evidences, they are found in the testimony of miracle and prophecy; in the ministry of Man, of Nature, and of Angels. If we consider its authenticity, no other pages have survived the lapse of time, that can be compared with it. If we examine its authority, -for it speaks as never man spake,- -we discover that it came from Heaven, in vision and prophecy, under the sanction of Him who is the Creator of all things, and the Giver of every good and perfect gift. If we reflect on its truths, they are lovely and spotless, sublime and holy, as God himself; unchangeable as his nature; durable as his righteous dominion; and versatile as the moral condition of mankind. If we regard the value of its treasures, we must estimate them, not like the relics of classic Antiquity, by the perishable glory and beauty, virtue and happiness of this world, but by the enduring perfection and supreme felicity of an eternal kingdom. If we inquire, who are the men that have recorded its truths, vindicated its rights, and illustrated the excellence of its scheme-from the depth of ages and from the living world, from the populous continent and the isles of the sea, comes forth the answer-the Patriarch and the Prophet, the Evangelist and the Martyr. If we look abroad through the world of men, the victims of folly or vice, the prey of cruelty or injustice, and inquire what are its benefits, even in this temporal state-the great and the humble, the rich and the poor, the powerful and the weak, the learned and the ignorant, reply, as with one voice, that humility and resignation; purity, order, and peace; faith, hope, and charity, are its blessings upon earth: and if-raising our eyes from time to eternity, from the world of mortals to the world of just men made perfect; from the visible creation, marvellous, beautiful, and glo

rious as it is, to the invisible creation of Angels and Seraphs; from the footstool of God to the throne of God himself—we ask, what are the blessings that flow from this single volume, let the question be answered by the pen of the Evangelist, the harp of the Prophet, and the records of the Book of Life.

2 To those who admire the Classics so extravagantly as to forget, which most seem to do, that such a book as the Bible exists, I would recommend the following sentiments of Fenelon, than whom a more calm, dignified, and dispassionate judge never compared Christian with Heathen Classics:-"The Scripture surpasses the most ancient Greek authors vastly in native simplicity, liveliness, and grandeur. Homer himself never reached the sublimity of Moses' Songs, especially the last, which all Israelitish children were to learn by heart. Never did any ode, either Greek or Latin, come up to the loftiness of the Psalms, particularly 'The mighty God, even the Lord, hath spoken.' This surpasses the utmost stretch of human invention. Neither Homer nor any other poet ever equalled Isaiah describing the majesty of God, in whose sight 'the nations of the earth are as small dust, yea, less than nothing and vanity,' seeing it is he that stretcheth out the heavens ‘like a curtain, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in.' Sometimes this Prophet has all the sweetness of an eclogue in the smiling image he gives us of peace; and sometimes he soars so high as to leave every thing below him. What is there in antiquity, that can be compared to the lamentations of Jeremiah, when he tenderly deplores the misery of his country? or the prophecy of Nahum, when he foresees in spirit the proud Nineveh fall under the rage of an invincible army? We fancy that we see the host, and hear the noise of arms and chariots. Every thing is painted in such a lively manner as strikes the imagination,—the Prophet far outdoes Homer. Read likewise Daniel announcing to Belshazzar the Divine vengeance ready to overwhelm him, and try if you can find any thing in the most sublime originals of antiquity that can be compared to those passages of Sacred Writ. As for the rest of Scripture, every portion of it is uniform and constant,—every part bears the peculiar character that becomes it. The history, the particular detail of laws, the descriptions, the vehement and pathetic passages, the mysteries and prophecies, the moral discourses,

-in all these appears a natural and beautiful variety. In short, there is as great a difference between the Heathen poets and the Hebrew prophets, as there is between false enthusiasm and true. The sacred writers being truly inspired, do in a sensible manner express something divine; while the others, striving to soar above themselves, always show human weakness in their loftiest flights." -Grimké.

MODERN LOGIC.

Humorous and lively description-voice changed in the dialogue-at the end good humoured irony

AN Eton stripling training for the Law,
A Dunce at Syntax, but a Dab at Taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf,

With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his Uncle's home.

Arrived, and past the usual "How d'ye do's,"

Inquiries of old friends, and College news,

“Well, Tom—the road, what saw you worth discerning,

And how goes study, boy-what is't you're learning?" "Oh, Logic, Sir,-but not the worn-out rules

Of Locke and Bacon-antiquated fools!

"Tis wit and wranglers' Logic-thus, d'ye see, I'll prove to you, as clear as A, B, C,

That an eel-pie's a pigeon:-to deny it,

Were to swear black's white." "Indeed!"-"Let's try it.

An eel-pie, is a pie of fish." "Well-agreed."

"A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie."-"Proceed."
"A Jack-pie must be a John-pie-thus, 'tis done,
For every John-pie is pi-ge-on!"

"Bravo!" Sir Peter cries, "Logic for ever!
It beats my grandmother-and she was clever!
But zounds, my boy-it surely would be hard,
That wit and learning should have no reward!
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross,

And then I'll give you". "What?"-"My chesnut-horse."
"A horse!" cries Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces,

Oh what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!"

He went to bed, and wept for downright sorrow,

To think the night must pass before the morrow;

Dream'd of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather breeches, Of leaping five-barr'd gates, and crossing ditches: