A voice came forth "take heed to note

Thine own receding hour,

And let the strange and silver hair

That o'er thy forehead strays

Be as a monitor, to tell

The autumn of thy days."

THE LAST SUPPER.

A PICTURE BY LEONARDI DA VINCI.

BEHOLD that countenance, where grief and love

Blend with ineffable benignity,

And deep, unuttered majesty divine.

Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart,

And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe?
Redeemer! is it thine? And is this feast,
Thy last on earth? Why do the chosen few,
Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand

As men transfix'd with horror?

Ah! I hear

The appalling answer, from those lips divine,

"One of you shall betray me."

One of these?

Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers, Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant

Turns to the rain of summer? One of these!

Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops

The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring
Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock
Of unimagined guilt. See, his whole soul
Concentred in his eye, the man who walked
The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts
The horror struck inquiry-" Is it I?
Lord! is it I?" while earnest pressing near,
His brother's lip, in ardent echo seems

Doubling the fearful thought. With brow upraised,
Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul;

And springing eager from the table's foot,
Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope,

That by his ear, the Master's awful words
Had been misconstrued. To the side of Christ,
James, in the warmth of cherished friendship clings,
Yet trembles as the traitor's image steals

Into his throbbing heart; while he, whose hand
In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds
Of him he loved, points upward to invoke
The avenging God. Philip, with startled gaze,
Stands in his crystal singleness of soul,
Attesting innocence-while Matthew's voice,
Repeating fervently the Master's words,
Rouses to agony the listening group,

Who, half incredulous, with terror, seem
To shudder at his accents.

All the twelve

With strong emotion strive, save one false breast

By Mammon seared, which, brooding o'er its gain,
Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood.
Son of perdition!-dost thou freely breathe
In such pure atmosphere?—And canst thou hide,
'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow,
The burden of a deed whose very name

Strikes all thy brethren pale?

But can it be

That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene
Is the slight pencil's witchery?-I would speak
Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth
O'er the dead canvass. But I dare not muse,
Now of a mortal's praise. Subdued I stand
In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God—
I feel the breathing of those holy men,
From whom thy gospel, as on angel's wing,
Went out through all the earth. I see how deep
Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel
Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask—
"Lord!-is it I?"

For who may tell, what dregs

Do slumber in his breast. Thou, who didst taste

Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins

From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not
In our temptations; but so guide our feet,
That our Last Supper in this world may lead
To that immortal banquet by thy side,
Where there is no betrayer.

WASHINGTON'S TOMB.

ADAPTED TO MUSIC.

TOMB of the mighty dead!
How sacred every tree,

Waving above thy head,

Or shedding bloom on thee:

As long as fair Potomac flows, Sparkling 'neath Mount Vernon's sun, Rever'd by friends and foes Dwell here, in blest repose, Washington!

Sons of the pilgrim sires,
Sons of yon boundless west,

Ye, whom the tropic fires,

Or hoarse lakes lull to rest,

If wandering wide, you e'er forget
Ties that bind us all in one,

Here, at your father's feet,

The brothers' vow repeat,

While the breeze respondeth sweet,

Washington!