emotions. He beheld, however, with a fixed and deep attention, the devotional soul that flashed in the uplifted eyes of the expiring pastor, while his hands were crossed in the attitude of a silent appeal to Heaven. In this situation they were found by some Catholic soldiers, who, without knowing Zuinglius, offered him a confessor. Unable to speak, he shook his head in denial. The soldiers then exhorted him to recommend his soul to the Holy Virgin. He gave another sign of refusal. "Die, then, obstinate heretic!" said one of them, and instantly pierced him with his sword.

Frederick beheld with agony, in that infatuated soldier, a specimen of his former self, and with his own departing life prayed for the murderer. The death-wound in each bosom, like a gate suddenly opened into paradise, freed the disincarcerated spirit; and each ascended to accompany the other's upward flight, and to share a glorious immortality!

THE DELUGE.

BY MISS SUSANNAH STRICKLAND.

VISIONS of the years gone by
Flash upon my mental eye;

Ages Time no longer numbers,

Forms that share Oblivion's slumbers,

Creatures of that elder world

Now in dust and darkness hurled,

Crushed beneath the heavy rod,

Of a long-forsaken God!

Hark! what Spirit moves the crowd?
Like the voice of waters loud,
Through the open city gate,
Urged by wonder, fear, or hate,
Onward rolls the mighty tide-
Spreads the tumult far and wide;

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ACTOR, LENOX A
TILDEN FOUNDATI

Heedless of the noontide glare,
Infancy and age are there,-
Joyous youth and matron staid,

Blooming bride and blushing maid,—
Manhood with his fiery glance,

War-chief with his lifted lance,

Beauty with her jewelled brow,

Hoary eld with locks of snow,

Prince and peer, and statesman grave,
White-stoled priest and dark-browed slave;
Plumed helm, and crowned head,

By one mighty impulse led,
Mingle in the living mass,

That onward to the desert pass!

With

song

and shout and impious glee,

What rush earth's myriads forth to see?

Hark! the sultry air is rent

With their boisterous merriment !

Are they to the vineyards rushing,
Where the grape's rich blood is gushing?
Or hurrying to the bridal rite

Of warrior brave and beauty bright?
Ah no! those heads in mockery crowned,
Those pennons gay with roses bound,
Hie not to a scene of gladness-
Theirs is mirth that ends in madness!