came a faint, thin voice,
"My children, I am saved!" and looking up,
We found him clinging with what strength was left
Unto the boughs. We led him home with us,
Starving and sick, and chilled through blood and bone.
Our tenderest care was needed to revive
The life half spent, and soon we learned the tale
Of his salvation. He had climbed at first
Unto his roof, but saw ere long small chance
For that frail hut to stand against the storm.
It rocked beneath him as a bark at sea,
The hard wind beat upon him, and the rain
Drenched him and seemed to scourge him as with flails.
He gave himself to God; composed with prayer
His spirit to meet death; when overhead
The swaying oak-limbs seemed to beckon him
To seek the branches' shelter and support.
His prayer till death was that the Lord would bless
His daughters, and distinguish them above
All children of the earth. For me his suit
Hath well prevailed, thank God! A happy wife,
A happy mother, I have naught to ask:
My blessings overflow.

_Raphael_. Thanks for thy tale,
Most gracious mother. See thy babe is lulled
To smiling sleep.

_Maria_. Yea, and the silence now
Awakens him. Ah, darling rogue, art flushed
With too much comfort? So! let the cool air
Play with thy curls and fan the plump, hot cheek.

_Raphael_. Hold, as the child uplifts his cherub face,
Opens his soft small arms to stroke thy cheek,
Crowing with glee, while the slant sunbeams light
A halo of gold fire about thy hair,
I see again a canvas that is hung
Over the altar in our church at home.
"_Mater amabilis_," yet here be traits,
Colors and tones the artist never dreamed.
Sweet mother, let me sketch thee with thy babe:
So rare a picture should not pass away
With the brief moment which it illustrates.

_Maria_. Art thou a painter too, Sir Traveler?
Where be thy brush and colors?

_Raphael_. Ah, 'tis true,
Naught have I with me. What is this? 'twill serve
My purpose.

_Maria_. 'Tis the cover of a cask,
Made of the very oak whereof I spake:
My father for his wine-casks felled the tree.

_Raphael_. A miracle! the hermit's daughters thus
Will be remembered in the years to come.
My pencil will suffice to scratch the lines
Upon the wood: my memory will hold
The lights, the tints, the golden atmosphere,
The genius of the scene--the mother-love.

EMMA LAZARUS.

EARLY TRAVELING EXPERI