Each answered that he nothing knew
As touching whose the sketch might be.

This much appeared, and nothing more :
The piece was painted in the night.
"And yet, by Jove!" Murillo swore,
"He has no cause to fear the light!
"'T is something crude, and lacks, I own,
That finer finish time will teach;
But genius here is plainly shown,
And art beyond the common reach.

"Sebastian!" (turning to his slave,)
"Who keeps this room when I'm in bed?"
"'T is I, Senor.” “Now, mark you, knave !
Keep better watch!" the master said;

"For if this painter comes again,
And you, while dozing, let him slip,
Excuses will be all in vain,
Remember! - you shall feel the whip!"

Now while Sebastian slept, he dreamed

That, to his dazzled vision, came The Blessed Lady so she seemed

And crowned him with the wreath of Fame!

Whereat the startled slave awoke,
And at his picture wrought away,
So rapt, that ere the spell was broke
The dark was fading into day.

"My Beautiful!" the artist cried;
"Thank God! - I have not lived in vain!"
Hark!-'T is Murillo at his side!
The man has grown a slave again!

"Who is your master ? - answer me!"
"'T is you," replied the faltering lad.
"Nay, 't is not that, I mean," said he ;
"Tell me, what teacher have you had?"

"Yourself, Senor ! when you have taught
These gentlemen, I too have heard
The daily lesson, and have sought
To treasure every golden word."

"What say you, boys?" Murillo cried,
Smiling in sign of fond regard,
"Is this a case pray you decide
For punishment, or for reward?"
"Reward, Senor!" they all exclaimed,
And each proposed some costly toy;
But still, whatever gift was named,
Sebastian showed no gleam of joy.
Whereat one said: "He's kind to-day;
Ask him your Freedom." With a groan
The boy fell on his knees : "Nay, nay!
My father's freedom! - not my own!"

"Take both!" the Painter cried. "Henceforth
A slave no more, - be thou my son!
Thy Art had failed, with all its worth,
Of what thy Heart this day has won!"

L'ENVOI.

The traveller, loitering in Seville,

And gazing at each pictured saint,

May see Murillo's genius still;

And learn how well his son could paint!

SATIRES.

I

PROGRESS.

A SATIRE.

N this, our happy and "progressive" age, When all alike ambitious cares engage; When beardless boys to sudden sages grow, And "Miss" her nurse abandons for a beau; When for their dogmas Non-Resistants fight, When dunces lecture, and when dandies write; When matrons, seized with oratoric pangs, Give happy birth to masculine harangues, And spinsters, trembling for the nation's fate, Neglect their stockings to preserve the state; When critic-wits their brazen lustre shed On golden authors whom they never read, With parrot praise of "Roman grandeur" speak, And in bad English eulogize the Greek; When facts like these no reprehension bring, May not, uncensured, an Attorney sing? In sooth he may; and though "unborn" to climb Parnassus' heights, and "build the lofty rhyme," Though FLACCUS fret, and warningly advise That "middling verses gods and men despise,"