Now, when mellow rays of sunset
      Lingered golden on the trees,
    Came a weary pilgrim slowly
      From the bordering forest leas. 
    This was JESUS, just returning
      From his fast of forty days;
    Worn by Satan’s fierce temptations,
      He for rest and comfort prays.

    Sore his sacred feet are blistered,
      Wandering o’er the desert-sands;
    Torn and bleeding from the briers,
      Sufferings which the curse demands. 
    When he came upon the moss-bed,
      Soon he felt how cool and sweet
    Lay the soft and velvet carpet
      ’Neath his wounded, bleeding feet.

    ’Then he paused and spake this blessing: 
      ’Gift of my kind Father’s love! 
    Fret not, little plant, thy record
      Shineth in the book above. 
    By the careless eye unheeded,
      Bear thy lowly, humble lot;
    Thou hast eased my weary walking,
      Thou art ne’er in heaven forgot.’

    Scarcely had he breathed this blessing
      On the moss that soothed his woes,
    When upon its bosom gathered,
      Budded, bloomed, a lovely rose! 
    And its petals glowed with crimson
      Like the clouds at close of day;
    And a glory on the mosses
      Like the smile of cherubs lay.

    Then said JESUS to the flower: 
      ’Moss-rose—­this thy name shall be—­
    Spread thou o’er all lands, the sweetest
      Emblem of humility. 
    Out of lowly mosses budding,
      Which have soothed a pilgrim’s pain,
    Thou shalt tell the world what honor
      All the lowly, lovely gain.’

    Hear his words, ye lonely children,
      By the world unseen, unknown;
    Wait ye for the suffering pilgrim,
      Coming weary, faint, and lone. 
    Keep your hearts still soft and tender,
      Like the velvet bed of moss;
    God will bless the love you render,
      To some bearer of the cross.

* * * * *

In our May number we spoke old Englishly of the Boston demoiselle.  In the present number we have: 

YE PHILADELPHIA YOUNGE LADYE.

Ye Philadelphia young ladye 1s not evir of ruddie milke and blonde hew, like unto hir cosyn of Boston, natheless is shee not browne as a chinkapinn or persymon like unto ye damosylles of Baltimore.  Even and clere is hir complexioun, seldom paling, and not often bloshing, whyeh is a good thynge for those who bee fonde of kissing, sith that if ther mothers come in sodanely ther checkes wyll not be sinful tell-tayles of swete and secrete deeds.  Of whych matter of blushing itt is gretely to the credyt of the Philadelphienne that shee blosheth not muche, sith that Aldrovandus, and as methynketh also, Mizaldus in his Mirabile Centuries, doe affirme thatt not to bloshe is a sign of noble bloods and gentyl lineage—­for itt may bee planely seene that every base-borne churle’s daughter blosheth, if thatt yee give hir a poke under ye chinn, whereas ye countesse of highe degre only smileth sweetlie and sayth merily, ‘Aha! messire—­tu voys que mon joly couer est endormy!’ for shee well knoweth that a gentyllman, like ye kynge, can doe noe wronge.