The Monaciello.

"This is fairy gold, boy, and 'twill prove fo."

The Monaciello or Little Monk seems to have lived exclufively in that portion of Southern Italy called Naples. The precife place where he dwelt does not appear to be accurately known; but it is reafonably supposed to have been in some of those impofing remains of Abbeys and Monasteries, that crown many of the picturesque hills of this most picturesque country. When the Monaciello appeared to mortals, it was always at the dead of night; and then only to those who were in foreft need, who themselves had done all that mortal could do to prevent or alleviate the distress that had befallen them, and after all human aid had failed. Then it was that the Monk appeared, and mutely beckoning them to follow, he led them to where treasure was concealedftipulating no conditions for its expenditure, demanding no promise of repayment, exacting no duty or fervice in return.

Men have vainly asked, was it actual treasure he

fenfes, to be changed into leaves or ftones when the day and the occafion of its requirement had passed? And if actual treasure, how did it come in the place of its concealment, and by whom was it there depofited? Was it ill-got gain, the unbleffed fruits of ufury, and the fin of its accumulation to be thus wiped out by its charitable after-ufe? Was it the price of yet darker guilt, with the red ftain of bloody fingers on the coins, that holy ground alone could cleanse? Or was it the golden fruits of peaceful industry, the offerings of piety, treasured up for occafions of love and charity? Enough to know that it was always believed to be actual treasure ; enough to know that it always fufficed for the requirements of those who received it; enough to know that it was always worthily bestowed.

In Germany, the wood-fpirit Rubezahl performed fimilar acts of beneficence and kindness to poor and deferving perfons; and the money he gave proved to be, or paffed for, the current coin of the realm: while in Ireland, the O'Donoghue, who dwelt beneath the waters of an inland lake, and rode over its furface on a steed white as the foam of its waves, distributed treasures that proved genuine to the good, but fpurious to the undeferving.

THE MONACIELLO.

FROM Naples' fmooth and tideless bay, From high St. Elmo's towers of fame, To where, like dawn of grandeft day, Vefuvius lifts his creft of flame,

And to the funny hills beyond,

So fweet a homestead there is not
As that Francifco's father owned,
In this fair land the fairest spot.

Light labour his, from year to year

His olive-rows to prune and train; For helpmates and companions dear

His gentle wife and children twain: And twisting, twining, warp and woof, The vine ran out its tendrils strong, Till door and window, wall and roof Were hid the foliage among.

One day came to this home of peace
A trader on the faithlefs main,
Who viewed content as blameful ease,
And talked of merchandise and gain.

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"One venture,” cried he, on the feas,

Where fortune ever waits the brave, Were more than from your vines and trees In fifty fummers you could fave!"

When from the house the trader went, Low stooping 'neath its porchway green,

Ah, with him parted the content

That had erewhile its inmate been!

One venture on the bounteous feas,

Where fortune ever waits the brave, Were more than from my vines and trees In fifty Summers I could fave.

One venture on the bounteous feas —
"T was like an echo, ever near,
Neglected were his vines and trees
Its dulcet whisperings to hear.
There fortune ever waits the brave-
He borrowed florins thousands three,
And for them bond of furety gave

On home and homestead, land and tree.

The venture failed. As comes the tide
Of ashes black and scorching flame
Adown the trembling mountain-fide,
So on his heart the tidings came :
And never smiled he from that day,
Or fpoke, to hope or to repine;
And foon beneath the sward he lay,
As 'neath the lava lies the vine.

To-morrow must the bond be paid,

No day of respite will be given; Francisco well may bow the head,

And well may call for aid from Heaven. ""Tis not because I loathe to give

For daily hire my daily toil,

Or in a rented hovel live,

And for a stranger dig the foil;

""Tis not because I dread to fee
The axe among my father's trees,
Though every branchlet has for me
A ftore of blissful memories;
Nor is it for the grief I feel

From this my childhood's home to part, Though here would found a stranger's heel As if 't were treading on my heart.

"These uncomplaining I could bear, But, oh my fifter, fair and young! And, mother, with your filver hair, For you, for you my heart is wrung!" With brow bent to the ground he cries— "The orphan's promised stay art Thou; In Thee the widow's fhelter lies,

In Thee, in Thee! O help us now!"

While thus upon the ground he kneels,

Nor found is made, nor shadow thrown,

Nor touch is given, and yet he feels

He is not in the room alone: