sion. But he was become sensible of the power of intelligence and real kindliness, of the relief they yielded to his vapid home and vacant heart; and he decidedly opposed, the wishes of his wife. It was no matter; the Janus character of her proceedings defied discountenance, and in this determination of her husband, in which she instantly acquiesced, a finer field than ever was presented for the exercise of her peculiar proficiency in the art of tormenting. She feigned the jealousy she did not feel, nor had any grounds for feeling; tears, sighs, insinuations, airs of resignation, and half-stifled complaints, were her weapons of offence at home and abroad. Soon began the buz of scandal with which the gossips of the neighbourhood sweetened their tea, and enlivened their way to church and back. Poor Mrs. Manning!' ⚫ such a sweet woman!' base ingratitude!' 'shameless effrontery!' These were parts of their gamut; every one talked in italics, and had notes of admiration always at hand.

6

The unconscious Miss Clare was at length enlightened upon the subject of the reports current, by a gentleman to whom Mr. Manning confided the management of his property, and who in the discharge of the duties involved in this trust was a frequent visiter at the Hall. Congeniality of taste and a corresponding standard of mind had drawn him and Grace much together. Both had shed the first flowers of their affections; but their hearts bloomed again, and again grew rich with the fruit of reciprocal love.

My sweet Grace,' exclaimed her lover one day, after a mutual explanation, now that you have accepted my heart, let me urge you to an immediate acceptance of my hand, and let me tell you one cause, among others, why I urge it. You are suffering from your insidious friend Mrs. Manning, and the censorious appetency of the idlers of this neighbourhood;' and he entered into a brief explanation.

For a moment a spark of indignant light burned in the eyes of Grace Clare, and deepened the glow upon her cheek; but the one melted immediately after into the beam of confiding love, and the other softened into the bloom of pleasure as she placed her hand in the hand of him to whom she had betrothed herself.

'Be it as you say,' she cried: transplant me when you please. I am a shrub that here never took kindly root; but I have an inherent power, which has flung off the tainting vapours which have surrounded me.'

A few days after, Grace departed from the Hall the bride of a man worthy of her high heart. The scandal-mongers were about to close accounts in dread of insolvency, when Mrs. Manning's elopement with a beauish baronet allowed them to open them afresh, and they had only to make a transfer of stock and invest their virulence in a new name.

M. L. G.

654

WILLIAM.

BY THE AUTHOR OF CORN-LAW RHYMES.

'LIFT, lift me up!-my broken heart
Must speak before I go:
Oh, mother, it is death to part
From you-I love you so!

'You did not tell me I should die,

You fear'd your child would grieve; But I am dying! One is nigh Whom kindness can't deceive. 'My angel-aunts I hope will take A little gift from me;

So let them cherish, for my sake,
My "Pennant's Zoology."

My pencil-case must not be lost,
'Twas giv'n me by a brother;
I give it her who loves me most:
You will not lose it, mother.

Ere summer came, I hoped in God
I should a-fishing go:

Let Henry have my fishing-rod

He loves to fish, you know:

Give him my reel, my gimp, my lines,
My flies with silk moss'd o'er;
Again the lilied summer shines,
But I shall fish no more.
Edwin and Francis never can

By these poor eyes be seen:

Kiss four for me-give this to Ann,
And this to Mary Green.

Henry and Fanny-Noah, John,
Ebby, and Benjamin,

Are all at home; so, one by one,

Dear mother, bring them in.

To make my will and bid adieu,

Before I pass away,

Few hours are mine; and short and few The words I wish to say.

I have not much to leave behind,

But what I earn'd I have;

For well you taught my willing mind

That Spendall is a slave.

You have the keys of both my locks,

And keep my little store;

Just forty pounds are in my box,

My father owes me four.

My God! why is my weakness strong
To bear such agony?

'Tis sad to quit a world so fair

To warm young hearts like mine;
And, doom'd so early, hard to bear
This heavy hand of thine.

The dim light sickens round my bed,
Your looks seem sick with woe,
The air feels sick, as o'er my head
Its pantings come and go.

'Oh, I am sick in ev'ry limb,
Sick, sick in ev'ry vein!

.

My eyes and brain with sickness swim,
My bones are sick with pain!

What is this weary helplessness?
This breathless toil for breath?
This tossing, aching weariness?

What is it? It is Death!

The doctor shunn'd my eyes, and brook'd

Few words from my despair;

But through and through his heart I look'd,

And saw my coffin there.

I, like a youngling from the nest,

By rude hands torn away,

Would fain cling to my mother's breast,—

But cannot, must not stay.

From her and hers, and our sweet home,

My soul seems forced afar,

O'er frozen seas of sable foam,

Through gloom without a star.

I go where voice was never heard,
Where sunbeam ne'er was seen,
Where dust beholds nor flow'r nor bird,
As if life ne'er had been!

'I go where Thomas went before;
I hear him sob" Prepare!"

And I have borne what Thomas bore:
Who knows what he can bear?

But eight will stay, when I am gone,
To weep because I died,

And think of William's churchyard stone,
Their mother's hope and pride.

'And I will look upon her face
When she thinks none is nigh,
Like silence on the lonely place
Where my poor bones will lie.
'Farewell! farewell! to meet again;
But, oh! why part to meet?
I know my mother's heart is fain
To share my winding-sheet!

'Can't

you die with me, mother? Come
And clasp me!-not so fast!
How close and airless is the room!
Oh, mother!'-It is past!

The breath is gone, the soul is flown,
The lips no longer move;

God o'er my child hath slowly thrown
His veil of dreadful love.

Oh, thou chang'd dust! pale form that tak'st
All hope from fond complaint!

Thou sad, mute eloquence, that mak'st

The list'ner's spirit faint!

And oh, ye dreamy fears that rest

On dark realities!'*

Why preach ye to the trembling breast
Truths which are mysteries?

THE VISION.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

(Continued from p. 610.)

SCENE II. Stranger and Spirit; their figures seen against a broad disc of luminous ether, all else being utter darkness.

SPIRIT. Thou hast invoked me, Mortal. Power and will

Are attributes of all immortal beings.

STRANGER. And not less mortal ones. My will is strong

To work my purpose; power alone is lacking,

And that is but a question of degree,

Even like thine own, unless thou be the highest,

And that thou art not.

SPIRIT. Thou hast no power to tell what power I hold;

Enough that I have power to work thy will:

Speak then thy purpose, Mortal.

STRANGER. Thou needest not my words. Unless thou canst Divine my will, I will not trust in thee,

Or in thy power to aid it.

SPIRIT. And if thy power were equal to thy pride,

Thou wouldst not need it. Being only mortal,

* Opium Eater.

Thou wouldst hold commune with immortal spirits,

As though thou wert an equal.

STRANGER. The soul within me is thine equal. Matter, In which it lies enearthed, obscures its vision,

And therefore only do I ask thine aid,

As blind men seek a guide.

SPIRIT. I will not argue with the limited range
Of mortal attributes. I come to serve thee,

And help thee in thine objects. Thou wouldst look
On woman's beauty; not upon the forms
Which long have passed away, but as they live,
Move, and have being at the present time.

Thou wouldst see pass before thee Earth's perfection,
And make choice of a sympathizing spirit,
Like to thine own, yet without speck or flaw
In its external shrouding.

STRANGER. Show me these

Until I bid thee stop, and our communings
Shall be of deeper purpose.

SPIRIT. Behold!

STRANGER. A form of beauty glows upon the disk,
Radiant in streamy light. Her garments float
Like airy gossamer. Her long fair hair
Twines in symmetric tracery. Her feet

Are Motion's twin-born children, and her hands
Seem like Proportion's music. Now she turns
Her fairy face this way; those soft blue eyes
Are radiant with affection still unclaimed,
But eager to expand. Those parted lips
Are eloquent of maidhood's gentle thoughts;
And the small ear is turned towards the air,
Which stilly moves, as though the lover's voice
Born in her dreams were gently whispering vows
Sweet to youth's first affection. Beauty! Beauty!
Thy silence is more eloquent than words.

SPIRIT. Thy longing, then, is satisfied.
STRANGER. Peace!

Mine eyes drink in her sweetness, my chilled heart
Warms at her aspect, yet my spirit shrinks
As though there were a yawning gulf beneath
A shelving bank of flowers. I'll gaze on her,
And crush emotion. Like an analyst,
A calm, cold analyst, I'll scan her o'er.
Those eyes, which look affection, do they beam
With the awakening senses? do they seek
An object, or the object? Has she mind
To know the true, and choose the true, and leave
The false and worthless? Let me look again.
Oh! she is beautiful, for sense is beautiful,
A bountiful bestowal of sweet nature,
Without which sympathy would die. Yet sense
Is but the pleasant couch where Soul reclines.