"Heaven rest his soul !" replied an ancient dame, leaning upon her crutch; "Heaven rest his soul! He has lain these fifteen years in the house that he will never leave."

The goatherd shuddered, as in the last speaker he recognised his neighbour, who seemed to have suddenly grown old; but he had lost all desire for farther question. At this moment, a brisk young woman pressed through the anxious gapers, carrying an infant in her arms, and leading by the hand a girl of about fourteen years old, all three the very image of his wife. With increasing surprise he asked her name : "Maria !"-And your father's?" Peter Klaus! Heaven rest his soul! It is now twenty years since we sought him day and night on the Kyffhausen mountains, when his flock returned without him; I was then but seven years old."

The goatherd could contain himself no longer; "I am Peter Klaus," he cried; "I am Peter Klaus, and none else; and he snatched the child from his daughter's arms. All for a moment stood as if petrified, till at length one voice, and another, and another, exclaimed, "Yes, this is Peter Klaus! Welcome, neighbour !welcome, after twenty years!"

THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.

THERE is a shadow on the wall,

Which comes between my rest and me;
No sound upon
mine ear doth fall,

There is no living form to see;
But there's the shadow in my way,
Which never leaves me night or day.

I strive to shut it from my sight,
But Conscience tells me it is there;
I kneel beside my bed at night-

Nor heart-nor tongue-can utter prayer;
For there's the shadow in my way,
Which will not let me sleep or pray.

I wander, listless, through the street,
I sit upon this lowly tomb:

There, many a well-known face I meet—
Here, all is solitude and gloom;
But there and here, by night and day,
That shadow rises pale and grey.

It is her shadow that I see.

Her shadow! Oh, so young and fair!
She was too angel-pure for me,

My heart too black for her to share;
But yet I strove her love to win,
And striving, steeped my soul in sin.
How many years! how many years!
(I dare not count them if I could)
Has the remembrance of her tears
Come up before me like a flood!
But ah! nor dove, nor brightening sky,
Brings peace or promise from on high.

We stood upon the river's edge,
He, she, and I—we three alone;
A lily blossom'd near the sedge,

The sunlight on its petals shone;
He forward stepp'd-the dazzling light,
The treach'rous sedge, deceived his sight.
He slipp'd and fell: he could not swim:
And thus, entangled by the weeds
Which grew all round and under him,

He snatch'd in vain the bending reeds:
Then deeper-deeper-deeper sank,
While she stood helpless on the bank.
I might have rushed into the flood-
I'd breasted many a deeper tide;
I might have saved him if I would:
Saved him—that she might be his bride?
A demon whisper'd passing by,

"SHE MAY BE THINE, IF HE BUT DIE!"

I turn'd from her appealing eyes,

But saw her shadow in the wave: With arms uplifted to the skies

She called on Heaven and me to save: I heard her dismal, piercing cry, "Oh! do not leave him there to die!

"I come to thee, belov'd, I come

Since other aid has been denied--
To save thee, or to share thy doom:
Life is not life, but by thy side!—
Nay, let me leave this cheerless place:
'Tis worse than death to miss his face!"

I know not how I drew her out,
For I was maddened by my grief;
A moment more, I heard a shout,
And others came to my relief.
They bore her silently away,
And left me in my mute dismay.

All night I linger'd near her door,
While pale forms flitted to and fro;
I questioned each one o'er and o’er,

And met their looks of silent woe:
Yes-she was dying-close to heaven,
And I was living-unforgiven!

Oh, how I longed that voice to hear,
If only for a moment's space!
Though bitter words I well might fear,
And scorn and hatred in her face.
I thought 'twere better bear that pain,
Than never look on her again.

When weary night withdrew her shroud,
And careless grief left doors unlock'd,

I stole amid the tearful crowd,

That near the loved one's chamber flock'd: How could I dare to stand among

Those bleeding hearts-that stricken throng?

They let me pass without a word,
As if unconscious I was there;
To warn me backward no one stirred;
They did not see, or did not care.
I came and stood beside her bed—
Sorrow of sorrows!-she was dead!

But there's her shadow evermore,
Just as I saw it in the wave;
With arms uplifted to implore

Her lover's rescue from the grave:
And still I hear her mournful cry-
"Oh! do not leave him there to die !"

It rings for ever in my ear,

"Twill haunt me downward to the grave:
Oh! welcome death!—if death be near-
As freedom to the tortured slave-
Welcome to me, as friend to friend,
So let this weary struggle end.

But when I've left this world of strife-
When all things earthly fade away—
Will the dark shadow of my life

Dissolve before the Eternal Day?
That day whose light is bright as seven?
NO SHADE OF SIN CAN ENTER HEAVEN.

CHRISTMAS IS COMING.

J. R. PLANCHÉ.

FAREWELL to the lilies and roses,

Adieu to green leaves and bright skies, Prepare for red hands and blue noses,

Fogs, chilblains, sore throats, and old guys:

The sun, Sagittarius nearing,

Begins to look blousy and queer; And winds sing, in accents uncheering, The last dying speech of the year.

The days they grow shorter and shorter— You can't see the town for its smokeInvention, Necessity's daughter,

How long must we blacken and choke? Contract with some wholesale perfumer, To wash off the soot as it falls;

Or let a gigantic consumer

Be placed on the top of St. Paul's.

Contrive by some channel to turn it,

Ere down our poor throttles it rolls; Why can't the gas company burn it? "Twould save them a fortune in coals! Much longer we cannot endure it:

s;

The smother each residence crams Unless something's soon done to cure it, 'Twill cure us, like so many hams.

The cit, now from Thanet's fair island,
Steams back to Bartholomew Lane;
The peer hurries over the dry land,
To pace Brighton's chain-pier again;
The Lord Mayor, by mud, not by water,
Divulges his draggle-tail'd show ;
And the judges to dinner besought, are
Too good judges e'er to say “no.”

Each Englishman, now at his hope's end,
The national taste to denote,

Swings out of the world at a rope's end,
Or cuts all his cares with his throat.
With thy fogs, all so thick and so yellow,
The most approved tint for ennui,
Oh! when shall a man see thy fellow,
November, for felo de se?