sobbing as if her heart would break, "I knew that would be the end of it."

But John had not been in merry England merely to get his twelve guineas packed in two cakes. "No," said he firmly, "right is right, and I'll see the end of it." So he sat himself down on the step of the door, determined not to go until he saw the young squire; and as it happened it was not long before he came out. "I have been expecting you some time, John," said he; 66 come in and bring your wife in," and he made them go before him into the house. Immediately, he directed all the servants to come up stairs; and such an army of them as there was! It was a real sight to see them.

"Which of you," said the young squire without making further words "which of you all did this honest woman give my purse to?" But there was no answer. "Well, I suppose she must be mistaken unless she can tell herself."

John's wife at once pointed her finger towards the head footman; "there he is," said she, if all the world were to the fore-clargyman, magistrate, judge, jury and all-there he is, and I'm ready to take my bibleoath to him; there he is who told me it was all right when he took the purse, and slammed the door in my face, without as much as thank ye for it."

The conscious footman turned pale.

"What is this I hear?" said the master. "If this woman gave you my purse, William, why did you not give it to me?"

The servant stammered out a denial; but his master insisted on his being searched, and the purse was found in his pocket.

"John," said the gentleman, turning round, "you shall be no loser by this affair. Here are ten guineas for you; go home now, but I will not forget your wife's honesty."

Within a month John Carson was settled in a nice new-slated house which the squire had furnished and

made ready for him. What with his wages, the reward he got from the judge, and the ten guineas for returning the purse, he was well to do in the world, and was soon able to stock a small farm, where he lived respected all his days. On his death-bed he gave his children the very Three Advices which his master had given him on parting:—

"Never to take a bye-road when you could follow the highway.

"Never to lodge in the house where an old man was married to a young woman.

"And, above all, to remember that honesty is the best policy."

THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.

T. CAMPBELL.

CEASE, every joy, to glimmer on my mind,
But leave-oh! leave the light of hope behind!
What though my winged hours of bliss have been,
Like angel-visits, few and far between,
Her musing mood shall every pang appease,
And charm when pleasures lose the power to please!
Yes; let each rapture, dear to nature, flee:
Close not the light of fortune's stormy sea-
Mirth, music, friendship, love's propitious smile,
Chase every care, and charm a little while,
Ecstatic throbs and fluttering heart employ,
And all her strings are harmonized to joy!—
But why so short is love's delighted hour?
Why fades the dew on beauty's sweetest flower?
Why can no hymned charm of music heal
The sleepless woes impassion'd spirits feel?
Can fancy's fairy hands no veil create,
To hide the sad realities of fate?

No! not the quaint remark, the sapient rule, Nor all the pride of wisdom's worldly school,

Have power to soothe, unaided and alone,
The heart that vibrates to a feeling tone!
When stepdame Nature every bliss recalls,
Fleet as the meteor o'er the desert falls;
When 'reft of all, yon widow'd sire appears
A lonely hermit in the vale of years;
Say, can the world one joyous thought bestow
To friendship, weeping at the couch of woe?
No! but a brighter soothes the last adieu,—
Souls of impassion'd mould, she speaks to you!
Weep not, she says, at nature's transient pain,
Congenial spirits part to meet again!

What plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,
What sorrow choked thy long and last adieu!
Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,
And bade his country and his child farewell!
Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see,
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee?
Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,
And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low
The plaint that own'd unutterable woe;
Till faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom,
As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom,
Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,
Beyond the realms of nature and of time!

"And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more! Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, The immortal ties of nature shall expire; These shall resist the triumph of decay, When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away! Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, But that which warm'd it once shall never die! That spark unburied in its mortal frame, With living light, eternal, and the same,

Shall beam on joy's interminable years,
Unveil'd by darkness-unassuaged by tears!

"Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep,
One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep;
But when I gain the home without a friend,
And press the uneasy
couch where none attend,
This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart,
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part!
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,
And hush the groan of life's last agony !

"Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; And when the dream of troubled fancy sees Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze; Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrows hide, Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied? Ah! no; methinks the generous and the good Will woo thee from the shades of solitude! O'er friendless grief compassion shall awake, And smile on innocence, for mercy's sake!"

Inspiring thought of rapture yet to be, The tears of love were hopeless, but for thee! If in that frame no deathless spirit dwell, If that faint murmur be the last farewell, If fate unite the faithful but to part, Why is their memory sacred to the heart? Why does the brother of my childhood seem Restored a while in every pleasing dream? Why do I joy the lonely spot to view By artless friendship bless'd when life was new?

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime Peal'd their first notes to sound the march of Time,

Thy joyous youth began-but not to fade.-
When all the sister planets have decay'd;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And heaven's last thunder shakes the world below;
Thou, undismay'd, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

THE PEACOCK.

ANONYMOUS.

"MAN wants but little here below,"

"Twas thus the poet rightly sung of yore That littled gained, experience serves to show, Man always wants—a little more.

Who likes vexation? a queer question, isn't it?
But look, good folks, around,

And many, many may be found,

Of either sex,

(I take the liberty to hint it,)

Who, tho' they've nothing to perplex,
Or tease 'em,

So perverse are,

They'll growl and grumble night and day,
And whatsoe'er you do, or say,

To please 'em,

Makes 'em worser!

Sir Easy Lovewell chanc'd to fall in love,—

(His heart by nature form'd to catch like tinder,)— With a fair maiden, hight Miss Dolly Dove,

And stole her from a Boarding-school back window. Stole her-heyday!

Well, Madam, where's the wonder?

He meant the lady

To be his Rib-and so he bon'd her!